mottled

First Voyage 04Jan09 | 2 Comments

(Note: Something written in the autumn of 2000.)

Post Modernity

This one had, when we started, the omen of being a good smooth one. I sat on the platform of the abandoned railway station with my friend. The rusted rails ran to the horizon on either side of us. The area around us was wild, every inch clogged with shrubs and weeds. The journey began. Initially, there was nothing. Then, slowly, I rose through the evening air. I was above the world surveying the light sinking into the horizon. Hands shook caught in some unknown emotion. I was traveling alone as my friend was still far below. I started to come down after completing the first part of my journey when he started on his. Time passed. It might have been minutes. It might have been hours.

A train went by us ponderously as if contemplating our unexplained presence in the wilderness there. Faces in the train, making a horizontal journey, were far away but somehow still seemed familiar. Perhaps, as they were on a voyage of their own.

I tried to get everything into perspective. I read out some of my favorite quotations and also read some sentences from a book on Kant’s philosophy. Then I started having some food. Even though it was stale it gave a punch to our throats with its sudden spiciness. The sun started its final descent into daily oblivion. The shadows around us grew grotesque, twisting familiar shapes into something unearthly. We started back. I was at peace.

Suddenly, a new taste started spreading on my tongue. It was as if my saliva was evaporating as soon as it came into contact with my tongue. It was eerily similar to the sensation of alcohol evaporating on skin, rapidly cooling it. My friend gave me a small cola peppermint. The taste was exquisite, sublime in its surprisingly new sensations. The metallic twang of the cola instantly evaporating gave rise to an awe inducing experience.  We passed through a park, the air around us was cooled by the trees. I began to feel as if I had just been immersed in alcohol and taken out. My face felt as if it was evaporating under a gentle heat, without pain but with a lot of coolness.

I took a bus later to go home. The first half of the bus ride while I was standing was normal. Only when I turned my head suddenly did I feel as if I was moving my head against my brain’s will. It was as if my head was underwater and the water around was making it difficult for my head to move. Once I sat down I felt as if I was sliding into a world unknown, a world where ordinary faces looked out of place, normal sounds lost their insistence. People scurried to climb the bus like ants before the first rains. Distances traversed, landmarks lost in a host of trivialities.

I got down from the bus. Immediately, something curious started to escape from my head. At the same time my neck seemed to stiffen. As I was walking, my right leg started to feel as if it was moving too rapidly, then it started to sublimate in stages until the only indication that it was even attached to my torso was my movement forward. As suddenly as it had started that fantastic feeling ended in my right leg and took over my left leg. Again, the same curious pleasure of something sublimating. Then, it spread to both my legs at once.

I went to a sweet shop and bought something to eat. I started to eat. My throat refused to respond! It was as if my mouth and throat were two independent entities, my mouth trying to push the food in with my mulish throat not allowing anything in without a struggle.

I came home and crashed on my bed. I closed my eyes. Zoom. Stop. Zoom. Stop. I opened my eyes. It was an amazing new feeling. My brain was racing. I closed my eyes again. It started again. My brain and sight started rotating. Faster and faster, still faster until the speed did not matter, only the feeling did. It was if my head had detached itself from my neck, went up a few feet and started to rotate on its own as if a hidden energy source inside was powering it. The amazing evaporating tongue taste again. I finished three apples. The same race against speed feeling I had experienced in the bus with an erection in tow. Sensual daydreams. Thoughts in a muddle. I had to keep back certain things. Sudden movements. More new sensations as if each part of my body had now proclaimed independence. It was not an homogeneous whole but a multitudinous whole. A democratic dictatorship. A sub state reached between sleep and consciousness.

I started to read a novel- English, August. Words took on a pleasant incomprehension. The feelings evoked were sublime. Ordinary paragraphs suddenly expressed profound meanings. Landscapes were peaceful, people were receding in the background. Thirst. Water tasted as sweet as sugar but without the excessive sweetness. A right balance between reality and distortion. A peaceful present unfolded deep inside me. I slept.

Fragments 08Dec08 | 1 Comment

he moved through the shadows like death…fiddling with his dark coat…blending in here…shape shifting there. he woke up slowly…almost gently like from a vivid early morning dream…his breath was cold and his senses clouded…he felt like he was in some immense space, all alone…so totally alone like it was the end of the world…there was only the soft hum of a cooling fan around him.

—–

it was so crowded..his head, the world around him…every inch crawling with every form of humanity and animal life…it hemmed his thoughts in…created a claustrophobia that threatened to engulf him..he felt like taking a blow torch and putting the world around him to the cleansing breath of raw fire…like he used to do with a matchstick to ants when he was 7 years old..that sense of total control over life…a deeply addictive smell…the smell of burning flesh like an opiate for his tingling senses.

—–

he remembered her from that night…that night where every moment seemed special…like it was made for him…the way she climbed over him and lifted her t-shirt up..the way moonlight moved along her spine…the way her hair dropped away like rain in his hands….the way her breasts heaved under his moving fingers…she had that special smile in her eyes as she leaned forward to kiss him…in the house everyone was sleeping….she moved onto him like a warm feeling and took him inside…it was a sudden movement but it all felt so natural…and they moved with the night and bathed in the light to crash on the shores of dawn…little did he know that it was only for one night…when morning came he had to leave her behind…she refused to come with him…to even entertain the thought of they ever giving the coin toss future a shot.

—–

for a long time i thought of locking that part of life forever in a room that could never be reached, whose color of the walls i’d not remember, whose key i’d conveniently forget somewhere in a coffee shop corner of the mind.

—–

in between these little illnesses i wonder about what the world will be like on the other side. when you go past all the potholes and dead-ends to reach a world where every dream is a reality, where every lungful of air sings through your veins, and where every object is suffused with a golden glow. will it be as good as they say? will 40 virgins really be waiting to take care of my very conceivable need? will i sit at the feet of a golden god and sing his praises?

but this life is more important than that life. loneliness is more important that some golden heaven where you will be happy at last. speaking your heart, telling that important person how much she means before it is too late is important too. but how does it matter? will talking about something change the outcome? will revealing your heart move someone enough to want to go back and begin something new? no, all that happens in novels with neat endings. this is life we are living after all. not some technicolor dream of an idealist.

Lost Reply 24Jun08 | 0 Comments

letter

Breakfast In Bed 13May08 | 0 Comments

For some reason I remembered that morning without a name again today. A morning that was a template for other such similar mornings. I woke up first like I always did but with one of those involuntary dawn erections. We were naked under the blanket as the night had been warm. I lay awake and watched her sleep. She slept peacefully like a child with the hint of a smile curving the ends of her thin lips. I moved closer and embraced her for the gentle warmth of her body. She shifted in her sleep, put her hand around me in a reflexive embrace and made a sound at the back of her throat that was halfway between a purr and a mumble. Slowly, I slid my right leg upwards between her legs until I could feel the shaved roughness of her lips on my thigh. It was a wonderful moment in that indeterminate land between lust, love and longing. I wished that the moment would last forever. But the balance always tilted ever so slightly in one direction or the other.

On certain mornings I’d be overcome by a wave of longing. I’d snuggle closer and hug her until in her sleep she would protest weakly as she struggled to breathe in the confines of my tightly locked arms. Initially, I wouldn’t care as I was in the thrall of a force greater than me. It was a force that impelled you to crush her with the immense strength of your feeling. A feeling that often did not listen to reason. Eventually though I’d come to my senses. I always did for the comfort of longing is only a temporary visitor, taken too far it soon turns into the suffocation of confinement.

There were other times when I’d be overcome by love. I’d kiss her narrow forehead, closed eyes and the tiny protuberance that was her nose. I’d feel her warm breath on my lips as I gently brushed her lips with mine. Afterwards, I’d bury my face into the crook of her neck and lie there for a minute or two. Then, I’d slowly slide lower until I felt the rich and delicate softness of her breasts on my cheek. There I’d rest until she woke up slowly like a dream diver swimming up through the various layers of sleep.

But that morning I was overcome by lust. The wave started deep within my loins and like a hot flush traveled along my back into my head so fast that I felt like I was on fire from a fever. It was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain. It was the pleasure of a basic instinct as old as mankind. It was the pain of carrying a rigid erection.

Lost in the lust of that morning I kissed her mouth hungrily and opened it up as if it were a sealed envelope. I searched for her tongue with a desperation that only unfulfilled desire can generate. I found it sleeping peacefully but the insistence of my tongue woke her’s up. It initially tangled with mine uncertainly as if it were in a daze but as soon as awareness broke across her brow she responded immediately. She embraced me tightly and reached into my mouth with her tongue. She tasted my lips and sucked on them as if she was slaking a great thirst. Her left hand reached between my legs in a familiar motion, took hold of me and gently started stroking. The fever in me rose and I kissed her deeper and stronger. I broke the kiss in one sudden movement and moved to her neck and inhaled her morning scent. Aroused further by her insistent stroking I moved to her breasts. It was my favorite part. The feel and taste of her nipples going rigid in my mouth felt like a thousand bubbles bursting on my tongue. She moaned then and her hand gripped me tighter and moved faster.

Slowly, with my right hand I parted her legs wider and with my fingers found her trembling lips. I dipped my middle finger in as if I was testing the temperature of water in a vessel. She was wet and the heat within warmed my finger. I slowly slid my finger in and out until I built up a steady rhythm. At the same time I slipped in another finger and rubbed her swollen clitoris with my thumb until her back arched and eyes opened wide (all vestiges of sleep erased). She clung to me like a drowning sailor desperately clinging to a piece of driftwood. With a wild and bright hunger shining in her wide open eyes she attacked my mouth and pushed her tongue in forcefully as if she was wrestling for control. And just like that we were caught in a moment that flowed through our hands into our bodies.

Suddenly, she broke her embrace, pushed my moving fingers away and climbed on top of me. She took hold of me again and in one smooth movement moved me into her. She rode me like a jockey completely in control of her steed. I could feel her wet muscles squeeze and release in a repeating sequence of unbelievable pleasure. Her breasts heaved and swayed. Her speed increased as the wetness inside swelled like a river in flood. In that inexorable journey we did not last long. I crashed first and exploded deep within her, losing myself in one spine cracking spasm after another until I could almost believe that I had embraced the beautiful blankness of death. As I twisted uncontrollably she dug her fingers into my chest as if to find some purchase and screamed in a low voice as she breached the banks of her being and overflowed in one great gush. I felt her soft muscles first tighten, throb and then relax as she fell onto me like a great black waterfall. Her wet skin beneath my finger tips seemed to ripple like the surface of a serene lake from a stone thrown across it. We almost forgot to breathe as we lost ourselves to a plethora of sensations that annihilated our senses. Spent and exhausted we lay still like that until I drooped and dropped out of her like a small water snake.

Bare Neck, Broken Glass 26Apr08 | 0 Comments

There are certain moments that you remember even years later with a terrible clarity, reliving every second of what happened as if it were happening again around you. The details are like needles poking your mind and sharpening your memory. You remember the slant of the sunlight that fell on his forehead. You remember the words of the song she was singing. You remember the sound of the wind rushing outside. You remember the sound of breaking glass. And you even remember in excruciating detail the moment that seemed to last forever as it hung before your eyes like a question for which no one had an answer.

We were traveling for the weekend. We were on our way to Freiburg. From there our plan was to head on into the Black Forest. It was winter, just after Christmas. We planned to go where the snow would be thick. I wanted to be surrounded by a blinding whiteness to wipe everything from my mind while my friends wanted to ski. It was a perfect arrangement. I could wander the whole day through the forest and photograph the snow covered landscape and trees to my heart’s content while my friends would practice their skiing skills on the slopes of Seebuck. We would be staying in a quaint little hostel in the nearby village of Feldberg.

The friends I was traveling with were German. I had met them both while couch surfing through Hamburg back in November. Frederica was 31 years old and was just starting out as an architect. Her boyfriend Klaus worked as a consultant for the state environment ministry. He was 30 years old. Unlike the popular stereotype of Germans they were anything but reserved. We had connected instantly and my stay in Hamburg was a particularly memorable one. We ate, drank and talked late into the night about everything in the world. It was during one of those endless conversations when time seems to fly by so fast that the idea to travel together was conceived. They were not big on Christmas and I as usual would be on my own doing nothing. Since they were big ski enthusiasts and I wanted to be surrounded by snow we decided to travel to the south of Germany. We arranged to meet in Frankfurt as it was a convenient place for them to pick me up as they drove down south. The day I met them again in Frankfurt was one of those rare winter days with a very bright sun, although the sun did nothing to dispel the cold. But we were warm in the car and the conversation flowed again on the long drive as if it had never stopped.

The meandering conversations helped me forget the many issues I was dealing with. It was a particularly trying time for me on the personal front. I had recently gotten out of a relationship that was going nowhere but the whole break up had turned very bitter. They were problems on the home front too. My sister had fallen in love with a Muslim boy and my conservative parents were not happy about it at all. So twice a day I had to listen to my parents rant about how my sister had shamed them in front of society. As a result of all these happenings my work got affected and I had already been subjected to two performance reviews. On more such review, I was politely but firmly told, I’d be on my way out. Naturally, I felt like running away to some far off place, away from all the seemingly silly troubles that I was unable to deal with. The trip, the warmth of my friends and the solitude of snow would give me some time to recover and recharge I thought.

I also sensed that Klaus and Frederica were having some problems of their own on the relationship front. Although they never talked about their troubles and seemed to be perfectly happy they would frequently start arguing for no reason. The arguments, on the surface, were about superficial things but I could sense that something deeper lay behind them. From the little hints that Frederica dropped from time to time I guessed that it had something to do with the question of starting a family. It seemed as if Klaus was against the idea for economic reasons while Frederica like many women of her age thought that biological time was running out for her.

But in that car our conversations cut through our troubled thoughts. We enjoyed the changing landscape around us as we passed into the scenic state of Baden-Württemberg. The sky peppered us with a light snow from time to time which immediately froze as soon as it touched the cold ground. We caught up on gossip about film stars we did not like. We argued about the US foreign policy. Frederica and I debated whether Calatrava was better than Foster. Klaus criticized our skepticism about climate change. Later, Frederica and I started singing Klaus’s favorite songs intentionally off key to irritate him. To make us stop he tried to scare us by attempting to drive erratically on the slightly slippery road. It was during that moment that it happened.

Fragments From Forgotten Letters 20Mar08 | 3 Comments

Aimee Mann – Video

…the bell tolls and i can hear it even though i exist in a land between shadow and sunshine. the sound is muted but the meaning behind it is not. time marches on it seems to intone in ponderous tones. neither mortal nor immortal will wait for the moon to change face. who makes the rules? and who keeps track when they are broken? for in those rules lies the truth of distance and absence…

….the candlelight is so faint that your face is obscured by the shadows. i bend to pick up the candle and move it closer to your face but your fingers curl around my wrist and gently push it back. ignorance is bliss indeed. the glint in your eyes moves with the light, sometimes making your eyes smile and sometimes filling them up with a strange liquid. the darkness where your mouth is occasionally opens to reveal a flashing brightness. and as the night fades between our slow breathing your fingers reach out and touch my lips…

…every evening you open the window at the back of the house and stare at the birds making their way home. hands folded across your chest, feet splayed out you stand like a statue sculpted in stone. what is it about those birds that attracts you? is it the regularity of return? is it the curtain of dusk sliding across your body? or is it the tired cries of the birds as they squabble and settle down? whatever the reason this rigid ritual furrows your brow at first and as the last rays of the sun are pushed under the hill a small smile opens up a dimple on your left cheek…

…while you talked i looked at the way your mouth moved, at the way your eyes lit up with the light of a deepening bond. i watched the way your hands moved through the air as if underlining some important point. and I felt the belief behind your words touch me like spring would touch my winter-hardened skin…

…we know how to add and subtract. to balance all the equations that make us dance around each other. a minus sign here, a small addition there that can be divided by our finite attention. but can you multiply the gaps in our conversation? can you add a few zeros to the frown on your face?…

…there are no apologies. no apologies indeed. i am just waiting for the pieces to fall into place like a giant jigsaw puzzle played by gods in three dimensions. the wail of the guitar pierces the silence bringing with it whole verses of emotion. who will follow me? i can go alone but i do need someone in the back seat to catch my ego if it falls…

…change is a funny thing. it is always beneath, around and even inside us but we are always the last to recognize it. we let it pass us by and then when it is ‘cool’ we run after it and try to embrace it. grow up son….the world is not waiting around for you to live life again…

…he has come back to haunt his old space, anonymous and untouched, its very pristine nature a subtle attraction. will the rawness still elude him or will he be consumed in its inelegant display of private emotion? a new graphical interface, eye-candy for the digitally insane. but who the fuck cares? not you, not him for sure. all that matters is that there are a billion thoughts waiting in a mental closet for his mechanical fingers to transmute for universal consumption. these days he is turning into himself more and more, living in the unperturbed arena of creative obscurity. a closed circle within an open loop. this is his life in a short sentence. does that satisfy your voyeuristic curiosity?…

…hear the small and subtle sounds you miss. the sounds of flowers blooming and the clouds moving. the whisper of grass growing under your feet. the steady drone of tiny feet behind the curtain of leaves. the subsonic humming of butterflies. the quiet patter of rain walking on your window panes. the tidy tides carting in and out the flotsam and jetsam of humanity’s dark deeds. nature at work…quietly…

…solitude and silence are like a long and lovely novel, endless, delightful and sustaining your soul on long evenings. what would we be without them? an empty and broken shell of cold blood and withering flesh just drinking out of the same old cup of jaded familiarity and vacuous companionship…

…what shall I talk about? shall i describe to you how beautiful a woman’s smile is when she is in love? or shall i tell you how the laughter of lovers tells so many stories? or shall i narrate a story about this guy who was directionally challenged? or can i wax rhapsodic about the sublime pleasures of seeing the world in stark tones of black and white? or maybe i can whisper to you how breathtakingly beautiful sudden silence is?

but the angel of sleep is making impatient sounds on my bed so i shall have to give in to her charms. therefore, let me disappear my dear into her soundless arms. i can then forget how failure tastes and instead learn to appreciate the slow burn of eternity…

Face Blind 20Feb08 | 0 Comments

I have not slept for 36 hours. While your brain has been chewing on sleep I’ve been wide awake watching TV shows and forgetting my face. Yeah, now, I finally come to the point. I don’t recognize my face.

What do you mean I don’t recognize my face? I mean exactly that dumbo. Right now, I’m staring at a face in my bathroom mirror which apparently sits on my neck and torso but I cannot fucking recognize it. Do you get it now? Or should I hand you a web browser for a second opinion. Wait…back up a minute and let’s go back a bit. Do you see it? No? Read it again you moron. Yeah, you got it now, I said my bathroom mirror. So I seem to know that I’m in my bathroom but I do not know ‘my’ face. Does that make any sense? No? Ok, let us go back to what I’ve written again. No, not that sentence again but whatever I’ve written until now. I’m sleep deprived. So excuse the crankiness.

One small clue that does not explain anything. So let me go back to that thought that I left unfinished. I’m staring at a face that is sitting on a body that is staring back at me in the mirror and is not mine. Don’t doctors just love stating the obvious! Why did I forget what is seemingly my own face? Have I gone mad? Reasonable question. When you have checked out upstairs and vacated the space anything can move in. But I have not checked out. I can rationalize my situation, talk about it and even record it. Perhaps I’ve undergone some kind of injury and am suffering from some kind of delusion and experiencing all of this in my head. Possible but scary. Real scary. Let us not go there yet.

Ok, first, where am I? Describe my surroundings. Alright, I’m in a bathroom as I already stated. I’m looking into an oval shaped bathroom mirror that has a face in it. Ha! Got you there, didn’t I? I love stating the obvious. All right, moving on, below the mirror is a ceramic washbasin with stainless steel taps. Yawn, I’m already getting bored with this. Basically, what you have around me is a fairly generic bathroom and toilet with a washing machine, shower stall and some toiletries. The washing machine is a bit interesting though. It has clothes in it. No, wise ass, I’m not making fun of you! Will you listen and stop stating the obvious? The clothes have been washed but have not been taken out to dry. From the state of things they seem to have been washed more than a week back. So perhaps I, if this is indeed my bathroom, am a lazy pig. Doesn’t help or change my situation. But hey, here’s something new, did I mention the door?

No? Sorry, I just did not want to state the obvious again. So if there is a door there must be something beyond it right. I just have to open the door and see what is beyond. Wait…wait…not so fast. What if danger lurks beyond the room? What if I open the door and a gaping chasm is waiting there ready to swallow my sorry ass? Or what if I open the door and stumble upon a crime scene? Perhaps I’ve killed someone and have come here to wash the tainted clothes. Or perhaps I’ve just witnessed a gruesome murder and have come into the bathroom to hide. So maybe the killer is still out there, standing still by the door with a sharp kitchen knife to plunge into my useless heart the moment I open the door. I do have an exciting imagination, don’t I, for someone who has been sleep deprived? But hey I like to cover all the bases. So here goes nothing. I open the door.

Trimax Reloaded 18Nov07 | 0 Comments

I. Origins

The world slowly swam into focus. The light first dissolved into multi-colored blurs and later solidified into vague shapes. The surroundings wavered and then acquired distance. He was in a room filled with what seemed like the technological detritus of late twenty-second century. He felt lighter. His body felt smaller too. There was a tingling sensation on the back of his neck that receded slowly. Who was he? He had a name, didn’t he? The details of his surroundings floated in like a supply ship docking on a service port. He was in a store room of some sort. It looked as if the room was used by service bots to repair security clusters. There were vast stacks of unopened sub-routines and looped commands. There were piles of highly redundant firewalls. In between all this, sprinkled like dew, were the thin trails of data transmission tubes. Yes, now he knew why he was there. It all came rushing back in a streak of silent white noise.

He needed to get the cube.

The contact had been made a few months back by a mysterious caller who never gave her name. But when pressed she had asked to be referred to as Trin. In fact, he was not certain that Trin was a woman but from the beginning, for some reason, he always assumed the caller was a woman. Normally, he never took on anonymous jobs as they were too risky. He made an exception for this one as he had been intrigued. Trin had used a voice masker to hide behind a machine voice. That itself was not surprising as many who contacted him did the same thing at first. But what surprised him was her refusal to meet in person and the vast amount of money he was offered for the job. Yes, the job she wanted him to do was extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, but the money was really good and even though he hated to admit it the money offered made the job look sweeter.

After all, giving credit where it was due, he was the best in the business. Few people could afford his services. In fact, nowadays, it was only the megacorps that contracted him. He had made his bones at the beginning of the digital age. He hid behind impenetrable barriers and searched for chinks in the primitive armors of the early cyber databases. He had learnt a lot then. He had also acquired his famous (or infamous based on the viewpoint) handle then, ‘Trimax’.

The job she gave him was curious too. She wanted a data cube copied from the main database of the Bangalore based Hive Consortium. Hive was a low profile company involved in robotics and AI. He checked up on them to find that they were heavily funded by the Indian Army and did a lot of highly secretive research into mechanized warfare using AI. He was not surprised to find that their databases were heavily guarded but not in an obvious manner. Surprisingly, no one in his circle knew anyone who had tried hacking into their database. He admired how they had managed to maintain such a low profile even in an age of high level scrutiny. Trimax remembered Trin’s highly specific instructions.

“The data cube cannot be found using ordinary search routines as it is not indexed unlike all the other data cubes in the cluster. You will have to come up with a new routine to find it.”

“Then that is impossible. I do not even know what to look for, leave alone where to look for. Hive’s database is huge. I need at least a tag.”

She paused for a few seconds and replied, “Will a third order tag be sufficient?”

It was better than nothing. He would still need to work fast but he was confident that with a third order tag he could localize the cluster the cube would be in easily. After that it was only a matter of seconds while he narrowed down the search and found the correct cube. So he had said yes and a few days later she sent by secure mail the third order tag. The tag had an innocuous label ‘matrix hive mind access’.

The next few days he spent writing a search routine to ferret out the cube. There was no way to test the routine before the hacking run. The risk of the routine being copied and spawned was too great and she had given strict instructions not to use it in a trial run. So he had to be pitch perfect. One wrong caller function or inexact algorithm and he could kiss his life goodbye. The geisha would be on him in an instant. To increase his chances of staying undetected during the run he also purchased elaborate decoys from a very reliable dealer out of Tokyo. The dealer had assured him that they never had been used and would fool any security drone in the world. The decoys would be crucial in fooling the geisha and buying him some time while his search routine got executed.

The Point of No Return 30Aug07 | 2 Comments

The sudden throb of a passing truck woke him up. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was a strange dream. His dreams would often dissolve into nothingness upon waking but this was one of those rare ones which still lingered in his eyes. In the dream he had been on the roof of an old building. All he could see in front of him was a line of white sheets hung out to dry on a rope. He penetrated the first line only to find another line of similar white sheets hung to dry. Layer after layer he went in to find more of the same. Soon he was lost in a sea of soft translucent white. He did not know right from left or front from back. For a moment he had the feeling that he was in a womb of white light. It was comfortable in a strange way but underneath that feeling of comfort there was a sense of panic that was waiting to be released. It was at that moment that he had awakened.

Shruti stirred beside him and mumbled something in her sleep. He turned to look at her. She was lying on her stomach. Her right hand was splayed across his chest and gripped his trunk, as if holding onto him while buffeted by a fierce wind. Her hair tried to walk across his face when moved by the thin breeze from the fan. She looked peaceful and loved in her sleep as she always did. She never remembered her dreams either. Even now she could not help hugging him in her sleep. It was one of his little secrets as he always woke up before her.

He disengaged himself gently from her half embrace, taking care not to wake her up, got up and sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his watch from the sideboard by his bed. The hands read 6:30. His day normally started at 8. He was too keyed up to go back to sleep. Dawn was just beginning to break. The room was bathed in dim light from the window by the side of the bed. He got off the bed and looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished. A frugal existence on a scholarship did not offer much opportunity to lead a luxurious lifestyle. Almost all the furniture had been bought second hand. Therefore, the room had this mismatched look to it that came from putting together furniture of differing styles and make. But it looked comfortable and cozy. Two qualities the room owed to the care and diligence of Shruti. She had worked wonders with the limited resources they had.

The Rave 24May07 | 5 Comments

It happened at the rave. I was supposed to cover the event as an unofficial photographer. I jumped at the chance as I had never been to a rave before and hadn’t done much night photography. The rave was in an old castle on the banks of the Rhine beyond Bonn. You entered the grounds, went beyond the main walls to enter a small covered space that was enclosed by the castle walls on three sides and the outer boundary wall on one side. This gave the place the shape of an amphitheater. I saw my friend immediately. He smiled, waved and came over.

“Thanks a lot for coming. I’m very glad you could make it.”

“My pleasure. I hope I’m not too late?”

“No, not at all. We are about to start so you came at the right time. Do you need any help setting up?”

“Thank you but no. I can manage. So what is it exactly that I need to do?”

“Oh, nothing very special or particular. Just take as many photos of as many people as you can. And don’t worry, people won’t mind. If you have a problem just call me. Ok, I gotta rush now, so many things that need to be arranged, you know how it is, so have fun shooting and I’ll see you around the place.”

With that he rushed off.

It didn’t seem to be a big party. There were in fact very few people for a rave. About 100 people I’d say. There seemed to be an equal number of women and men. I was the only non-white there. From the start I felt a little out of place. I don’t like being surrounded by white people. They give me the creeps for some reason especially when I don’t understand the language spoken by them. But I was doing this for a good friend so I suppressed my uneasiness and set up my camera equipment. The light was low and since I do not like using flash I had to use fast glass.

That’s when the music hit me like a bomb blast. The sound was almost on the threshold of pain. It was like a wall of throbbing sound twisting my insides and hitting my heart with the force of a gale wind. It felt as if something was churning my insides and I was being turned inside out. I staggered and became numb for a minute as I adjusted. I did not recognize the music but it sure did slice through bone marrow and make you want to dance. It was a pity I had to concentrate on the job at hand. I was ready to dance the night away!

The music seemed to have been the signal. The lights dimmed and people started gyrating. It was fascinating to watch them. There were perfectly in step to the music. It was as if they were choreographed, which was a bit weird as I had been under the impression that a rave was all about letting go and freaking out. But their movements had a strange beauty to them, a subtle sensual quality that under the dim lighting made the dancing seem mildly erotic. I watched this for a while before I remembered the reason I was there.

I switched on the camera, cranked up the ISO and plunged into the crowd, with great hesitation I must add. I normally do not like photographing strangers as I’m too shy to approach them and being a foreigner doesn’t always help things. But my friend’s words had been reassuring and I guess the dim lighting also helped my confidence. More than anything though, the whole spectacle was too damn interesting to be not captured!

Linac Derdy 15Mar07 | Comments Off

Free Falling – Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

He stands on the edge and stares down. All of 25 floors down. The tiny termite people scurrying and the small model cars zipping across the traffic intersections. It is a clear and bright day. The warm late afternoon sunlight caresses his face and a light breeze disturbs his neatly combed hair. He shuffles closer to the edge. Why is he standing on the edge? More importantly, who is he? Do I know him? Perhaps you know him? Perhaps the son of the best friend of your mother’s knows him?

He is a writer or at least he considered himself to be one. The wider publishing world thought otherwise. His name is Linac Derdy. Derdy has been to the publishing firm on the 10th floor of the same building. His meeting with the editor was disappointing. The firm after a lengthy review process decided not to publish his book. This was the twentieth firm he had sent his manuscript to. They thought that the book lacked, to quote the editor, “the essential belief in humanity that could appeal to a wide audience”.

So perhaps he is another failed writer whose words only seem good to him. His destiny will not involve lengthy book promotion tours to the major literary capitals of the world, pompous discussions on the inner conflicts of his protagonist on prime time talk shows, or accepting big money awards with false modesty and humility. No, his destiny has brought him here, to the edge of the parapet on this tall building, watching the world do whatever it did on late afternoons far below.

Does Linac know that I’m talking about him? That at this very moment, while he stands on the edge thinking, 10 time zones away from him I’m laying his life out in the open almost in real time. How can I do that? Am I God?

I said he is thinking about something. What is he thinking about? Derdy is actually thinking about the woman who had gotten onto the elevator he was riding on the 11th floor and gotten out on the 23rd floor. For the few moments she was in the elevator she had filled the small space with a fragrance that produced in him a heavy feeling of déjà vu. He knew that fragrance. Standing on the edge of the parapet he is trying to remember where he had smelled it before. Little does he know that it was indeed his first girlfriend who had worn such a perfume.

A Letter 08Feb07 | Comments Off

Hurt – Johnny Cash

Dearest Anarghya,

How are you? I hope all is well with you. How is the cactus doing? Has it grown a bit since I left? I’m back safe and sound. The flight was late but pleasantly uneventful. It was difficult getting back into the grind of routine but slowly I’ve adjusted.

The other day I was thinking about us. How we have never spoken on the phone or emailed each other once in our seven year friendship! Are we being a pair of Luddites in renouncing such technology which helps millions reach out to each other? I don’t know. It is not that I regret that our only means of staying in touch is through these letters but there are times I miss hearing your voice and I wish I could just pick up the phone and call you. Yes, I know I do not have a phone and neither do you but still. What about you? Do you ever have such an urge?

I was listening to this song covered by Johnny Cash just before his death called ‘Hurt’ yesterday. It is a beautiful, sad and majestic song, one of the few instances where the cover version is better than the original. The pain and sadness in his voice as he sings it makes one wonder if he was looking back at his amazing life and singing about it. A fitting epitaph I must say for him. That is the way to leave this world, on a high, at the peak of your powers. Listening to that song made me also wonder about the things happening in my life. All my life I was on this road whose destination was known. Now, suddenly, it is as if the road has forked and somehow I ended up taking a wrong turn somewhere. I do not know where I’m going, nor do I know what I’m doing. Don’t you have these moments when everything seems pointless? Like when you were talking about your ennui with your current dance production, the lack of enthusiasm, the fear of rejection from your peers and the inability to break away. I feel the same way. I don’t know how things unraveled so fast. But being caught in the middle of this is not really pleasant I must say.

The Lost People 06Feb07 | Comments Off

Echoes of Time – R. Carlos Nakai

“People, people, people,
listen, listen well to this song
passed on to me by our fathers.
It is about the pale men
who came to our shores
in big brown boats.

They doffed their hats and proclaimed, “Dear sirs, this land is ours”.
We laughed at their funny names and
wrinkled our noses at their peculiar fish smell.
They came up to us and said, “Give us your gold”.
We smiled and asked why.
“To protect you sirs.”
So we laughed some more and opened the temple doors.
We were children of the sun. We didn’t need gold, did we?

Years passed and their numbers increased with every boat load
while our numbers dwindled due to diseases
brought by those greedy men and women.
One day they came and put chains on our hands.
We sighed and asked why.
“To teach you civilization sirs”, they said.
So we bent our backs and tilled our/their lands.
Our sweat turned brown land into green fields.

Years passed, and our last chief
was murdered in the battle of bended knee.
Then they came and took away our children.
We cried and asked why.
“To build a new nation of equals sirs”, they said.
So we broke our hearts, sat around the fire and sang sad old songs.
What else could we do?
The laughter of our children had been swallowed by the molting moon.

Winter in Vienna 23Dec06 | 4 Comments

Mendelssohn: Violin Concerto in E Minor Op.64 – Kyung Wha Chung, Charles Dutoit Montreal SO

It was winter in Vienna. I was on the Ringbahn, going round and round the inner ring of Vienna. The ring around which most of the historical buildings in Vienna are clustered. The huge Hofburg receded on my left while the massive Museum for Kunst slipped past on my right. People got on and off. Tourists from Japan, businessmen from Canada, old Viennese woman out shopping, young couples out for the evening and the occasional Indian student.

It was a comforting journey. Round and round, passing the same sights again and again. I could just sit and observe. Listen to the random conversations floating around me.

“Hey Larry, should we do both the museums on the same day?”

“Sato, I think we have got on the wrong tram. I don’t think this will go to the Danube.”

“Dudes, lets go to Kahlenberg. I heard that it has an incredible view of Vienna from the top. I can get fantastic photographs as well.”

“Can you tell me where I should get off to go to the Universität?”

She repeated the question again and only then did I realize that she was asking me the question. I looked up to see her looking back at me, a little amused no doubt to see my flustered look. It is always a strange feeling to be asked for directions when you yourself are a tourist. Did I look like I belonged in Vienna? Could I really pass myself off as a local? Wishful thinking I know. But still I knew where the Universität was. The endless rounds on the bahn had at least helped me in this regard. It was just before the Rathaus; an impressive and imposing building built in the Renaissance style, the university I mean, not the Rathaus.

Shanghai Nights 03Dec06 | 3 Comments

First Sleep – Cliff Martinez

A phone rang in the background. People trying to reach others on the edge. I observed her from the other side of the room. Her polite smile. Her naughty laugh. The way she drank a shot, so elegant and sexy. It was raining outside. The whispers of so many strangers mingled with the drumming of the raindrops on the roof. I wandered through the crowd to get a better look at her. The seat next to her was empty. She turned and glanced at me with a half smile around her lips. I slid my shot across and ordered a fresh one. We drank.

“Can you resist an impulse?”

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I’ll gain out of the impulse. Will it give instant gratification or do I need to persevere? What about you?”

“Oh yes! I always give in to my every impulse. You know that is why I’m talking to you, based on such an impulse.”

We went out to sit on the porch and watch the rain. In the distance, landing lights flashed. Planes took off and landed at regular intervals. The warning lights on the airport radar blinked cryptic messages. There was that special smell of wet earth.

She went in to get some food. It was a Chinese dinner. She came back with two bowls filled with lightly spiced egg noodles and two pairs of metal chopsticks.

“I do not know how to eat with chopsticks.”

“Neither do I but I like the way chopsticks feel in my hands, especially these metal ones. Let’s keep them as souvenirs.”

She smiled and started picking up noodles with her fingers. She was quite good at it. It was not messy at all. I tried to emulate her as best as I could.

“You know, I lived in Shanghai with my parents when I was a child. It was a different city back then. No high rises. No glitz. No sleek highways. I remember this old fisherman in the fish market from whom we always bought our fish. He taught me how to eat noodles without chopsticks. It was funny how I ended up talking to him. He spoke very good English…”

The Letter 27Oct06 | 6 Comments

I left her there on the park bench, lost in thought, and walked away. We had decided to end everything. Or rather, if I’m honest, I had decided to end the whole thing. To be frank, I was surprised that she was so quiet. Perhaps, it was the quiet before the storm or perhaps she realized the futility of making a scene. I walked a little way ahead and looked back. She was still lost in thought, holding my letter like a poisoned fruit. Her eyes stared into the distance full of that faraway look, which I used to love so much. Her head bent a little to the side as if some heavy thoughts were weighing it down. I used to spend hours looking into those dark eyes.

I tried to imagine what she was thinking. Was she thinking of how utterly heartless I was? Was she thinking of the intense time we had? Or was she thinking of the way ahead? I wondered whether I could say something more to her. Make her break the silence. But it would be a waste. I had explained everything that was possible in the letter. And I had a feeling that she would ignore me even if I did try to say something. I knew her look very well. Hell, we were like open books to each other! We understood each other perfectly.

The Underbelly of Evolution 18Oct06 | 0 Comments

The psychedelic underbelly of the world had erupted and all I saw was a huge helicopter making endless loops. Its rotors were the color of candy. Roses were falling through its open doors. It was a different world. A world of color and corruption. Shit…shit…shit. This was not the dream I had bought. I wanted fear in my fist and happiness in my heart. This was giving me a bad vibe man. Topsy turvy, round and round my head swam in the air. It was heavy stuff. People were throwing things at me. Or were they words? diCONNected, diORIENted and diBELITiZed. I moved away.

I ventured into a diner. It was full of men munching on something green. Nothing made sense. Where was I? Wasn’t I supposed to be in a concert? Toothpicks between my teeth. Fuck! The hospital yellow of the lights was getting to me. Man alive, I had to get out of the diner! There was too much sickly green and muted yellow. Eaaaghhhh!

I floated out on a carpet made of newspapers. Bush screamed at me in broken sentences. Some beauty queen had bled to death when her vibrator exploded. A guru was caught having sex near Gangotri. This was…this…was…this was the news of the world on recycled paper. I inhaled the musty smell of disintegrating paper.

I had the power in my mind. Wild power you could put on your tongue like a stamp of mind detergent. Hooting and cheering in the distance. People crying or singing. I could not make out the difference. Wait…wait…perhaps that was the concert? Where? Where had the cheering come from? East? West? North? South? Or was it midnight on the clock?

Dark Places 15Oct06 | 3 Comments

We met at one of those dark places. The silence between us had stretched. She was inhaling the new liquid. I was on the one with three letters. Twice our lips touched across the divide. A bridge of tongues. A stream of saliva. The mixture of lips.

“Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Do you believe in chance?”

The music swirled and swooned. Through our levitating bodies. Our fingers touched forbidden places. A moist sensation. A fluid emotion. Sudden laughter behind our eyes. Tears carved new pathways on her cheeks. I leaned forward and licked them off.

“How weird is that?”

“Yes, a midget and a transvestite having sex on the dance floor.”

“I saw you yesterday, in my last dream before I woke up.”

People swayed around us, drunk on this and that. There was something in the air. A flash? A streak? A swoosh? I inhaled her smell. Pheromones called out in a primitive language. Glasses tinkled beside us. Multi-colored liquids sloshed in perfectly shaped receptacles.

“I see you in my eyes.”

“Perhaps we should dance in our minds?”

The light faded. Conversation muted suddenly like a TV heard across a hotel wall. Where were we? Did you recognize us? Inside all was bright and innocent light. Outside was a kaleidoscope of sensation.

“I want to kiss your eyelids.”

The Hotel 25Sep06 | 7 Comments

“I’m telling you it was her man!”

“Boy, you must have been dreaming. How can it be her? She is thousands of miles away.”

“No, dude, I’m pretty sure it was her. I even followed her a little just to make sure. She is here. I’m willing to bet on that.”

We were on our way to a party neither of us wanted to go to when he dropped this bombshell. The thought that she was right here, in this city, made my heart race without my realizing it. It had been what, five years I think. We had said our goodbyes under difficult circumstances. I had never expected to hear from or about her again. But the world is small and in this era of connectedness any person from the past can pop up anywhere.

“So are you going to meet her?”

That question had been hanging in the air between us ever since he had said that she was here.

“I don’t know. Too much baggage still to be cleared on that front. So where did you see her?”

“At that hotel you guys used to frequent, you know.”

Yes, I knew the place. It was our adda so to speak. We were there practically everyday, so much so that the people working there knew us by our first names. In fact, we could get a room at a moments notice, a convenience which we often availed of frequently.

The street lights flashed by outside. The traffic lights blinked like owls. Traffic was sparse in this part of the town. It was a beautiful night. The wind flowing in through the window was cool on the skin. It was like drinking a glass of fresh water from a matka on a hot summer day.

The silence between us had stretched into a comfortable vacuum. Any thought was possible.

“Do you think she will look you up, you know, for old times sake?”

When lines converge life looks different. Ideas of fate take on an entirely different meaning. Yeah, that was indeed a million dollar question.

“I doubt it. If I know her she won’t. She is much stronger than me in that way.”

“What will you do if she called?”

“I’ll say hello.”

“Very funny. Seriously man, what will you do if she called up and said she wanted to meet you?”

Mouse Trap 28Aug06 | 2 Comments

I know three ways to kill a mouse. Squeamish already? Then stop reading right now, the going will get even worse. Reading on? Then don’t bitch later that I didn’t warn you! So let me start again. I know three ways to kill a mouse.

1. Hold the mouse down by pressing the first three fingers of your left hand on its neck and with your right hand pull on its tail until you hear the crunchy sound of a bone snapping. This is called cervical dislocation.

2. Take dry ice in a tall jar. Put a cloth on top of the dry ice. Then drop the mice, one after the other, into the beaker and cover it with a lid. If you are of the perverse kind you can take immense pleasure in watching them twist and jump, suffocating inside the death jar. I’ve seen some mice jump 10 times their height. Teach them pole vault and Sergei Bubka will develop an inferiority complex. Dry ice is frozen carbon-dioxide, all of minus twenty degrees cold. The mice die for lack of oxygen. The CO2 fills up their brain and starves it of oxygen. The cloth is to collect the involuntary discharge of pee and poo.

3. Inject Avertin, twice the body weight of the mouse. It goes into a coma. Now comes the moment of truth. Open it up and have a bloody ball. Cut out its liver, dissect the muscle and take out fat. You can have the brain for free, only, you will have to cut the head off and open the skull up. Avertin is a muscle relaxant sending the mouse on a ride to rodent heaven or hell. I don’t know.

The Shot 27Jul06 | 3 Comments

There are certain shots that develop in your head, day after day, like…like the verses of a new poem. Frame after frame, you peel away different compositions and angles until something clicks and you attain that flawless frame, where everything is balanced and the light is perfect. And then you go out and actually capture that shot as it is in your head.

Like the photo she posed for me the other day. The place was an old abandoned factory. She was in the middle, lying face down, curved around an old oil drum, her ass pointing towards my camera and two of her fingers inside her dry vagina. I chose an aperture small enough to get everything of her in focus, from the tips of her fingernails on her sex to the look of wide-eyed innocence in her eyes. There was no flash or artificial light. The available light came from huge glass windows from either side of her in the distance, diffused and soft. I shot off a few hundred shots as her cunt became progressively wetter.

It was a shot that had been popping up in my dreams and then later seeped into my every conscious thought. I never thought I could actually get the shot in reality. But it happened.

She was doing this only for me. I didn’t ask her. She asked me. Why? I’ve no idea and am not interested in finding out. But that didn’t stop me from speculating. She always had this thing for voyeurs. In fact, that is how I got to know her in the first place. I used to observe her all the time. She lived opposite my house, only a narrow space separating our homes. The line of sight from my bedroom window dropped directly into her bedroom. Each evening, I used to wait for her to come home and go through her characteristic languid yet very erotic process of shedding her clothes one by one. Actually, I found out much later that it was all a show for me. She had realized from the beginning that I was observing her. I still don’t know how. So she would go through the exact same motions, day after day. She derived as much pleasure from it as me, perhaps even more. It helped that her bathroom was attached to the bedroom. Both the observer and the object of observation were influencing each other.

The silence in the vast empty space sounded natural as we did not need to communicate. A short wave of my hand and she would adjust her legs as I wanted them. An eyebrow raised and her eyes would speak the language my heart wanted. Click…click…click…the cameras clacked, capturing her for eternity. A funny thought suddenly flitted through my mind. What if there were a nuclear holocaust and these photos would be all that survived; a last testament for humanity’s existence? I laugh inside myself. How many schools of thought/theories would arise over these pictures in some distant future? I laugh some more.

We took frequent breaks as she couldn’t hold that pose for long. But I think there was another reason. I think she was getting off over the whole setup. So she cooled off a little during the break, sustaining the excitement but not peaking. Later, as if to prove my point, she fingered herself to a violent orgasm, off camera of course.

In The Mood For Love 07May06 | 11 Comments

The rain came down like a wave of tears. They were caught. A moment. An instant. Under the rooftops. The gentle breeze blew away their words. He looked at her. Her profile against the diffused light of the street lamp in the distance. So many thoughts yet so few words. The water dripped down from the roof above and fell on his coat. He looked at his watch. Time had slowed down as it always did when he was in her presence. He took out a cigarette.

The lost letters. The connected food. The little words. The long silences. The invisible walls. The dried flowers.

The night was warm in spite of the rain. Her arms were wet. She made no move to wipe them. She cast a glance at him. He was leaning against the wall as always, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. So many similarities yet so different. The rain flowed in waves driven by an unknown wind. She remembered last night. Inexplicable feelings mixed with the sudden shiver that traveled down her back.

The late nights. The noisy neighbors. The rhythmic ringing. The passionate poetry. The rough stubble.

He wished the rain would stop. Their moment. Their instant of time under the rooftops would stop. Thunder rolled in the distance punctuating his thoughts. He shifted his legs.

“Do you think we should run for it?”

“I’d hate to see your dress get wet”

“Did I tell you that you look good in this dress?”

“I didn’t think you noticed such things”

As if on cue the rain stopped. They walked back slowly. A taxi would have been the logical choice but the thought never crossed their minds. The street glistened with water sliding down nooks and crannies. Their shadows almost touched.

The moment had come to pass. What was left unsaid would remain unsaid forever. The rain had taken with it their little secret. Years would pass. Times would change. But they knew. They knew a little secret that would remain in their hearts like unused clothes in an old wardrobe.

A Couple 21Mar06 | 10 Comments

A couple is sitting on a bench. The bench is in a park, one of those scraggly green spaces found in any city around the world. An afterthought of the city’s fathers tacked on to an indifferent neighborhood to relieve their conscience about the lack of green spaces. But these thoughts are far from the minds of the two people on the bench. They look as if they are sitting on a mountain of words that they need to get out for their own sanity. But if one looks closely one can observe that it is the woman who is more agitated. She taps her fingers on the bench, fidgets and constantly looks at her companion. Her companion on the other hand seems unperturbed by the agitation of the woman. He is calmly surveying the steady progression of clouds in the sky above and drinking in the warmth of a pleasant spring sun. The woman cannot take the silence anymore and bursts out.

The Woman: You know what your problem is, don’t you? [Without waiting for an answer she plunges on]. You want to love the whole world and at the same time be the center of the universe. Don’t you realize that is contradictory and even impossible?

[The man turns to look at the woman, pauses as if formulating his reply and speaks.]

The Man: No, I do not think it is contradictory and impossible. I find them connected to each other.

The Woman: What kind of an answer is that? How can you say they are compatible? You are one of the most selfish human beings I’ve encountered in my life. So then how can you love everyone in this world when it is your self that you love the most?

[The man does not seem hurt by the harsh and angry words. Perhaps he had been expecting something along these lines. He smiles.]

The Man: I expected that. Listen, when you say I love myself the most you are ignoring something essential. I’ve enough love left in my heart to love the whole world twice over. We tend to underestimate our capacity to love.

The Woman: Please, don’t give me that solipsistic philosophy. I know you inside-out. You say one thing but deep inside you think something quite the contrary. I should know. I was at the receiving end of most of those contradictory emotions.

The Man: Do not equate your inability to understand me with a defect in my personality. I might have come across as cold and indifferent to you at times but at no point did you realize how much it is that I loved you. Love cannot be measured in material terms. Love is something pure and basic.

The Woman: Yeah, yeah, there you go again with your foolishly romantic ideas about pure love. Bullshit! Be realistic. I’m not a romantic. I’m pragmatic and a realist. I need to receive love in an obvious fashion.

The Man: Unfortunately, that is something I cannot do and you know it. I’ve told you countless times even before we hooked up that I’m not the demonstrative kind. I tend to keep my emotions to myself. But you decided to ignore that, confident that you could change me to suit your ends. Sorry, but life is not that easy. I cannot dance to your strings and be what you want me to be.

(Note: To be continued.)

Final Portrait 22Jan06 | 9 Comments

Final Portrait

I first noticed him when he sat down in the opposite seat vacated by an old woman. Actually, that’s not right. I saw him only when he made a gesture, immersed in a newspaper. There was something vaguely familiar about it. It was an odd one for sure. Roughly every two minutes he would tweak his left ear with his left hand. In all other ways he appeared normal. Even his face did not seem to ring a bell for usually I’m pretty good with faces. And then the circuit closed. But of course, I should have recognized him faster!

I had last seen him about ten years back; on the day he left our lives under a bad cloud. He was the first and last person to rent the extra room to the side of our house. Somehow, after him, we never got around to renting the room to another person. He was about thirty years old then. A very mysterious age you know. It lends the person a certain aura. The aura of being on the threshold of middle-aged cynicism and shedding the last remnants of youthful idealism. Or perhaps I was too young and saw him through the prism of awe. It was the literary air he had. I always had this thing for even vaguely literary people. They were like gods, infallible and distant, talking in fabulous language of things and people I could only dream about. And he was not completely a fraud. He had actually got some of his writings published. For me then that was equivalent to winning the Booker.

He was a master of words. He could weave the most amazing and fantastic conversations. I used to spend hours listening to him. Instead of playing street-cricket or flying kites, almost everyday after school, I’d knock on his door and spend the evenings with him until mother called. Oh what things he would talk about! I’d be carried along by his words to the most exotic places and meet the most colorful and irreverent characters that ever lived; the narrowest house of Amsterdam, the lost streets of Tasmania, Mad-Eye Pillai, Sunset Madhavi, Boston Barney, Willowy Waterson. Each of their stories would be spread over three to four evenings. Later, the words would evaporate like early morning dew, leaving only a vague taste of melancholic sweetness. Like a drug almost and perhaps that’s why I used to hunger for more. Conversation was not needed. It was a monologue. I just had to nod at the right time, make appropriate noises and insert the right words at the right places. When I look back now, even with the burden of hindsight, they seem such beautiful evenings.

But that sudden departure of his ended those mellow evening monologues abruptly. Even now, I do not know what really happened. Mother and father refuse to talk about it. I only have vague rumors and overheard words to fashion a theory. It involved women and abortions. What role he played in that and whether he was really involved is still an open question. It was so sudden that I couldn’t even pester my parents to let him stay. At the time of his departure I was in a state of limbo, confused and curious. Not the best of states to be in. But I can still recall his farewell look. He did not say a thing. He just looked at me. A look full of sadness. The sadness of being misunderstood. A look also of faith perhaps. A faith in me. As if he had the confidence that I’d understand him and not judge him like others had done. That was also the first time I cried in public. But I was careful not to let him see the tears. I just stood there and looked back, a confused kid looking up at his disgraced idol leaving. We did not shake hands or wave. He did not even look back once as he walked away down the street.

And there he was in the seat opposite me after so many years. He had aged badly. No wonder it took me so much time to recognize him. The interweaning years had apparently not been kind to him. There was a certain hardness about his mouth. As if the world had kicked him from one pothole to another. His hairline had receded a lot and the hair was mostly grey in color. His eyes lacked the special crinkly quality they had before. They seemed to have lost the ability to smile. I wondered about what might have happened to him. Had the dark cloud followed him everywhere? Had it not allowed him to rest anywhere? Or was he happily married with two kids and just showing the normal signs of aging?

It would have been a simple matter to talk to him. To remind him perhaps, if needed, who I was, and get into his life again. But something stopped me from doing that. I wanted to remember him as a child’s idol, flawed but real, and not temper that image with the hard reality in between, good or bad. To be frank, my reasons were perhaps more selfish. Deep down, I did not want to change his image of mine as a curious but shy child, always dreaming and in awe of people. Even he would have been disappointed at what I had turned out to be, a lazy fantasist full of broken dreams and unrealistic plans. So I just sat there, surreptitiously glancing at him over the top of a book until my destination arrived. I got down and went home with another reminder from the past to be buried in my garden of memories.

(Note: Final part in a trilogy of fictional portraits. Please keep in mind that the image preceding the text has nothing to do with the text, the words were not inspired by the photo. It is only meant to complement them.)

Second Portrait 13Jan06 | 10 Comments

Second Portrait

He is a voracious reader to put it simply. He reads everything, literally everything. It would be wrong to term him as a book worm as that would be falling into the cliché trap. An odd comparison perhaps but he is like Casanova, someone who wants to experience different women. He likes reading everything he can lay his hands on, from trashy romances to deep philosophical tomes and everything in between.

His house is a book lover’s dream and an organized person’s nightmare. As expected books take up every square inch of available space and more if that’s possible. You have to eat with them, sleep with them and even shit with them. Not that you would experience this yourself. It might not come as a surprise to you that he does not socialize. Compared to the excitement, exoticness and mental fantasy he finds in books real people seem to him like those sad characters in a poorly written detective story, utterly predictable and eminently boring.

He has specific types of books at strategic places for particular times of the day. Like, for example, a racy thriller at the dinner table, a word-of-mouth book on the sofa or that deep philosophical tome on the toilet. The last ‘choice’ perhaps needs a sentence of explanation. He feels that the weight of the language in such books makes him crap easier and avoid constipation!

His dreams contain scrolls filled with words from multiple languages. On rare occasions the words take on a human form. A noun looks like a tourist on his first trip abroad. An adjective morphs into that ‘tall dark handsome’ specimen of maledom women invariably seem or at least want to fall for. A verb takes on the shape of a blond woman about to lose her virginity. An adverb forms the outlines of an old man watching pornographic cartoons. He is not repelled by these ignoble images. On the contrary, he has a Freudian fascination for them. Each time they condense in his sleep he takes time out on awakening to try and decipher their panoptical persistence.

These days he is engaged in the study of personal politics. The ways in which we twist and turn situations, emotions, and people to suit our ego-cravings. The subtle study amuses him and also serves as a pleasant break from his eternal intimates. Now, let me shut this window of frozen time I’ve opened onto a slice of his life. Let us leave him to his private projects and textual panoply.

(Note: Second in a trilogy of fictional portraits. Please keep in mind that the image preceding the text has nothing to do with the text, the words were not inspired by the photo. It is only meant to complement them.)

Mottled

patterns of light and memory

Visual Obscurity

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