Two red doors

In downtown Portland, there is a building with two upper rooms. Every afternoon, these rooms fill up with men , some of whom are trying to leaves their own personal Hades, with the sounds of alcohol and drugged footsteps calling back to them. I use the underworld metaphor, because these men are told by the people who run the building with the two upper rooms that it is The Light they must walk towards. Redemption and a meal are promised if only they praise the god of baptist america. In the rooms, the men watch television, play pool, and discuss next week's laundry schedule.

On saturday morning, us international scholarship students were driven to this building with two upper rooms, in order to paint the walls of the two upper rooms a pale yellow, and the doors of the two upper tooms an earthen red. A thing that we found ourselves volunteered to do. Brushes and overlarge T shirts given to us, kindly instructions on how to pour paint followed. But rid yourself of the illusion that I disliked the idea- There was stories to be heard there, and so I went. Why pale yellow and earthen red? A breathless, blue eyed art student in a red coat assured us that they were psychologically proven to be colours that made people think happy thoughts of sharing and caring. Ergo, pale yellow and... yes, well.

Roll brushes are fun to paint with, especially if you have a nice colour and a rough surface. My compatriots laid siege blissfully to the bare walls, and finished most of the work in 2 hours. I did not paint walls. For the breathless, blue eyed student in a red coat told me there were two doors to paint an earthen red. I felt my hand go up when she asked for a volunteer.

I did this because of the thought of my grandmother, and two paintings that never lived because of me.

[I wonder at this constant need for coming full circle on all things, at this need for finding a cap for every permanent marker. Bear with me. Sigh.]

Red coat-- whose name is Rebecca-- Showed me how to open the paint tin, the degree to which you tip the thing so red goop spills out into the waiting pan. Plastic covering all things that were meant to stay unreddened, and I let the roll brush travel slowly down its first burnt sienna track on the white door.

The instinct of the hunt, that belongs to wolf and man. There is something about a tool of change in your hand, and surface area that will not fight you. Red gash at the place where thumb and forefinger meet, red glare in my sight, and the second stroke was a frenzied side swing, hard and bloody against the white wood.

My mind pulled me back to those thoughts that had me pick up the red brush first. Summer 12 years ago, and ammuma trying to teach me to bring life to tree bark on paper. It was in the stroke, the amount of water, the mix of colours, because nothing was ever solid poster paint out of a 30 ml bottle. I refused to listen, and walked away to the balcony rails, to stare moodily at the rain tree who was laughing at me. A few years after that, and the same thing happened again, except it was oils this time, not watercolour.

The red glare faded, and memories of karate kid II and the old man telling the kid to paint straight up, down. Steady strokes. Memories of ammuma telling me to not over-layer the ochre on the burnt sienna, to dry the brush more, to use longer strokes. And I did, conciously feeling ham strings and knees protest and then give over to the work they were created to do- Start from the top with a dipped and shaken roller, slow bring down, filling in edges and corners with the bristly brush.

At lunch, tattooed, moustached, weathered men, large & small, silent and loud stood in a circle, waiting for us volunteers to start with the soup before they did. Grace-- For yes, that Had to Be Said-- was 2 words from each stolid receiver of His Gifts. They said thanks for many things, like sandwiches for lunch, and volunteers who volunteered. There were some that made me say amen with toes getting a little deeper into concrete: things like "thank god for another chance, every day", "praise god for living" and "praise god for the universal power of music". Big men, alone except for their fellow tatooed and alone big men, who waited outside this rescue mission for food twice a day, who sometimes went on sponsored fishing trips. The coconut cream pie made it only more Hallmarky. And yet, and yet...

One of them, with burnished locks, bristling moustache, straight nose and piercing blue eyes sat opposite my colleagues from Syria and Morocco and proceeded to genially ask these two arab boys why they weren't eating the meat. Lesser, wiser and more non-confrontational mortals would've claimed vegetarianism. Not Adel and Bilal. In that den of bible-readers, with a salvation army outpost next door, they said the meat wasnt halal and they didnt eat meat that wasn't halal, because they are muslim.

And the beauty of the thing was that the darkest and most horrible of evils in the world today was sunning and curling itself in front of my eyes, over sandwiches and salad, in a christian rescue mission home in downtown portland. So damn simple, and so delicately done. No trumpets, but there for those who wanted to see, to see.

What ensued was no forced exorcism, no burning at the stake, no mass prayers- Just a theological debate, man on one side of the long table, boys on the other. All was said: the need for tolerance, respecting differences, living in harmony, principles differences in doctrine, a shared root holy book. Needless to say, the boys left in about 2o minutes, affronted and enraged. The man genially shook hands.

Apart from the fact that such debate is pointless, and often damaging to one's own faith in one's self, and one's perceptions... Apart from the fact that the guy in charge said the man was homeless coz he didnt have any social skills, do ignore him... apart from the fact that claiming vegetarianism or deslike would've ended the discussion then and there... Apart from the fact that I took gleeful delight in seeing the levels and onioned layers of how different people offend-- for like all 21 year olds, they do offend, these colleagues of mine-- and are offended... Apart from the fact that I still believe the boys were so pissed off due to the fact that they weren't the ones who left with the last word- Apart from all of this:

what I saw was Fear. Fear of being untolerated, fear of being prodded and poked, and noticed for being different. The need to protect, desperately, one's faith, one's self. Fear has an ugly nose, and laughs a lot.

Pie eaten, boys driven back, I returned to my red doors. I wish my grandmother could've seen the finish on them. Bends and corners and coats led up to me standing there and feeling happier than I have felt in a long time, with something I "did" in realtime.

Its hard to listen to anyone telling you how to do a thing. You fear your own right to it being taken away. Its hard having to listen to anyone tell you in a quiet and sure voice of the beauty of the god he or she believes in, who died for love, and who then asks you to talk about your god. Its hard feeling not good enough.

Adel and Bilal painted walls like heroes till lunch though. And sang arabic songs out loud while doing it. The doors are red, without any signatures, like the walls. People will use them to come and go...

As we all do. As we all do.

Sacagawea means "boat launcher".

The one who aids a journey. But she was also once known as "Bird woman", according to the French Canadian trapper who bought her. Charbonneau the trapper.

"Bird woman" was her name in the Hidatsa language, and looked like this- Tsakaka-wias. And yet she is more popularly called Sacagawea today. Boat launcher.

The one who aids a journey.

For that is what she did. Read more about this woman here, but for now it suffices to say that without her, the two explorers Lewis and Clark would not have found their way across, over and into the American north-west as easily as they did. With her baby son on her back-- her son who was born five days after me many years before, her son who was born on the trail-- this woman travelled with them, interpreting directions and their needs, though she was only one of the wives of Charbonneau, the actual hired guide.

This college prides itself on the spirit of discovery on which it was founded, and there are bits all over college about these two men and their team who went about charting the pacific north west.

One such bit is a statue of Sacagawea, a weathered bronzed face, with a baby on a straight back, the little face also peering with his mother's towards the horizon. Or as it is, towards the manor house, away from my dorm, away from the chapel near by.

The dorm is red brick, with automatic doors, a glass-walled lounge with a tv, dvd and a pinao missing 3 black keys, and our rooms with flags of different nations painted on each door.

My door has a defunct Angola painted thereon. It misses a sickle, so now looks a simple gothic work, on which I hope to stencil a dragon: Ich Will, sig heil, and such.

The chapel is built like a native American woman's hat, with a suspended pipe organ which goes perfectly well with my dragon idea, really. Think phantom of the opera. And that vertical perspective. Lovely. Outside the chapel, there are four granite totem carvings, meant to represent each of the four elders.

But Sacagawea's gaze goes further. I find myself walking by her often. Wondering, often, at this woman, who was bought and sold, who had a white man lift her son from out between her legs, who saw once again her land, who did not drown, who told stories of her life, who accompanied Lewis and Clark, who finally gave her son into their care for his education and upbringing, who has lakes and creeks and mountains named after her.

This college is beautiful, you know. Everything has been planned out, the only things that grows according to their own 'ich will' are the trees. Youngly ancient connifers--only a couple of hundred years old-- that stretch their bushy eyebrows up into the clouds. A lot of these trees grow in the ravine, on the edge of which stands Sacagawea.

Everything is planned out. From the oldest building on campus, the manor house, you can see the reflecting pool that shows you the icy coldness of the calm sky here, with dancing sunlight across the noses of those clouds, and the stretching, mumbling trees. Further, looking as the woman with the baby on her back does, you can see a snowy peak on a clear day.

From down by the pool, further down by the rose garden, I can see the path to take to leave the cold behind and enter my dorm. It goes by her, and the ravine.

Around me, there are bushes and portly trees, some holding their blossoms close like old ladies playing bridge, some letting them drop like sighs into silk-shorn grass, damp with rain below, silent, because the little creatures live elsewhere where the grass is not cut daily.

The flowers that drop silent are not alien. There are those in madras that fall on early summer mornings and shadowed evenings with a sweetness that makes you stop transfixed by the exquisite pain that comes from the waste of such beauty beneath feet that pass.

I picked the pretty ones that had fallen, up from the ground- much like the old lady who wrapped her sari around her tight did, bending carefully, holding gently. Only those that had fallen. Never from a branch. Never one that was not ready to go. Looking straight ahead, there was the well-planned, picturesque path back.

Feet over and into the grass, a handful of pale purple and white and berry-pink gentle softnesses in my hand.... a blossom here is as soft and moist as a mouthful of rasberry low fat yoghurt, as gentle as a woman's first kiss.

Evening came down as winds spoke and greeted through the eyebrows of the senior trees. One of whom had a lonely face on its bark.

Much has been said by me and others of land, and language. Dont blame nostalgia. It was something about this woman, Sacagawea, who was ready to go.

A blossom, made of toughest bark and root and stone, that went where the wind and water carried her. Some blossoms refuse to ever fall. They prefer being tightly held till upon a green branch one evening, they close their eyes and fall into themselves.

Some choose to fall while alive, and no matter whether they travel or not, for any way the wind blows.

I took the handful of those that chose, and left them at Sacagawea's feet. The wind blew sudden, eyes closed and lights came on in the city below.

Now I am not afraid to walk alone and unguided in nights which are cold and where the sidewalk lights are far away- Here, amidst old trees, and by a murmuring pool.

My december

There is a season, whether you turn or not. Everyone has one. Variations on old themes, the filigree work consists of the usual maple raging crimson leaves and pollen allergies.

For me its december.... my december. I realized this while walking back from the library this evening in Portland.

Cold winds scurry by your feet in rippling waves, coddling your toes into a delicate shade of glacial blue. Wind blows through every buttoned fastening, and the sun is there, bright, gazing intently out across the grass and fattened squirrels in long sight-lines of pale gold light, warm when you touch it, like 6 inches away from a flame.

But you do not feel warm. You do not feel May.

There are no people, and the grass does not speak, but only moves like tired people in an overcrowded bus swaying at every left turn.

The trees are magnificent, and cold here in Portland. Like the sun, and like it, they too are bright.

Prologue

In ancient times, before setting out on a journey men and women were given talismans-charms to protect them against evil, to give them strength, to remind them of home.

Unless of course, they didnt have any time to pack. Ahem.

In which case, all that is taken is words given and the memory of a few moments spent where people came, met, gathered on cool, dark-nighted terrace, and spoke and ate and took pictures together.

Thus, on the occasion of my imminent departure for yankville on a little plane that served turbulence and iced pepsi, I hereby post these words, which I think serve best as a... not a start. A point of reference: a bodhi treeish one. My thanks to the Earl of Babbleburgh for the same- may your words remain everclear, and your heart forever free.



1. Some of the people on that terrace and some who weren't there, you will never meet again. Each will go their own way. Sometimes, paths will intersect. Other times, lines will run in parallel and meet only at infinity. Don't leave things unsaid - you never know which ones you are going to be meeting again and which ones you aren't.

2. It will feel like a loss intitially - letting go of places and people will only come after a while. When it does, it will be liberating. Don't pine for time to return. Don't hold on too tight - flow with the current of time or it will just tear you apart. Cherish the memories though.

3. Some of the new peple you meet will be more important than people on that terrace and people who couldn't make it to the terrace. Embrace them with open arms.

4. The Indian word for signifying associations between people is "bandhan" - literally, something that ties. The Western/English word relationships, signifies links. Links will free you, "bandhans" will tie you. Choose judiciously where you want links and where you want ties.

5. The part of you that seeks freedom will at times be stifled by the part of you that creates links and ties. Over time, you will find that free will only allows us to choose our chains. It will initially appear paradoxical but you will appreciate the underlying beauty and subtlety some day. If and when you do, you will come to accept the universe as a beautiful place filled with wonderful sights and sounds, places and people. Hope that day comes to you.

6. You are responsible for everything that happens to you in your lifetime. You are not to be blamed for those events though.Take responsibility. If things are good, revel. If not, learn, move on. Life is too short to be frittered away - learn to forgive yourself.

copyright 2005, Babbleburgh.

Intermission.

Pain.

Pain is never what comes with trumpeting hellfire and groans of the last flood and eternal torment. Pain never comes with flashlights and blue pencils. At least not the kind of pain that sits across the table from me today, and stares at its chipped nails, and then outside moodily, at the windswept gentle sunlit trees.

Pain has frayed jeans, and wakes staring dilatedly into the eyes of a paramedic who claps his hands in its face, and stares without human light at a body that’s bruised with memory and noise, and notices not the skin, but the shivering body that is a sign of life just returning from the OD sigh-post. Pain shivers, whimpers and wraps itself in a white bed sheet, hoping for death which means to be silent, quiet. Pain was born blind, and wanted to try meth instead of plasticine and prom nights to fill the empty draws that love left when it moved houses. Pain is then wheeled into a darkened room in the ER… and in a day, or two, or three, pays a bill, and walks through automatic doors, lighting a cigarette in the 4:23pm sunlight.

Pain will often go to the bars and restaurants and cd racks where memories of how things used to be still live, and will poke around in old bills and passwords now changed looking for what it cannot forget, and yet cannot feel anymore.

Pain stands under ice cold showers, and is ruthlessly efficient with toilet paper. Pain will recite “now is the winter of our discontent” and “aye there’s the rub: for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause”- And will always skip the remaining part of the Prince’s soliloquy till the line “thus conscience doth makes cowards of us all”. Pain will mutter this, and climb up over grass, and down hills.

Pain stands still when people cry, and will not run if its shoulder is made damp by someone who for a moment cannot see its funny-scary face, because of the power of that someone’s own grief. Pain will not cry except during La Amistad, and Braveheart. Why? Because once pain used to be like that, chained, and yelling for something worth something more than a credits roll.

Pain will in the middle of the afternoon like a scratching old man, remember scented hair and soft touches and jokes and pictures. And like an old man, will wonder where the cleaning lady put that album, or maybe the kids took it with them, or maybe its in the basement and maybe if I try going down the stairs alone I will fall and then maybe at least pieces of me if not all of me nose to chin to gut to groin to knees to toes will be with that album again... and peer for faded dates through faded eyes, and sleep in dust and a night where the cockroaches sniff and run by worried, knowing things will change soon.

Pain will even take phone calls, answer mails, and refuse to argue. Pain will remember numbers and will apologize like an awkward child standing alone after being hit by a Frisbee and the accompanying laughter.

Pain will then pull off sandals and run like a wet wild intent animal swift over a deserted playing field in the warm spiced mud and rain, lightly, only on toes, through driving water and lights made woozy by the curtain of water, running till the light but remembering that this night, this darkness will stay forever like a naphthalene ball among cuffs and tail-end buttons…

Pain does not remember what Shakespeare said about spring.

Pain will consider disconnecting the phone, finishing a bottle, picking up the receiver, quitting forever.

Pain will then check for its keys, push back the chair, and get up and walk away.

But only to wander in wet wild intent swift circles, with a cold long tooth of an iron comb spiked into its heel on every step down and forward.

And then maybe, like a dog at night after many circles, it will lay me down, lay you down, lay us down…

To die. To sleep. Perchance to dream. Or perchance, to not.

From the land of hills and pine trees

There is so much to tell you. So very much. About planes, and customs officials, and hospitals, and Dimitri the waiter, a man named Saleh Taki, and all you can eat buffets, and dorm rooms, and japanese girls who walk barefoot and eat dried mushrooms... and so much more.

For all those who care and are curious, Portland is beautiful, Lewis & Clark has trees that have old gnarled noses on them, I landed here safely on the 13th of this month and the countries represented around me range from Syria, Morocco, Bahrain and Jordan, to Vietnam, and Japan.

One thing tho- Bob the blue goblin wants his own blog. Just a little space to squiggle about the way things are around here, in a world which is beyond 'Inscrutable Americans' and Michael Moore. Look out for a new clown fish in the fishbowl- will provide the link the minute its up.

For now, while I gleefully stomp through comparitive studies home work, and cross cultural psychology, here's a place where Im putting up some of the work I've done over the past couple of years, where its easier to look at since I have no more my documents to call home. And no, its not a phonemic narcissism.

[And if you think so, you needn't click on the bloody link, so wipe that smug look off thy mug. Hmpf.]

Ahem. Apologies. That goblin's been antsy ever since he found out they're passing a bill to restrict otherworldy creature snarkiness in human blogs.


Right-ho. Its
http://wheresmypencil.blogspot.com/

-Come by... and much apologies for the heavy scrolling. And to all those who know there are emails pending from my side- thankyou for your indulgence. And patient waiting. Computer lab clearance having just been... erm.. cleared, them wordy birds will follow shortly.

Unless of course the patient- and silent- waiting just means no one really wants to hear from me.

'Ulp.

*determined snort*

Tough! You're STILL getting them squawkers.

Wishes, from sweatered day times, and the ocasional cheesy bagel. Be well.

18:09pm and counting....

Am leaving. Am breathless. Am not going to be blogging for a day, or two, or three.


Till then, god and whatever else is smiling and free, be with thee.

Munnsamy of the cycle-rickshaw

Forget count-downs, and send offs, and trumpets, and burning latin capitals and 11th houring. The fact is that I am to leave this country for two years in little more than 24 hours, and:

a) I still haven't packed.

b) I still haven't loaded all the music I want onto my ipod.

c) I haven't written, visited, said, called or mailed all that I set out to.

Vae victis. Funnily enough, my Fall this time is due to no hubris. This time round, my hamartia is nothing but bad time management. And Im sure if these IIM gods ever got to chatting up aristotle, I'd actually have a greek term for it.

Dischronus, maybe.

Sounds good at least.

Anyway, inspite of my tragic flaw, yesterday I set out bravely in the evening to try and accomplish filling my ipod [who's name is Arion. That's another story, another post] with music from a friend's collection- everything, from Tull to the Doobie brothers, with a whooshing sweep of the entire Pink collection, right from saucerful of secrets down to... yeah well. Its a 20 Gb 'pod, so thats a lot of songs. I set out at 5:20, hoping to put everything in at least by 8.

Pounding along the road in sweaty striding socks I realized that this would probably be the last time I haggle with a madrasi auto-driver. The thought instead of softening my outlook, turned the embering need of driving a good bargain up into a burning Will To Not Pay More Than What Was Right.

Right. So the 41 degrees had put all auto-dudes in a bad mood. No one felt sportive enough to indulge in the back-and-forth. While my fourth wet-blanket victim was puttering off in a huff, I noticed yells in the vernacular being emitted from the other side of the road. The word "meddem" was heard. Figured the guy was referring to me.

Its a good feeling, this. Being recognised on the road, even if its just for commercial need, is still a heart-warming fact. You and your money are called out to, cajoled. I two-stepped over to the one who was "medemming" and it was when I was at the exact centre of the road that I noticed the murky yellow cycle rickshaw he was standing with.

One does not pause in the middle of roads. One does, however, think of time and the lack thereof and humbly accept a 35 rupee auto-driver statement because of ipodical needs.

Me and One don't seem very alike. I stood there, letting self-righteous little puttering autos go by, letting time tick-tock on, letting more "meddems" bang on the doors of my mind cheerfully.

The cycle rickshaw man promised to get me there "fasht only, meddem". He thumped the seat and beamed at me from behind his slow dripping curtain of sweat.


I did not think of time. I did not think of still incomplete packing. I instead thought of how much fun it would be to go on my first cycle rickshaw ride just when I was leaving this country.

I delicately heaved myself onto the seat, bemused. Pulled out my phone [yes his name is STILL Barney] and began messaging 3 people of my adventure.

One of them was dad. Who immediately called up to cordially enquire whether I was sure I was feeling alright, and was it very hot outside, and maybe I should've taken a hat to prevent the heat from getting to my brain, which it evidently had already done. He then chirpily proceeded to order me off the rickshaw. I nodded, verbally, and continued rolling along after he had rung off.

The same route I had travelled everyday of my life for the past three years, for aforementioned friend lived near college. Familiar faces and canine tails passed by- very slowly, tis true, but passed by they did: Auto-stands and their inhabitants, tea kadais, a sweet mongrel with a pink nose, trees, cops, garbage piles.... slowly, very slowly.

Maybe the shot of glee was gulped down by my mind and spine the way it was because all that slow parade meant only one thing to me- I would never see all of this for a while, and when I did see it again, it would not be the same way. And I would not be the same way either. And that is good.


A bit of a feel of Caesar re-entering Rome with captured nubians then, but that all ended the moment the rickshaw, the white shirted-dhotied sweating man and I came upon the over-bridge near my house. Its then that I started concentrating on Munnsamy.

For that is his name, as I found out later.

From where I sat, I could see his cable-thin tendons stretched and could feel the immense deluge of sweat that can only come when you peddle me up an lazily curving bridge in traffic under a 41 degree sky. He was just one strained line, from his neck to his ankle tendons, was Munnsamy. Shiny mahogany, all these men of southern dust. Slight, with a face roughly carved out of the wrinkly shell of a nut. This little man in white peddled till he could no more, then hopped off his cycle to guide his rickshaw through traffic and carry me over the bridge.


The bear went over the mountain,
the bear went over the mountain,
the bear went over the mountain
to see what he could see.

Sigh.

Funnily enough, my half sheepish, half furtive and all amused looks around me showed me that no one thought it was funny for Munnsamy to be pulling this large, red-haired person up a bridge on a vehicle usually used for midget school children, squalling in bunches of 5's and 6's, all wearing blue uniforms and water-bottles. No police men yelled, and buses though lumbering whales otherwise, gently grumbled by, letting him pass.

Letting his pass. In a city where everyone is trying to get as fast as they can to wherever they must be, no one yelled at Munnsamy. This struck me as pretty cool, and I say that because there is no other phrase that can catch the unconcerned nuance of the thing. Madras may have killer water-lorries, ambulances who use their sirens to get through traffic lights, and multiple lane traffic which lack yellow lines.... but it does have a heart and roadspace for cycle rickshaws.

Munnsamy finds the leftest side of the road the moment we reach level ground, the ends of both his legs firmly planted into pedals that pump slow down and over.

The ends of both his legs, firmly planted into pedals that pumps slow down and over are just stumps. Munnsamy has no feet. He told me that an electrical cable fell on them and that's how it happened. This fact was preceeded and followed by him earnestly mentioning his four children. He later said there were three- whether due to a sudden burst of conscience, fatigue or coz he considered 3 a more auspicious number than 4, which it is, Im not sure.

The entire experience was punctuated by me appealing to him with my pidgin tamil to please stop, very nice now will pay already late. To which, Munnsamy wiped his face with the palm of his hand briskly and shook his head at me with the ferocity of a hippopotamus who's been interrupted in his first mating of the season.

I was overwhelmed. This little man would not let me down. No reasoning would work- He had undertaken to peddle me 4 kms, and peddle me he did. The last half a km was punctuated with him mentioning hospital visits and children's sicknesses and such.
Which I also like.

Get this straight, Jack Canfield. Chicken soup may work elsewhere, but here our stories are more simple, our angels more uneven-tempered, our sacrifices often at first hesitant and often-jovially so- grumbled about with family and friends.

How on earth am I supposed to know the right price for a cycle rickshaw ride of 4kms in evening traffic? I was an hour late, and a steel knob and my coccyx became close friends. And yet- he had peddled like a trojan hero, if trojan heroes did ever cycle. He had stumps that he capitalized on only while disputing the fare. He sulked when I gave him 50 bucks. Him showing me the telephone number of his children's teacher, saying that she would verify that what he said about his kids was the truth. Me handing him notes with all the "sandhosham" or happiness and gratefulness that he invoked when I asked him "how much?". That followed by the mutterings, the grumblings. Exasperated, I asked him why can't you tell me a price and I will pay?

No. Out of "sandhosham". I jumped across the road and scurried into the lane in which my friend lives, leaving Munnsamy to ask for water from a nearby watchman and peddle wherever else he had to go.

"Sandhosham". That's all I suppose he lives on these days, apart from his determined peddling, albeit the lack of toes. Achilles had more written about him, but was lesser than Munnsamy. There, a pierced heel killed him, and much pollution coz of pyric flames and then- Nothing. Munnsamy grumbles, mumbles, sweats and cycles with stumps that he walks and cycles with.

"Many heroes are not yet born, many have already died.
To be alive to hear this song, is a victory"
- West African Song.

Someone please tell me what I should've payed him. And yes- albeit sounds good too. Like Dischronus.

A post on the way, but while it comes... YIPPEEEE!!! Got the entire forever gold collection of Freddie and crew on my ipod. Life is beautiful. And still has a kind o' magic. 

she who "caught and sang the sun in flight"

Sister Basil Quinn died on April 28th, 2005 on the Church Park campus, in her bed, quietly and in peace.

She was an 88 year old Irish nun, who scorned all forms of transport except walking and the public transport bus service in Madras. In fact considering the constancy of human nature, if not human emotions, I’m pretty sure even if they did have a shuttle service at the pearly gates for senior citizens, she'd probably make a particularly rude Latin gesture in scornful benediction and then proceed to stride past a jaw-dropped St. Pete right up to His Throne- At which point she would then proceed to discuss the bad roads on the Way Up but at least there wasn't a water problem up here, yes? I should hope not!! Tea? Yes, I would love that, thank you so much...

That was Sr. basil's way, and so much more. How did I know her?

She lived in the convent that administered the management of the school I studied in. The school was everything all convent schools are in this part of the world- Green pinafores with bloomers [elasticated puffy shorts that would be used in every impromptu school Shakespearian production if the students weren't yet in the 11th grade. Once you were in the 11th, the faculty suddenly decided that you had a new found dignity that didn’t allow for bloomers on the outside over stretch tights while lisping "now is the winter of our discontent"], which turned to salwar-kameez in the- yes you guessed it- 11th grade. There were the voice raining classes, where we'd shriek along in F minor to Tom Dooley. There were the art classes where we were taught everything from painting to embroidery: I escaped from the embroidery coz my grandmum used to be art teacher there- ha! I'd claim a piece of art paper and would then proceed to demonstrate in water color what Dali would've done if he squished a cheese burger at a Macdonalds only to find a black beetle scurry away gasping carrying a very tiny pomegranate on its back. Swear to god. Still have the painting to prove it. [Proof of love, btw- mum keeps everything I scribble or dribble paint on, even things like this].

In this school, we had the usual mix of twisted morals emotions and sexuality that only exists when you have a bunch of women living together most of whom have been there studying for 14 years of their existence, and most of whom have never interacted with the male specie other than the occasional cousin or hopeful neighbor. Nothing particularly decadent at all- THAT came with college.

[A blue tail flickers out my door, gurgling as I fling my hairbrush after it. There should be a ban on rude blue goblins. At least red goblins are "meant" to be rude. Geez.]

We had great teachers. And not just in English- One thing I will say for my old school: no other convent school had teachers like ours. May their tribe increase, at least the few I’m referring to. They called a spade a spade and weren't above dragging you out by your flagging conscience and standing there calmly-metaphorically- till you shoveled your own shit. I respect them for that. Any respect I have for authority comes only because of them.

Anyway. Life would've gone Jane Austenly in that school if it hadn't been for a few things- One of them was Sister Basil.

She and I met in my grandmother’s art room- 80 something and beginning to get extremely forgetful, she nonetheless had an Irish lilt and blue eyes and laugh that had my attention glued- to what she was saying, to the energy I could sense, to her humor and the fact that she like me thought all hierarchy sucked- its funny, even when she's spoken of God which has been once or twice, I never heard any snivelling remarks about masters and sheep.

You couldn’t help liking this lady, really. She never let the fact she was a nun act as a buffer between the world and her mind. She walked everywhere, alone. She spoke with everyone, had an opinion on everything, and stayed in madras because she preferred the weather here. Ireland, she said, was too cold.

I loved her. Still do. With her the little things and the big things were the same; you could never have trivial conversation with her- your real opinion, who you are, or nothing thank you very much. AND you can KEEP your tea! That’s how she was.

I remember bunking a two-hour math period in the 9th and going looking for her in the convent. An India-Pakistan match was on, and she called me inside the convent to watch it on tv with her. So aye, I couldn't be caught for bunking coz I was on holy ground-

[Apologies, Mrs. Grace if you ever read this. I did the math, and this too added up. Thanks for the algebra]

So I didn't tell her I didn't like the game, let alone understand it. I didn’t have to. The tv was on, goodday biscuits munched, but Sr Basil and I talked about walking in grace- the thing that Virgina Woolf called 'moments of being'. I told her .. what did I tell her?.. All those things that we who feel too much and are taught that it isn’t decent to talk about in public: the writing, the things in my head, words like god and honour, things that were mumbled and rushed over and throat-gulped out, but which she listened to, and nodded, and told me her own stuff- about Ireland, and walks, and people and herself, and faith.

In the car park one afternoon, she and I met and spoke of car prices, and she told me she was getting older. I told her I wanted to take over the UNO and restructure it. She and I laughed and planned under the sun.

When my theatre group went around to a group of city schools taking a poetry-in-performance rehearsed reading with them, I felt a strange kick in the gut when I heard we'd be performing in my old school. It was a good program we did, in association with the British Council, where we took poems from the kids' syllabus and performed them- Stuff like 'the rime of the ancient mariner' and 'the frog and the nightingale'. That afternoon, in front of kids, a few of who had been my juniors- I got up and did Diop's Africa. And Sr. Basil was there.

I had met her in the convent an hour before the show, with two of my very dear friends from college. I stood still when she came bustling out and I said, "Do you remember me?"- I had heard that she had begun to forget faces and places. She slapped my shoulder in a way that I can only describe as smartly, and then said-"of course I do, Priyanka. So what are you doing now?"

She sat with us for a bit, telling us about all the surgery people her age were getting in Ireland, where she had just come back from after visiting her family. She told Vaish, Darsh and me that when she was young, plates were things you ate off, which were found on tables at mealtimes: Not in hips and shoulders and such. Plates, indeed.

She's not too keen on medical aid, Sr. Basil.

I met her last on dec 1st, at the end of a world aids day march. It was six in the evening on marina beach, with kids in red t-shirts leaving in ones and twos and threes. I saw her suddenly, sitting right there on the pavement ridge. Tired, but still alive. She had come to the beach that day and saw our procession and came to watch. I told her of all my grown-up plans and fears and sureties. She smiled wryly, and reminded me to not forget. That’s the best part, you didn’t have to explain anything; she saw it on your face. To not forget. The sentence ended there, made sense anyway.

She had a cataract issue for a couple of years. It came back after she tried having it nicked. They found out 5 months ago it was because of a tumor in her pituitary gland. She lost sight in both her eyes then- she only said it was hard, all this darkness, when she was used to seeing so much.

An auto was driving me past school on the night of the 28th. A board outside gave me a time and place for her funeral. Till then I had never known that her last name was Quinn. I went the next day to see what was left of her, just after my visa was approved at the USIS building next door.

[A bit tragic-mystic-funny, all this passing and passaging and trips across borders]

She looked whiter than she ever did in life. Cotton stuffed everywhere, and her thumbs tied together across her chest with little bits of cotton bandaging. She didn’t look like her, at all. Sr. Basil is the first human I've known and personally interacted with whom I've seen dead. I’m not too good with portly relatives doused in jasmine and agarbati- these I do not know and do not want to know. But Basil was a different matter.

I had known she was ailing for 3 months. I had wanted to go see her. I had wanted to go tell her of my bruises and thoughts and screw ups and plans and ask her what do I do now sister, do you think I can still walk and fly the way I used to, the way you used to know I could?

Futility.

That word didn’t leave me all day. It had begun the previous evening, when I had seen that chalkboard with her last name and a date underneath it. It continued when I saw the teaser campaign of Peter England shirts, where some poor sot had evidently toiled over it, but people were speeding by the damn thing, trafficking, radio mirching, spitting, cursing, driving but not seeing the damn ad at all. It was still on the next morning when I saw the way cashier clerks- Indian cashier clerks-worked inside the US embassy. It made me lean against walls and want to laugh when I saw how scared the visa applicants were, how afraid to talk, how they had all taken trouble to dress up. I laughed into the jeans I was in that a sniffer dog ten feet away yelped at and then ran away whining from. I then went to see her in a long glass box, with way too many suffocating flowers everywhere.

Nuns were mumbling litanies. Shoes off outside... I walked outside after talking one look at her. She wasn’t there at all.

That’s the thing with Basil. She, who flagged down buses. She, who refused to be dropped back by car after concerts or plays. She, who laughed and trotted and borrowed 10 bucks and made benedictions only when she knew you needed something more than a hug. She cannot die.

I was standing in the loft at the chapel, staring at a cloth-covered cross, a prosperous lizard, and a lot of ruby-shined cobwebs, lit up by the sun filtering through the stained glass. Futility? Not so. Owen wrote that poem for young men who died in a war that wasn’t their own. The peter england ad was still rubbish. The US embassy was still a morbid joke. But Basil's life was not futile. She lived the way I can only dream of- free of the emotional bull of a non-nun life that ties one up in knots, she walked free and energetic, drinking tender coconut water and learning Tamil.

I only wish it hadn’t been blindness at the end. I would’ve liked her to have seen one last sun.

For this scholarship, I had to write 7 "essays"- which in yank terms, meant 7 paragraphs of 120-200 words. I laughed. And in September, on the last day of submission, at 3:25pm when the deadline was 4:00pm, I typed out those essays in Anjana's house. Mum pacing up and down the room behind me.

The most unforgettable person you have met, someone who ahs inspired you, and in what way?

Sr. Basil.

I wrote an essay as part of the application for a scholarship offered by the US dept of state and the Fulbright commission telling them about a little old Irish nun and car prices and faith and bunking math class.

I wish I had spoken to her before she went. Even if it was only her saying my name. Sure, the pope too had wit and god's grace. But Basil braved PTC buses. No pope could beat her. She was cool, she was Irish, and she was a woman.

Was?

*tiny grin*

Walk on, sister Basil. I will not forget.

May all those who have run with wild horses, felt the unforgettable fire and walked on be blessed with concert tickets. Apparently there's a contest on to win 2 of 'em to the gig in Manchester. Meself hoping to catch them on the American leg of the Vertigo tour.  

Interlude

Ladies, Gentlemen and the midget dictator from a tiny south American state only Marquez knew about...

Greetings. This post is because of two wonderful people who posted comments yesterday and made the fishbowl seem suddenly gentler, and even huggable.

All of those who think U2 still got it... voila.

*******

Tough, you think you've got the stuff
You're telling me and anyone
You're hard enough

You don't have to put up a fight
You don't have to always be right
Let me take some of the punches
For you tonight

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

We fight all the time
You and I... that's alright
We're the same soul
I don't need... I don't need to hear you say
That if we weren't so alike
You'd like me a whole lot more

Listen to me now
I need to let you know
You don't have to go it alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you when I don't pick up the phone
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

I know that we don't talk
I'm sick of it all
Can you hear me when I Sing,
you're the reason I sing
You're the reason why the opera is in me

Where are we now?
I've got to let you know
A house still doesn't make a home
Don't leave me here alone

And it's you when I look in the mirror
And it's you that makes it hard to let go
Sometimes you can't make it on your own
Sometimes you can't make it
The best you can do is to fake it
Sometimes you can't make it on your own

- U2, 'Sometimes you can't make it on your own'; Album: how to dismantle an atomic bomb (2004)

Pronounced moe-HEE-toe

There are bars, and then there are bars.

Most of them tend to be the ones where try as you and the whiskey might, the taste of A4 paper and the scent of drying permanent marker ink just does not leave you. And whatever you wear, or who you go home with, it doesnt matter- lights or bass-thumping darkness, smoke or air conditioning, the music plays but it doesn't play YOU; it dribbles by over your shoes like an old labrador around lunch time, and the absurdity increases because however far gone you are, you can still count off tomorrow's things to-do list.

See, this lacks magic. And it's boring.

A good bar is like a good cocktail- rare. Too much ice, too much sugar, or too much alcohol, and what you have is not a relaxing evening but under-dressed overloud women who speak too much, men who look like they've discovered a black hole at the bottom of their highball, and waiters who are try too hard to be Jeeves.

[NB- All those who think over-friendly waiters should be issued a restraining order, please raise your hands, NOW. Geez: Just remember my usual, mate and have-a-done with enquiring after my mother's sister's cousin's pooch, already!! Mumblegrumble...]

Hm. I'm not quite sure why, but perfectly sane, ordinary people (the kind who carefully look around to make sure no one's watching when they slyly rub the incredibly itchy nostril) turn into B-grade extras from a kylie minogue video the moment they enter an.. erm... "pub".

Forgive the hesitancy. See, its like this- Chennai has particularly amusing liquor laws. Thanks to the ins-and-outs of this legal system, it is only permissible for watering-holes to exist on the premises of hotels. Thus we chennaites, we have no Pecos... we have no Styx... we have no Hash.

What we do have are attached bars. Oh, goody.

But even with this atmosphere of over-smiling Australian tourists and badly disguised minors [viewing school juniors can give one a depressing sense of aging, really]....

Even with the curious "auntie" who has wandered over to have a vicarous peek inside the... erm... Den of Debauchery which you unluckily waddled out to that same wednesday night- The same Den of Debauchery btw, happens to be right next to the thai restaurant where the aforementioned "auntie", not to mention "uncle" AND uncle's sister from Canada have all come for a family dinner....

Even with all these convivial features, these attached bars aren't particularly bad. Except that they all close at 11:45pm. Oh yup. High spirits are frowned upon post 11:45pm here [Ye heard me, O ghost of Christmas Past? None of that supernatural soul-saving here, please. Its past 11:45 already].

In fact, in a moment of inspiration, while in the company of like-minded sophists, I even coined a term: The Pumpkin Quarter.

The Pumpkin Quarter- (N)The time between the last drink served and the purposeful waving of the bill in front of your bewildered nose. Specifically, 23:45pm-00:00am. Other characteristics of the Quarter are the sudden appearance of ceiling lights that had been absent all evening, and the beginnings of vocals n' guitars which sound suspiciously like Bryan Adams.

Thus- No bacchanalian revelry for us good little south indians. The government would rather that from these attached bars the bemused, beglittered crowd disperse to private parties within the city and on ECR, and hey- if there HAPPENS to be alcohol served, they don't see it, so all is well.

Sigh. Mum's right. Why go at all? Might as well stay at home, and argue over the rights of annexation of the remote. Or might as well just stick to the private parties, oui?

NOT!!

The mind rebels- what of one's need of atmosphere, of frosted glasses, of over-played Lounge music and of amusement?

-Because one must admit, there's nothing funnier watching the occasional straight-haired aphrodite bravely battle her way through experimentation with purty-coloured cocktails. Tee hee.

[Evil, that bloody goblin is. Someone tell his mother he needs a spanking. Hmpf.]

Anyway, the truth is one needs to walk into the night of neon light and music and talk and taste and way too many versions of davidoff. It doesn't happen often for me: a cable connection and free messaging usually soothes the need to go walkabout. But sometimes, you need to get out of the house. And thats all because just one annoying thing that try as you might, you can't ignore forever.

It sneaks up on you certain wednesday mornings.

it spits toothpaste on your pyjama sleeve, and makes sure your coffee is too sweet. It causes you to chew pencil ends listlessly, till everything suddenly tastes like Staedler 4B.

And then you begin to wonder about everything from post-it plans to regrets to the uncrossed out names on your hitlist. And you start to grey and you start to grumpify and nothing mum or your boyfriend can do can fix things. It pins you down with comp reboots and laughs cynically at your hair.

Its called the blues. Not the musical variety. The wednesday morning version is tone deaf. And secretly harbours vile intentions of dropping your ipod down the toilet.

Times like this, there's only one thing that can help you break on through to the other side-

Let go. Drop the remote, get dressed, get in the car with your friends and- drive. Fool-proof plan. Sometimes even an attached bar can give one the champagneish lift out of the dumps.

Most times, for me that means the leather bar at the Park here in chennai.

Geez- you need to be there. Most nights there's an air of docile palcidity about it. A design/concept hotel, its patrons belong to one of the most diverse demographics I've yet to encounter. Here you will not only get the overweight Mr. Murugan dressed in spotless white with his customary gold watch, sapiently answering his shiny ericsson which sings in polyphonic celebration of The tamil cinema, but also the young sindhi gentleman who's just discovering the nuances of how to impress the girl with one's ability to order at the bar [the 13th task of Hercules, and a rites of passage, Im told.]

In short- the punjabi business clients from soho, the cousin from Chicago, the latest smiling [and of course korean] additions to the Hyundai empire, the visiting exchange students, the sheepish movie star, the concept pop band put together by a huffing-puffing music channel and your friend's dad.... they all come here. And why not? The dj has absolute sovereignity over his music and guards his discs better than Cerberus could... thus one is sure that the bass-heavy, didgeridooed sloka one is hearing is "for your ears only". Ha. The new age table-candles are temperamental, the waiters drssed in body snuggling black [its the "leather" bar. Yes. Oh yup, their belts have studs.]

......

and aye, they make a passable mojito. Pronounced moe-hee-toe.

Mojitos taste like cuban women who take time over choosing what perfume to wear, and latino men in whom you can make out the salsa even while they're crossing the street.

[Of course, I've never seen the specie. But one must believe, yes? Faith and such.]

A mojito makes you think of dancing in the moonlight, all of you, the entire tribe. It turns placid domesticity into a place where everyone opens their eyes all together for the first time that night, and they smile. And it doesn't matter how ugly loaded powerful recognised or not the people around you are. Everything gets calmer, the music sounds better. Don't just take my word for it though: ask the professionals.

And you realize- quite sober- that everyone's carrying the same stories. They've all left behind unbalanced teenagers and cheque-books. They've all got in-laws who would make splendid target practice if one were learning to use a crossbow. Everyone's been duped, insulted, used, laughed at, made love to and asked for a second chance. And in a pretty old world, at 11:43pm, thats a nice thought.

And as you're standing out there in a sweltering Madrasi night, waiting for your friend's ride, you can't help but hum to yourself-

"I believe in the sand beneath my toes
The beach gives a feeling an earthy feeling
I believe in the faith that grows
And the four right chords can make me cry
When I’m with you I feel like I could die
And that would be all right, all right"
- Third Eye Blind, 'Semi-Charmed life'.



PS: To make a mojito, here's what you'll need:


2½ oz. light rum
1 lime
1 tbsp. simple syrup
mint leaves (8 or so sprigs worth)
ice
club soda
tall glass
spoon, or some other utensil that can be used to mash the mint leaves

At Night

"Enough"


That was the word that kept whispering itself to me, over and over, the whole of today.

Because no matter how much coffee you drink, however much you love or are loved, however much your word craft may bear you up on delicate spirals of well-spun thought... there remains the darkness that does not allow you to walk with yourself in peace at night, through dark corridors... even if it is to get a glass of water.

I think this doppleganger side of myself has been given bone and tissue and blood this year... I myself have become a shadow, subsisting on fears, and assumptions of what is right and wrong, pulling myself from day to day with the help of those little prayers we make privately to our souls which involves no god, no religion. Things like-

Not now, you son of a bitch. Dont let me fall now... just a bit more. They cant see me fall. Not like this. The bastards will not laugh- I wont let them.

But the double of yourself, your dopplegangger will not leave you alone. I have realized that the more you compromise, the more you decide to not fight, on the basis of fear- the stronger it gets.

This has been happening to me a lot. I can tell, because of many little things... I avoid crowds now, and addressing large groups. And I have started to hate walking alone in the dark, because there's this neverending fear of being followed by something sinister. The worst part is, its not the fear of being hurt or killed. Its the fear that this thing will never leave you.

At least this time, the darkness isnt violent. I need to tell you about the time my best friend and I were in the 9th grade, in school.

We never indulged in quaint activities like spirit calling and candle lighting and ouiji boards- things that all good little girls do on school excursions and at pyjama parties. Yet for about a year, seperately at night, we would both be subject to the same experience. We only realized that it was the same thing one afternoon in school when during a random conversation we suddenly started talking about nightmares. And we found out the same thing was happening to both of us.

We'd wake up in the middle of the night, but we couldnt move, couldnt speak and almost couldnt breathe. We'd break out in a cold sweat. We'd feel a huge weight on our chest, as if something or someone was sitting on top of us, and...aye. Paralysed. The more we fought it, the harder it would be to move. My friend did some research online and found that similar experiences were recorded as symptoms of panic attacks and anxiety disorders, in authentic medical journals.

But the fuck up was, that for both of us- the sensations ended only when we both began saying the prayers our parents had taught us. It came to a point that the moment I first felt that immense tingling weight I'd start mumbling the lord's prayer- My friend would recite verses from the guru granth sahib. Cold fear. Pitiless. We were held down by something we could not control, at least at that age. A few times, we'd even hear voices. I remember she and I being taunted about whether we thought we could get up..... it stopped over time. The one time it happened while I was in college, I fought back, and was able to get up on my own. Though that did not keep me from mumbling that same prayer afterwards. it did not stop the cold sweat either.

The power of faith against any form of darkness then, even if its as prosaic as an anxiety disorder? Im not sure. But I am aware of how terrible fear can be.

And its not just the type of fear that hollywood movie makers prey on in movies such as 'the fallen'. Its the fear of being ignored.

The fear of failure. The fear of being unloved, or deserted, or laughed at. This fear cripples us, hobbling our feet together, while it builds itself up into our shape, and walks behind us as our shadow, controlling our every move. We do not stride anymore, willing to shuffle painfully, avoiding the dark and solitude, which is when our fears the arms that wrap around us.

I felt that fear again today, as I have had potently for the past few months.It shadows my every thought, I can sense it through my peripheral vision. I took that fear with me today, along with my ipod, and went up to my water tank at 8:00pm.

I havent shown you my water tank, have I?

Well spaced out, my terrace rises surrounded by silent shorter houses and many trees, of the rain and palm variety. With Jeremy pounding in my ears, I walked straight up, turned left and walked down to the other side of my terrace, where the water tank is. There's a ladder that reaches up 15 feet to the top of the tank. A landing, then a 3 rung ladder to the absolute top of the tank. The highest part of my three-floored appartment block. High enough though, and in a residential part of the city, so all you can hear is the wind murmuring and grumbling and singing (depending on her mood and what she wants to tell you) around you and through you, with nothing but sky and clouds and moon around you. The city lights, and the train's groan fades off, and nothing remains. Theres a cement ridge all around the tank, and then a ledge 4 feet below the ridge on the side where theres nothing but air between you and the ground.

My tank is a very special for me. It is mine, even though I have neighbours. There are some people in my life who share this place with me and can see from there all that can be seen... like the enchanted castle, its only magic for some. I go up to my tank when there are things to think about- up there, me and that same friend of mine have shared thought and tears and laughter and ideas- another friend and I discussed nietzsche and why we had the right to be Supermen. Up there, alone, I have wept while bargaining with the Guy in the Sky for the life of a man who was battling cancer and losing, and whom I had never met, but who because of two people I love with all my soul, I can never forget.

[I still remember that night, btw. Clouds swirling in a sullen reddish purple around a hidden moon, while I jabbered prayers insults poetry and dreamy pleadings and offered promises to let the young man live. I remmeber the clouds clearing suddenly, leaving nothing but a sweetly virginal blue night, cool like silver on your forehead. The moon shone silent, bright. A sudden feeling of peace, and then sudden elation- was this a sign of a miracle, had I been heard? Did what I say, and what all the others who around the world were praying for this same man been taken into consideration? Had we saved him?

My phone rang. One of those two beloved people called in tears to tell me he had died. Maybe it was the miracle, to have had that tremendous pain he was fighting taken away. But I will not forget that night. Or the way we held each others faith broken, over continents and phonelines and timelines, holding each other through the tears]

Up there on my terrace, there has been much sorrow. Much thought. And some gladness that is like a sunrise in my mind each time I think about it- a group of us singing sukiyaki up there, even managing to drag up a guitar. And aye... the most precious- the warm hands that hold away the cold beauty of moonlight gently from my face, and my hands. The eyes of this wonderful man which tell me better than any song or poem about how much I am cherished. The feel of his comforting, flat-soled size 11 and a halfs against my feet. His laughter, his voice, his touch- which is the only time that that cynical shadow of mine retreats to wait in places less sacred than my water tank is at that moment.

I went up to my tank today, to consider the road which must be taken. I always wanted the one less travelled by, but Im less sure nowadays whether that is best thing to do. After all... I just want to be a little happy. I dont always want to do the thing thats never been done before, the thing that's larger than life. Carpe diem maybe, and also yes- to strive, to seek and not to yield... but sometimes all that seizing and struggling just gets tired.

Crawling screamed soothingly in my brain, the version with strings in it. I found myself standing, drenched in white moonlight, just in front of the ridge below which was the ledge below which was nothing.


I am not afraid of heights. But I aint no roller coaster freak either. I have stood on that ridge though, but always when there was still daylight. Tonight.....

The fear stood there, palpable. I could smell its breathing. Suddenly, I HAD to stand on that ridge. Immediately, I felt my body and mind react- my palms turned ice cold, and wet. My legs began to shiver, and my gut clenched into a tight ball pushed against my spine as fear dragged itself up my throat and tried to shriek for help. Fear.

You will fall tonight, if you try standing there. I heard that sentence clearly, and waht was worse- I heard me say it to myself. You dont have what it takes to stand there, dont try.... you've been shaky all day. Sudden need to sit down. Heart pounding. fear running icy fingers through the hair at the back of my head.

Maybe I should've sat down. The inner voice, my gut was speaking... or was it? Suddenly, everything came together- all the times in college Ive been afraid of saying something because of its repercussions, all the times Ive held myself back because I had to fit into this system, all the times I had compromised for some fucking greater good..... all the times I had run away from people and perceptions I did not want to face... all those times I let soul-midgets have their way because I thought I had to show the stiff upper lip, and becasue gentlemen will walk but never run..... all those times I had taken for granted or ignored completely.... No word power, no achievements, no people, nothing.

'Put one foot on the ridge. Crumpled inside, fought the internal screaming plea to for god's sake sit down... stood with both feet on that ridge.

It was scariest looking up, so I squinted straight ahead, trying to get my breathing right.


I come in peace.... I come in peace.. with nothing. Here is no time for ending or anything colourful. Just .. I want to stand. Help me stand.

My palms are still ice cold, feet trembling a little less though. I could look up a little, and around- Sudden, one of those powerful flows of wind that happens on my tank. T shirt and shorts flaring out in the wind, arms slowly stretching out.


Flight is a funny thing, friend. There are things your doppleganger cannot do- like rejoice in the idea of free fall with the kind of grace only eagles know...

I took back a part of myself tonight. The fear stil is, but I refuse to shuffle anymore.

Tonight's a good night, for cold beer and flight. Death to all those who cannot be bigger than what their body gives them credit for... great song by john mayer, that one.

To all who dare to be candles in the night where no sun comes- cheers.

For Love of The Game, pt.2- A Story for Gul

There were hushed whispered warnings... Mothers scared naughty toddlers into brushing their teeth at night with the same horrible story- The Garumph was coming.

And then? Worse news.

The shining things had dissapeared. Or rather, she had lost them. When the news spread, A sudden stillness descended. The aquatic weeds quavered to stiff watching lines, as the goldfish gathered in frightened goldish herds. Even the aged piranha looks out from under hoary, greying banked eyebrows out at the still chill rims of the Fishbowl.



The Book Of Bloggations lay upturned, ignored.



Toes dug into the sand bed, she sat staring up at that black circle that meant night sky, pricked through with stars. Waiting.



Then it happened. A sudden shining glimmer psyched the black circle for a nanosecond, and then started arcing downwards.



Her eyes widened.



The glimmer grew larger, starlight bouncing off its glassy surface.



Her jaw dropped. She got up, stretched her hands out and gulped. The goldfish gasped. The water weeds bent backwards in horror. Only the aged piranha, if you looked hard enough, sat back on his tail, folded his fins and allowed the ends of his gnarled mouth to curl upwards. He was grinning.



You see, her lack of motor skills were legendary. Baited breaths were held everywhere.



Faster, and faster, larger and glassier it tumbled and nose-dived through the air.. closer, CLOSER TILL-



"thwup!"



The water weeds streamed out at 180 degrees with the force of the happy sigh of relief that pervaded the Bowl.



Breathing like a spouting Beluga with the adrenaline rush, she gazed down at the empty Bacardi Orange twist bottle in her hands, still warm from its travel through the atmosphere.



There was a scroll of paper inside. Holding it upto her eye bravely, she could just about make out ball-point scrawlings.



If I concentrate hard enough, she thought.. If I can twist and turn the bottle as Ir ead, I can make out..



Words- the little fish squirmed in goldish gleeful glee.

Words- The piranha sighed, and wished for a cold kelp beer, from the deep sea

Words- The water weeds pla-



"Ahem. Excuse me, but may I interrupt?"



All humaned, weeded and goggled eyes [even the piranha] turned towards the delciously cool, clipped english voice. Above. On the Bowl's rim.



A pale face peered down.



"Would you mind if I came down there? Its jolly cold up here"



She dumbly nodded. Not out of surprise; things like this often happened in the Bowl. She was busy turning the bottle around, trying to read letters she recognised.



She wasn't watching the voice's descent, but the others were. Streaming short tufts of pale blond hair, an interestingly anaemic long legged man in black velvet pantaloons swam down gracefully, astride a blue bottle nosed dolphin. They came to a halt in front of her, the man now sitting arms crossed, a long suffering look of patience on his face.



The others noticed this and exchanged worried looks. The stranger looked a star: it was something about the glitter in his blue eyes. And the Bowl had fallen into hard times. Ignoring him the way the stupid girl was doing was definately inauspicious. They shifted from fin to fin, now a prussian blue with all that baited breath. They had held their breath so long, that even the fat dangling worms had stopped squirming in pain and sorrow, and now just hung on the waiting hooks as they were- bored little bits of PolyUnsaturatedFattyAcids.



They did not have to worry, though- With a languid, gracious smile, he waved at them, and then turned at an angle that looked suspiciously like a pose. The youngest goldfish caught on, and pulled out his Kodak. The others giggled excitedly and shyly sidled around to have their fins autographed. Then man smiled, bent down and kissed one plump, reddish gold fish who squealed and did a cartwheel. The worms squirmed again, worried at the hunger all this excitement would cause.The murmur rumbled into applause, and laughter.



She looked up at that, impatiently.



"Cant you see that Im trying to read?? Keep it down!"



At that, the man swirled around to face her, scattering happy goldfish. He and the dolphin- who gave out that his name was Humphry- snorted in Synchronicity.



"Well, Im here to help you with that. Sheesh. Girls these days. A mystic Bottle comes to you, and all you're trying to do is get your eyeball stuck in its mouth. Givvit here!!"



With an annoyed look, she handed the empty 'cept-for-the-scroll bottle of bacardi orange twist to the blond slim englishman. He stuck one bony long finger into the bottle and pulled out the parchment.



The weeds were floored in another collectve sigh, accompanied by fishy gurgles of "I love you!!"



With an important air, the man held up the scroll for all to see, but turned it towards himself before anyone could read anything. He waggled an elegant finger at the ground beneath her feet. She nodded, and sat down with 'bump!'.



Clearing his throat, the man bagan reading from the scroll.. slowly, his voice a caress like an evening moonlit wave.



"Modesty, propriety can lead to notoriety

You could end up as the only one

Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society

At night a candle's brighter than the sun



Takes more than combat gear to make a man

Takes more than a license for a gun

Confront your enemies, avoid them when you can

A gentleman will walk but never run



If, "Manners maketh man" as someone said

Then he's the hero of the day

It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile

Be yourself no matter what they say"



Silence, but a listening one. Everyone and everything quivered, knowing that Something Specifically Very Important Which Must Be Remembered was about to happen.



The man alighted, patting Humphry's back. He bent and dug into the sand with his fingers, and frowned till they wrapped around something, which he pulled out, tuned and strummed once on. With a quiet smile, carressing just Bm G A7 and Em, he began to sing...



"Sending out an SOS...

Sending out an SOS"



over and over again. And suddenly it was as if everyone's parents had just left for the weekend. Goldfish went crazy, hugging and crying and dancing all quiet, all quiet to this man's music, because it was as if what had been lost was now found.



She looked up, and blinked to see a fireburst of twinkling silverryblueryreddery lights in the black circle above. She blinked again- darn these tears. But no, they were coming closer too. But different from the way the bottle appeared. This time there were waves and whoops and cheering and yelling and haka cries from the twinkling silverryblueryreddery lights. They were tumbling bumbling closer, reaching out shining arms towards the goldfish, the piranha, the weeds, her and the man.



She gasped. Shining arms=the shining things! They had returned!!



As each one plopped down, it was as if an enourmous LG bulb had come on.



And wonder of wonders- the Shining things came up to the scroll, and jostled each other to add words to what was already written. Te man smilingly held it for them. When they had all finished, he turned to the inhabitants of the fishbowl and said-



"SOS' have been answered. Guess everyone felt pretty strongly about this scroll"- at that he looked up, and smiling, waved. The stars above twinked luminous-er for a moment, then went back to their usual shining.



"Here. This is a notice for you to help you remember"



"what?" She, asked, a voice catching a bit.



"Why its worth still raging. Come!"



And grabbing her hand and her heart in one sweep he and Humphry swam her up and out of the Fishbowl, leaving behind a trail of purple curly kelp and magic.



Even the piranha joined the crowd that gurgled around where the man had taped up the scroll. And this is what they read-



"Passion, not pedigree, will win in the end."

---Jon Bon Jovi





"Each warrior wants to leave the mark of his will, his signature, on the important acts he touches. This is not the voice of ego but of the human spirit, rising up and declaring that it has something to contribute."

---Pat Riley



"to be nobody-but-myself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make me everybody else means, to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting"- e.e Cummings



"Tell them that I did it for love of the game"- Kevin Costner as Billy Chapel.



I suppose this is the way that magic can happen if you really want it to. Picking bluberries from passing rainclouds and listening to a man named Gordon play a song he wrote a while back. Its cool. We will swim through the madness. And pick up our pencils once again.



And as the night wheeled on, and the piranha chased the plump reddish gold one, and the weeds waved... this is what I heard:


Just a castaway, an island lost at sea, oh

Another lonely day, with no one here but me, oh

More loneliness than any man could bear

Rescue me before I fall into despair, oh



I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah



A year has passed since I wrote my note

But I should have known this right from the start

Only hope can keep me together

Love can mend your life but

Love can break your heart

I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah



Walked out this morning, don’t believe what I saw

Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore

Seems I’m not alone at being alone

Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home

I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I’ll send an s.o.s. to the world

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

I hope that someone gets my

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Message in a bottle, yeah

Sending out at an s.o.s.

Sending out at an s.o.s.

Sending out at an s.o.s.

Sending out at an s.o.s.

Sending out at an s.o.s.

Sending out at an s.o.s...

"And they've all gone to look for America"

Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go
- ‘Father & Son’*

Now see- this is a TERRIBLE way of beginning a blog post. Bloggations, chapter 18 verse 5 states, “thou shalt not quote overgrown ex-boybanders while trying to make a point”.

De Profudis Clamavi ad te, Domine. Sigh.

No but wait, I need to stick to that quote. Because a large part of what I’m about to scribble [typple?] deals with leaving home, and being what our fathers tell us to be.
Rites of passage, rises and fallses [a.k.a Rudyard Kipling’s truth abt falsies named triumph and disaster, and much pardon for being unable to avoid that incredibly bad pun], and what it takes to walk and not run are the other parts of this wordy venture.

Its as simple as this. College is over. And the bit fat worry that is waiting to FAQ me senseless is- “what next?”

[“FAQ me senseless”- ha ha. Ahem. Damn, did it again.]

So the Fulbright scholarship came through. This means I leave on May 13th for a pre-academic program at Portland, Oregon. Then comes the ACTUAL academic program, and where I go depends on me and an academic NGO there called AED. They know and I know that it's schools under NYU or bust, with writing and theatre being the chef’s specials. Or maybe they'll stick me somewhere in North Dakota. Centre controlling the marginalized.

"Burn the gringos. Burn 'em all!!!!"

Oh blimey, I wonder who said that. Such angst. Ha.

This could go on for 2 years. Alright. So Im getting the usual dishing out of cursed squished limes on the ground beneath my feet, as well as the good wishes and blessings of tearful adults who see in my… erm… achievement, the perfect freedom from Canara bank loans and the sale of that maruti. Would that little pinky and motu and bunny and molu do the same.

Being an example is bloody freaky btw. Hairy-assed lab rat pinned against a board for a whitecoated goggled gaggle of scientists….. Enough. ENOUGH! LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU ANIMALS!! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGggggghhhhhhhh!!!


Ahem. Well, you get the idea.


My point is, its been a strange life. College has ended with that strange on-stage quality that my entire life seems to have had, all this while. And I have played every part… Iago, Romeo, Brutus, Henry IV, gogo…. Without forgetting Pluck and Feste and- but of course- Caliban.
Um, you will notice that I left out the heroines on purpose? Misleading in their psychotropical sweetness… but I wander. Not a heroine, not even a Portia or a Hermia. Wish I was though. They fit better into the stereotype of the happy ending.

Friends, Caledonians, debit card users… lend me thy short attention spans. The fact is that there’s a reason why Protocol sounds like the glue used by a doctor who deals solely with issues of Keester City. College and I have had a strange relationship- More on this later. Fact is its ended, and lookie- No time to gain weight, go swimming with squalling bloody brats in the summer course while wishing they'd drown, no lazy days of a madras summer indoors, no theatre rehearsals, no form filling, no interning, no year offing, just- WHOOSH!!

Look momie, no hands. Yeah, they were cut off by them automatic sliding doors on that new york subway train coz in the hustle-bustle madness no one cared about the big little lost indian student with funny hair who's going to miss her flight coz she forgot those damn circles and arrows that pointed the way to her terminal and tried pulling her big bag in that didn't get in because of the supersize crowd but it was too late and AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

*gasp* *gasp*

As you can tell, I haven't been sleeping too well.

Im not scared ["put 'em up, chump- who yer callin' a wimp?? Put 'em up!!"] of the change, Im just a bit breathless from the incredible suddenness of it all. And because of the questions that suddenly seem to be hopping up and munching huge chunks outta the orange rhizomes of my mind's peace-


Which book do I take with me?

Do I need a new pair of boots?

Will I-please god no- start sounding like "Them"?

Will I be shoved into North Dakota?
[NB- I don't know why Im stuck on North Dakota. Im sure it's a nice place. If there's anyone from North Dakota reading this, I apologise deeply. Smokum peace pipe? And tell me if they still scalp indians there.]

Geez. Shouldn't worry about this stuff, should I? After all, even if I hide in a carton for the remaining days in this city, there's still going to be that flight to catch, those yanks to meet, and those courses to decide on.

Right. Stiff upper lip, clenched sphincter and all.

But please god tell me they're not going to expect me to be the sort of cultural ambassador who plays them all "de hep indie-punjabi-hip- 'op mixes, mon" or tells them about south indian cooking or worse-

"so... do you have a word for fuck off in your language? Like, in tameel?"

"hey I love your country!! I totally dig Aishwarya Rai- sweet jeeeeeeeeeezus, gurl: all Indian chicks like her, 'cept you?"

Ok so maybe I'm being unkind. Im sure in this post-post-colonial era, we ALL will relate to each other as sentient beings of a technologyfied world who try eating healthy at Subway and surreptitiously watch Ftv....

... Or not. I haven't told you fine people about that Pre-Departure Program I attended in Delhi in March, have I?

Well, its was when they got all us scholarship kiddies/guinea pigs [coz its the first time this program has been instituted, though its part of the entire Fulbright flow] to brief us on our continent-hopping.

Jane E. Schukoske is a professor and a part of the USEFI empire- which is, by the way, the main stork in charge for depositing gurgling happy Indian lads and lassies in the land of lapdances [So sue me, I wanted assonance. Hmpf].

Anyway, part of the day's session was spent with her telling us how important the honor code is in America. Sweet lady, professional, well-meaning, grey haired and pink suited BUT she pissed me off. To give you a taste (NB- CAPS meant for the drawlish emphasis she placed on the sentences; Ellipses a.k.a dots for her pauses; Spellings, coz of my need to reproduce her nuances faithfully, and because Im devil-spawn evil at times)-

"You may wanna READ the print-aaout CAREFULLY, coz you DON'T wanna ever make... the errors that would CAUSE you to be pulled under by your college's litigation. ReMEMber, in AMERICA, we take PLAgiarism VAEry seriously"

"Keep in touch with your FAMILY and your present institution, they'd laaike to know about all the graayt things happening for you. Use an EMAIL SURvice, which is a cheap and easy way... to KEEP in touch. Do you all have EMAIL? Do you all know how to use EMAIL? Are they ALL accessible outside India? Hotmail? Yeaah, thats a GRAAYT one to use"


Sigh.


Imagine sitting through 2 days of this, with a dozen or so other enthusiastic kiddies yelping their assent- "yes, ma'am!"- every time a cue card was held up. It took me a week to get rid of the cynical squiggle off my face, otherwise known on msn as :-S

All that I am, all that I have... now under a yankie microscope? Or will they let me willingly go underground and grunge over books and lurk where the good coffee is?...

One waits. One gulps.

One picks up that pair of boots anyway. Dad always said you can never be too sure... tee hee.

It should be fine. I dare any and all fishbowl makers. Bring it on.


Ah. Le quiet sudden smile. My people, post scriptum, I must say- The great thing about this life is one's innate ability to find a song for every moment. Here's the one for here, now.

[Prashant, Nihal, Vishal- if you guys ever read this, this one's for you. Sing forever : )]

Incubus- Drive

Sometimes I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear
And I cant help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear take the wheel and steer
It's driven me before, it seems to have a vague
Haunting mass appeal
Lately I'm beginning to find that I should be the one behind the wheel
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there
With open arms and open eyes yeah
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there, I'll be there
So if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive, oh oh
It's driven me before, it seems to be the way
That everyone else get around
Lately, I'm beginning to find that when I drive myself, my light is found
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there
With open arms and open eyes yeah
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there, I'll be there
Would you choose water over wine
Hold the wheel and drive
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there
With open arms and open eyes yeah
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there, I'll be there
_______________________________________________

*As sung by Ronan Keating, seen constantly on vh1, which has ear-wigged its way into my head. Not to be confused with that soul-touching original by Yusuf Islam, once known as Cat Stevens. This version, Anshu. This version, Bobbin. This version, Arindam. And apologies to all those who bled for Yusuf without cause. Peace :)

For love of the Game, pt.1

It has started. Im growing up. Its incredibly uncomfortable, being tight under the armpits, but Im going to try to not whine over this.



What's that?



HOW does one know they're growing up?



Ah. Pretty simple really. You know you're growing up, when like a madrasi buffalo in march, you feel involuntarily drawn towards the comfort and cooling muck of the pool of standarized human experience. Suddenly, hush-puppyishly, you sigh with relief- unconciously- when you realize you're eatng where everyone else is eating. You're wearing the same shoes that all the other avid watchers of vh1 do.



Suddenly-


Those midnight chocolate fondue orgies on the watertank on your terrace...



Those dates in a sillhouetted gondola with Bocelli murmuring gentle arias in your ear...



Those orange trousers which you wore with your olive-green Woodlands... they dissapear.



You feel it grow. You can smell it, as it hides surreptitiously under the fridge. And earlier the dratted thing would only leave greasy fingerprints on the skirt of my Imagination when I wasn't looking, or when I had to appear particularly virtuous. Now? The venemous being threatens to take over my life- The curse of the Grow Up Garumph. More than my orange trousers have dissapeared.

Because of this Garumph, nowadays...

I am wary of singing Bohemian Rhapsody in the shower, wondering which house painter on the outside might hear and spread the tale of the Baritone Bathing Banshee.



I am wary of eating mum's cake batter by the fingerful, anxious now about the dissapearance of a puppy named Fat, and his place the slow growling of a cellulite bitch, horror stories of whom are discussed weekly at O.P.R.A.H cult gatherings.



I am wary of playing the Jack Of All Trades and the Pretender who laughs at most calling cards, because I have found that with dead leaders and washed out villages and cell phone wars- the knaves and the pretenders are asked to bear the crosses. Wear the badge. Protect the mothers. Because there is no one else.



I am wary of writing poetry when in love. I am in dread of when the lonely words come back after silent ages, and seek your skin out to wrap themselves around and then remind you with mystic goose bumps of what you once were.



My hair has faded, and I have forgotten to ask Susan, the Goddess of Shearic Style who works at Studio Profile, to trim these woeful sproutings. They curl and wave like Van Gogh's night sky, but I ignore them, worrying about things like mum's getting older and my pants seem to magically shrinking... sigh. Yes, I know. I know. One must face reality. The magic too is an illusion.

"Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one"- Einstein.

[And yet, the blue goblin within me who lives on Amul sneaked over to the Quote Room yesterday, and squeaked with glee when he found what he wanted- Immediately I felt the words bonk me on the head:

"I don't want realism. . . . I'll tell you what I want. Magic! Yes, yes, magic!"- Tennessee Williams.

Sigh. The goblin's in solitary confinement]

Erm... where was I? Ah yes, post Einstein, ergo-

One must face reality. The fact that parents grow old, neighborhood brats grow up, and we must move on into the great ocean where all little fish know there's a piece of pink coral with their name on it. Face the music, child- with all its flats and sharps and missing trombone players.



And with this ...um... grown-up bravery in my pocket, I have been thinking about college.



HEY!!!



BACK OFF!!



Its NOT just because I have exit stage lefted from my alma mater. Its not just coz all the other little tele-tubbies who are 20 and 21 are doing the same thing. It's not even because the college bursar secretly paid me for this.



[Evil chuckles float up from the solitary confinement cell.

"tee hee"

Damn that goblin. Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise.]



Its because like it or feel the deep need to voodoo doll it, college has been my life for three years.



Set 'em up, joe. Its gonna be a long night. We drink to the end of an episode....



Honestly, what could I say about a place that has allowed me to put together a performance of the Ancient Mariner using Iron maiden, Metallica and America?



Kudos to my college. Stilfled uprisings, admissions of creatures who are future aspirants to the cast of that inspiring Burlesque show Carmen Electra used to be a part of, new buildings, old rules, extortion, excommunication, morning assembly gatherings, cat fights, one or two brilliant professors, 5 trees that are out of Tolkien, a common room that has a higher restricted entry status than the US Embassy in chennai, the banning of personal music.... in short, the stuff that makes our history, all us catholic college women.



College and I have had a funny relationship. Both equipped with a sense of humor- really, it takes A strange circus to elect me student leader. It shows the respect given to good communication and marketing in college. Ahem.

["um, Captain"

"Yes, Robert?"

"um, Captain- Strange gurgling sounds were being emitted from the solitary confinement cell. I went to check on the blue freak-"

"ROBERT!! WHAT have I told you about being politically correct??"

"Sorry, Captain. I went to check on the cobalt-shaded different-looking vertically challenged organism"

"Right. And what was wrong?"

"um... the offender was rolling on the floor, banging his fists on the cobbled stones, laughing hysterically. Gasped out in between the gurgling something about you being MAD worthy, Captain"

"Right. Back to your post, Robert"]

Sigh. No,wait.

There was more to it than a good campaign. College has believed in me, inspite of the anxiety endured due to my inability to wear a sari the way a female Indian human is meant to.

Like two old Victorian ladies, we have shown our teeth sweetly at each other over the coffee pot. Together, college and I have called each other's bluffs, at times forgiven each others faults. Sometimes not. We have pulled our sheeps clothing tight around us when campus got dark and chilly at 8:15pm ...we have run howling under
the moon, on our way to the great bonfire of the vanities of sundry staff members. We have taken, and we have given.



Its now over. No curtain calls, no citations.



Just a windcheatered grey day of me pulling up my metaphorical collar and walking away. Maybe one day, we will again sit together over a coffee pot. Till then, its me, myself and a purple Nokia 3310 named Barney.



My bags will be packed. Anxious prayers said to all the Gods That Be to preserve me from that strange affliction known as the Yankee Drawl. The mysteries of social security numbers and conversion rates will be explained to me.



While standing in motion on this escalator of an interim period, I wonder again about that Grow up Garumph.



Im not happy its happening, you know. Im beginning to feel boring. After 5 years of protocoling, bow n' scraping, and "doing the right thing"... Im more placid than Jack's cow.



"The discipline of desire is the background of character"- John Locke.

["Captain, strange sounds again-"

"Shut up, Robert"

"Aye, Captain. Sorry to bother you, Captain"]



Right.

My orange pants and Bocelli have been sacrificed on the altar of good character. Hm. But thats ok, yes? The world being as fragmented and hackneyed as it is, it isn't worth it- all this fighting and yelling and burning and blaze-of-glorying, and not going gentle into the good night. The bastards will get you down. Whether the wife, or the hubby, or the parental units, or the kids or the boss or the family guru SOMETHING will make you tuck your shirt in.



Why suffer the pain?



Why allow them to wring you dry of blood sweat and tears?



Why rage against the fishbowl?





......





Whoa.



Thats a big one.

Sigh.

Guess it had to come.





I mean I KNOW why I rage. But is it still worth it? And doesn't the Grown Up Garumph eat all those shiny things one shakes free from the aquatic plants?



[Taking a long delayed chocolate break, it was necessary that there was a pause in the blogging. Part 2 of this post will follow shortly. Signed, Bob, the Blue Goblin.]

In A Cruci-Fix: Un-poem#2

Its so strange,
that a cross, when flat on the ground,
causes him to look like a man
stretching after an indulgent night of sweet snoring sleep-
thighs, knees, and chest preparing to leave warm breathing wood
and the affection grip of nails
to touch down on eclipsed ground, and then walk to the kitchen at Nazereth
to get a cup of coffee in the dark.

Or maybe I read it wrong.
Maybe its just the same him, surrounded by all the other
hymns down the ages, murmuring while beadily collecting his slow sap-like seeping blood
in tiny cannisters of gold, silver-
him. Who was about to be myrrh-dered.
And who, for just a minute, decided to remember
the skin he was born in.
The skin he sweated, bathed, scratched, rubbed and reached out to lepers with...
did he need to take that final piss?
Before his goddish latin,
did he rage human like me, muttering-
Bastards. Its just a piss. At least in the shadow of that other cross,
Away from the women, and these bloody cannisters...

Bound or nailed, depending on which year MGM studios are in...
its the most horrifying thing, really.
A struggling sacrifice.
A gasped-out not yet.
That vulgar writhing and twisting of flesh, and bitten down lip.
The cannisters are nervously fingered.
The mob waits. Shifting.
A pigeon flutters, startled- a sudden latin curse. A helmet wiped, chuckles inspite of
the blood, the writhing muttering man.

I like this cross this way.
Less of an offering, more of a final sad word
For all those who are nailed,
in the name of a Higher Cause
and submit-
But burn, yelling warrior cries, mother's names, and highest scores
As they rise invisible,
against the flaming white light, of a sun sliding free
of an old madman's prophecy.
Just in time to heat the kettle for afternoon tea.

__________________________________
Much thanks to Pranav for reminding me of my word, and that in spite of all, the writing's still sacred. I promise an oxygen tank next time I go quiet : )