Made Up Tales: 2007

The temple bell rang out now and again, faint but clear in the late afternoon sunlight. Harini paused and looked up at the faint flushness of the sky. She had been walking along by the temple pond, and now she looked at her own reflection in the lotus-strewn rippling mirror. She looked like such a typical village belle, with her neriyathu and her jasmine flowers and her long, plaited hair. She had her admirers among the village boys, she knew, but she couldn't possibly compete with a city-bred girl like Anita. Oh, why did that woman have to come here of all places, she wondered. And why, why did Madhavi Mami have to rent out a room to her? Now all the plans, the plans that had been made when she and Bhaskaran had been born, would come to nought.

How It Feels

I walk on endlessly, along the lonely surface. All is quiet. The river beside me makes no noise as it flows along. Its depths are too deep, perhaps. The sand is silver, it rises gently to my right. I am alone. I have been alone many times before, yes, but not lonely. Not this lonely. Before, I knew of people who cared for me, who walked with me in spirit. Now - I am alone, truly alone, cut off from others. And I regret it, I regret it because I know that it was I who cut myself off. Others reached out for me, I ignored them. I hastened away, determined to not need them. And now they have turned away, they care no more. Even if I reached out now, even if I beseeched them, would they hear me? Would they want to?

The river beside me is so silent I do not know if it is flowing or not. I do not want to look into it, I know what I will see. Not the stars in the cloudless sky above, no. I will see faces, memories. I will see the people I cast off, the people I wish would surround me now. And they will invite me down, and I will go with them. I will drown in my memories. I must not.

There is no concept of time here. I do not know when I started walking, or when I shall stop. Perhaps I have stopped before, perhaps I have started again. There is no beginning here, no ending. My consciousness begins and ends with this desolate place, this silent river, these silver sands, this starry sky. I would be nothing if I were not here.

Nothing changes, how ever much I walk. I yearn for a friendly face, a call of greeting, but I am alone. No footprints on the sand, nothing to tell me that I am not alone. I wish I could be certain that there are people who know that I exist, that I am here, that I suffer. But if I could be certain of that, I wouldn't be in this place.

Black and White, Inverted

Thiridon surged on ahead to the cliff edge and stood there with his arms spread wide open. "We can go back now, brother!" he turned back and shouted at me joyfully. I was similarly elated, but more mindful of the spears and stones following us. I stood there on the cliff top and looked out over the blue sea below. A spear whizzed by me. I turned back and smiled at the White Barbarians chasing us. Their faces were pink with exertion, and their eyes red with malevolence.

I turned back to the sea and took my tunic off. My wings, proud and black with steel grey glints, sprang forth and oh, what ecstasy it would be to be able to use them again. No more would my feet cut and bleed over sharp stones.

More spears and sticks passed by and fell down, down into the sea. Thiridon and I flexed our wings, and then sprang into the air. Oh, the joy of being in the air again! We flew for the clouds, and the White Barbarians gasped in amazement. Our black bodies glinted in the morning sunshine, and I enjoyed the contrast we made against the white fluffy clouds. All White need not be evil, after all.

Lurvin' the new template, yeah!

Cuboids

Here I am, sitting inside a cuboid. The cuboid has yellow walls with brown openings here and there. A part of it is open to the outside. The yellow cuboid, along with many other cuboids - larger, smaller, red, white, yellow - is part of another larger cuboid. This larger cuboid sticks vertically out of the ground. There are other such cuboids near it, too, that stick out of the ground. Sometimes, they're close together, and share walls. Sometimes, they stand on their own, surrounded by a rectangle each.

Each of these large cuboids has people in it. My own cuboid has at present - me, my mother, and some members of my landlord's family. My neighbouring cuboid has an old couple in it. I wonder what the silver-haired old man is doing right now. He can't know that, across a wall and a few metres above him, a young girl is thinking of him. His wife is probably keeping him company inside his little cuboid. On the other side of me is the set of cuboids with the young couple that's always arguing. They argue for hours, and then sometimes, he hits her, and then there's silence. People in all the nearby cuboids can hear them as they go on and on and on.

This city is filled with cuboids of all shapes and sizes. They stick out of the ground like plants at a monstrous farm - plants filled with writhing people.

We humans have made a lifestyle out of living in cuboids. We never stop to think of the life we had before cuboids came along. When the surroundings were open and natural, when there were no straight lines, and all was the curvy beauty of Nature. We've forgotten what that felt like. Cuboids form our Nature now.

Letter

Dear Person From Ireland,

I don't know who you are. But you do know who I am. You read my blog - my real blog, of course, not this one. And you discovered me on Orkut. Not a very tough thing to do, apparently. And that's how you discovered this blog. And now I know that my Orkut id is giving me away. How did you discover me, by the way? Did you search for me on Orkut? Or did you know me before you read my blog?

We're the only people on this blog, you and I. You're my only visitor. We could make this our place to hangout. Our secret place. What say? No, don't say anything. I don't want to know. This is sleepiness talking - sleepiness plus the discovery that I'd been discovered. Oh well. See you around.

J/D.

Grief

I can't deal with the grief. It's as if my mind, travelling down a dark road, knocks against a giant stone of grief. It twists away and tries to go down lighter paths, to places where there is still sunshine, and birds, and flowers. But the light always turns to darkness, and the paths always return to the grief. And each time my mind knocks against it again, the knowledge, the implications, the pain is almost as bad as the first time. And again and again and again, my mind twists away and tries to escape, but it can't. Numbness is the only escape now.

I heard this in a song once - I wonder if I have done enough good deeds to be able to meet you in another lifetime. Fare thee well, friend.

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Principles

I'd just put the stack of test papers on the table when the lights went off. Damn, I'd forgotten that the load-shedding was from seven to seven-thirty this week.

"Sharade!" I called. "Do you have the candles?"
"Yes, come out to the veranda. I've lit them here so that the children can study."

The test papers would have to wait. I went out to the veranda. Sharada had lit the two big candles and placed them on the half wall. The children were seated on either side, reading from their text-books. They both had exams the next day.

I hitched up my mundu and stepped out into the front yard. The moon was almost full, and cast a silvery shadow on everything. I paced the yard, from the veranda to the gate. Actually, I hadn't built a gate as yet - the house was separated from the unpaved public road only by a fence of tiny sticks. A gap in the fence was the entryway.

Our little yard was bright with the moonlight, but the road, tree-lined on both sides, was dark. I dared not go out there, for fear of stepping on a snake. Other families on our street were sitting outside too, to escape the heat. They fanned themselves with newspapers and talked of the day's happenings. I listened to the low murmur of their voices and wondered what they would do if the load-shedding suddenly stopped one day and they had no half-hour window in which to unwind.

The candles cast a flickering light on the children's faces as they studied. They slapped at the mosquitoes occasionally. Sharada sat on the other side of the half-wall, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at nothing. Her red nightie was blue in the moonlight. I wondered what she was thinking.

"Did you switch off the TV?" I asked.
"Yes, I think so," she replied automatically, not looking at me.

I sighed. Ever since we had moved here, she had done nothing but complain. She didn't like the house, she didn't like the village, she didn't like the neighbours. She didn't like the village school with its crumbling walls and its dodgy roof. She complained that having to move just before the exams would affect the children's performance.

"It's not like they're writing the SSLC exams this year!" I had shouted at her, exasperated. "What do you expect me to do, woman? I've been transferred and there's nothing I can do about it!"
She'd started crying then, and as usual, my anger had died in a flash and been replaced with helplessness.
"You could have done something about it. You could have looked the other way."
I had no answer. We had discussed this before.
"How many times, Renjith? How many times do you expect me to pack everything up and follow you?"
"As many times as.." I'd started, then stopped, unable to remember what I'd been about to say.
"As many times as it takes for your principles to erode," she had said cynically. "Because trust me, that will happen some time or the other."

I thought now of my principles. Because of them, my children had already studied in five different schools in five different cities. They had never quite learnt to call any place home. My wife had stopped unpacking anything except the essentials, because there was no point.

And now we had landed up here, in this peaceful little village. It was in the backwaters, and there were canals everywhere. The children went to school in the morning in a little boat. There were coconut trees and mango trees and jackfruit trees and neem trees and banyan trees. The people were nice and cared about you. The wind always carried the smell of cold water and when it rained, the raindrops played out a rhythmic orchestra on the banana leaves. It reminded me of my childhood home. I had been sent here on a 'punishment transfer,' but it felt like Heaven to me.

As for Sharada - I knew I could convince her. I would bribe her with the hope of a home. She was looking for stability, and I would offer her that. There couldn't be too many underhanded things going on in this tiny place. And even if there were - even if the local rich man mended the school roof so that his son could pass the exams with flying colours, or if the Principal was a bit careless with the school funds - well, one could always compromise. No compromise was too big if one got Heaven in exchange.

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Episode XXIII

There was no milk in the fridge. Sarala opened the window and shouted at Raju, "There's no milk. Shall I make the tea without milk?" "Hmmm," Raju replied, deep in his newspaper. She knew he hadn't heard a word of what she'd said, but she didn't want to go to the corner shop just to get milk for his morning tea. He certainly wouldn't dream of going.

She made the tea and took it out to him. Raju took one sip and spat it out.
"What kind of tea is this?" he asked furiously.
"There was no milk, so I thought.."
"Don't you know I don't like tea without milk?"
This wasn't true, he had drunk tea plenty of times without milk, but that had been before.
"I did ask you," she said defensively.
"When?"
"Just now. I asked from the window."
"Don't lie! You just want to make my life living Hell!" Raju said. He threw the cup on the ground, where it broke into three pieces and lay like a fallen bird, bleeding the brown water into the earth. He gathered up his newspaper and strode furiously away.

Sarala stood there, blinking furiously in an effort to not cry in front of the neighbours, who would all be behind their twitching curtains watching this daily episode of the neighbourhood drama. After a while, she bent over and picked up the broken cup. It was white with blue flowers and a golden border, part of a set that had been gifted to her by her parents for her wedding. The tea set had survived the first eight years of her marriage unscathed, but not the last two. This had been the last cup.

The Future I Want

It is a large rectangular room, taking up the entire length of the house. Two of the walls are composed entirely of windows. One leads out into a terrace. The other two walls are lined with wooden shelves.

The shelves are filled with books of all shapes and sizes and colours. There are large silk bound tomes, yellow and spotted with age. There are dark pocket-sized paperbacks. There are kitschy pink books, unashamedly proclaiming themselves chicklit. There are cardboard-bound bundles of old magazines. There are no children's books, but the absence is hardly felt.

Delicate IKEA windchimes flutter near both the sets of windows. The breeze brings in the scent of trees and cold water. Beyond these windows can be seen green hills with streams sneaking their way among them. From the terrace on the eastern side can be seen a white waterfall. It gleams red in the morning.

Before these windows were built, bringing with them light and greenery and openness, the overall atmosphere in the room had been one of dark somber dignity. Something of that atmosphere remains. Everything is wooden - the shelves, the floor, the furniture. But there are a few bursts of colour here and there - some red flowers in a vase on the desk, mulitcoloured polka-dotted curtains, lime green cushions on the chairs, delicate white lace on a sidetable.

The room has a lived-in welcoming feel to it. The books on the shelves look like they have been read, and not bought to fulfill some intellectual vanity. A handful of books lie on the desk beside an open laptop computer. A cup of coffee congeals near them. A pair of spectacles stands guard to the coffee cup, its legs splayed protectively on either side of the saucer.

The owner of the room stands at the western windows. She is gazing out at the hills. And she is a happy person.

Giving In

They keep coming back, the demons in black. Their faces are disfigured, their hands are claws. They keep coming back. How can I make them stay away, how can I satisfy their hunger? Each time, I give them something, something precious to me, some bit of me that I shall have to learn to live without. Soon, I shall have nothing left to give, and then they shall take away the thing they want, the thing they keep coming back for. It's inevitable.

Each time they come, I struggle with the despair. Each time, I am tempted to end it, to give them what they seek. Each time, the part of me that is still alive, that can still remember the swaying trees of childhood and the scent of the sea wind, wins somehow. I don't know how long it can hold out. And it's pointless - a last battle in a war that has already been lost.

If I end it this time, I can escape the struggle. I can escape the despair, the gloom, the ennui of existence. Let me do it, God. Let my stubbornness seep away and let me give in. Let me give in.

Birthday Greetings

"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. Happy Birthday!!"
"Thanks! But um.. who did you say you were?"
Pause.
Click.

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Conversation

"Do you care?"

"No."

"Then?"

"Still."

"You dumped him, remember."

"Yes, fine, whatever."

"Sigh."

"The little slut."

"..."

"Correction: the big slut. The elephantine slut."

"You don't like it when other people are happy, do you?"

"He can't possibly be happy with her! She's a cow! A fat cow!"

"Oh, God."

"You know what I'm going to do?"

"What?"

"Put him out of his misery."

"What misery? .... How?"

"By seducing him again."

"Huh?"

"I'll make him cheat on her, she'll dump him, and then he'll be happy again."

"Brilliant plan, but there's a tiny insignificant little problem."

"What?"

"He might think you want to get back with him."

"Oh, that's alright."

"You want to go back to him?"

"No."

"Then how is it alright?"

"I'll just tell him the truth. That I was saving him from her."

Red Day

It was going to be a red day. The sun rose early, bleeding over the city ruthlessly. The tops of buildings and trees and hills turned red and then yellow and then white. Everyone knew what was going to happen. Everyone waited breathlessly.

It began in the East, across the Yamuna. Screams and cries echoed over the water. Smoke curled up, dark and threatening, like an approaching thunderstorm. People looked to the East, eyes sheltered, and then retreated into whatever safety they thought they had found. The safety of their religion, the safety of their friends, the safety, perhaps, of violence.

It continued. Blood flowed down from the East to the West. Rumours would have flowered, except they could find no soil. No one spoke to one another. Neighbours had become possible foes, friends had become possible victims. Only family counted - family, and religion. Every other bond had broken down.

It ended at dusk. The sun turned red for the second time that day, but the city - the city had been red all along.

Wind - II

It was misfortune. Yes, it was. Couldn't have happened otherwise. She slipped and fell. There was no earthly reason for her to - no, I won't think about it. She wouldn't have done that to me. To us. Look at him, sitting there. Why did we let her go? Knowing her, how careless she is, how she sometimes doesn't quite live in this world. She must have gone to the edge to look at the ocean. She must have seen it below her, blue and green and white. And then.

How could it have happened? Did God see her through a parting in the clouds? Did He see her standing there, a beautiful slender little thing on the edge of that black black cliff? Was there a ray of sunshine on her, making her hair golden and her eyes wistful? Did He suddenly want her back? Did He send a spurt of wind to bring her back to Him?

Or did she want to go back to Him?

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Wind

She loves the wind. She loves the way it tugs at her hair. She loves that free-floating feeling it gives her. The wind brings with it the sound of sea gulls from the sea shore below. The smell of the salty sea as it breaks on the rocks. She wishes she could live on wind - eat it, drink it, float along with it. Maybe in the next life. She spreads her arms and leans forward and lets the wind take her.

Made Up Tales