Sunset at Kovalam

(For the gift is imagination,
dictation without hesitation)
Thoughts that are the pieces
of the puzzle of a plot,
words that are the medium
to tell you what I've got.
Stories that are-
a figment of my mind,
lies they may be,
true but with pints.
Words, they may flow
as water on the sand,
but the moon should reside
on the top of the hand.
As now, what I write,
fortuitous banalities?
high tide of my mind-
inevitably.

Guilt

The ground was muddled. Pipes were leaking water into the walls, making them look diseased, like pus was bubbling in them. The sky was pallid. This town should be placed under quarantine.

I looked at the piece of paper in my hand. Old and worn out, in an eerie harmony with the surroundings. Vacillating between my thumb and my forefinger, it was the only proof of life in this small town. Chandnagari, it read. Chandnagari, read the peeling letters on the lopsided board. I was here.

This was something I never did. I was a doctor. This was the most diminutive part of my duty. I had to save lives, and in the circumstances that I couldn’t, I was to break the news to my patient’s family. Yes, that was the most diminutive part of my duty. But I would only do it in the hospital premises. Never did I travel 25 kilometers to a remote area to break this news to a family member who was not even there at the moribund bedside. ‘But he was her only child’- I consoled myself. Arrogance.

What was I to say? I had done this a dozen times, almost to the extent of dexterity. And yet, I couldn’t decide the right gesticulations this once. Sympathy seemed too condescending, and empathy too ostentatious.

‘I’m sorry.’

But I wasn’t. It was his fault. If only he hadn’t drunk this much, his liver would’ve supported him through a long, healthy life. I felt like a reprobate. Arrogance and narcissism.

I started looking around, at the numbers in red on top of the doors. Lamb’s blood? But then the houses should’ve escaped the plague. I finally located the house I was supposed to go to. This town was haunted by a deathly silence, and the house was no different. Maybe that would make my job easier. Maybe the lugubrious existence makes them resistant to pain. I had the benefit of the doubt. A strange relief swept over me.

There was no door to knock on. Just a carpet that was hung to separate the otherwise coalesced worlds. I was confused again. Trivial perplexities. I banged on the wall next to the door. The silence was beginning to scare me. What if I had come to report of death to death itself? Thankfully though, a woman coughed. “Hello?” I called. No reply. I peeped inside. An old lady was sitting on the floor wearing a sari, her pallu on her head, counting beads. “Hello?”

She looked up. Her penetrating stare augmented the discomfort. “Mrs. Gokhle?” I heard a hissing sound. More like a ‘yes’ than a ‘no’, I concluded. So I continued.

“I’m sorry.”

The lie just escaped me. The hours spent thinking of the right way to say it suddenly seemed so futile. She looked on. That’s when I realized she didn’t know what I was sorry for. The task was still incomplete.

I gulped. Why was I so scared?

“I’m sorry. Your son passed away this morning.”

Silence.

I waited for a reaction. I felt like a child waiting for his answer sheet. I could hear my breath. It was the only sound. Her breath wasn’t even minutely audible. It worked well with the apparition that was her.

The demon in me slowly began to rise. The trepidation usurped by indignation. This was the woman who was not even there when her son was dying. She knew it, I know. Her motherly instincts would’ve admonished her. But more than that, I had seen the son call her and tell her he was dying. Why then, did she not come?

I had traveled 25 kilometers not merely out of deference, but also out of curiosity. Arrogance and narcissism and shamelessness.

“He’s dead,” I repeated, almost brusquely.

“What is wrong with you? I just told you your son’s dead! How in the world can you be so nonchalant? He was your son for God’s sake! He’s gone!”

She stared. She moaned. And then, she whispered-“Son?”

I was shocked. Her tone wasn’t mournful. It was confused. It was not the bewilderment of a how, it was that of a who.

Which is when it happened. A twitch in her leg.

In that twitch, a realization struck. The indignation vanished. The curiosity seemed audacious. And now, I felt guilty. I felt guilty of doubting a mother’s love.

How could a mother remember to love when she had forgotten she was a mother?

How could a mother suffering from Parkinson’s be there for a son suffering from liver damage? It all made sense now.

“I’m sorry.” And this time I wasn’t lying.

Arrogance and narcissism and shamelessness and naiveté. I was everything that was wrong with this world.

But guilt was a beginning.

Sincerely, from a biochemistry student

Imagine this-
A dust particle is floating merrily in the air. All of a sudden, it gets an inclination to enter a human body- an inclination that is furthered by the wind. It spots a big nose (such as mine) and enters freely into it.
Okay, so this might provoke some disgust: imagine the small hair that lines the inside of the nose. It forms the vanguard of the body and tries to impede the movement of the particle. But the particle is strong: it doesn't give up that easy. It swooshes past the hair and charges towards the mucus. The mucus tries to capture the particle, but unfortunately, the particle has the energy of a windmill. Alas, my external defense system fails!
Now my immunity system gets all fired up. It produces an army of IgE antibodies against that dust particle. They engulf the particle, thus freeing my body from any damage. Or so they think. Because the next thing I know, I'm sneezing at a rate that can get me into the Guinness book and stuff is coming out of my nose and flying to places I can't even see!

Seriously? So much trouble for a small dust particle?

Damn my IgE antibodies. They're my least favourite.

Eating chalk

Ten years ago, my mom used to get chalks from the college she teaches in for her two little kids to play with. What she did not know was that those two little kids didn't quite play with them. They hid behind the door and ate them.
Ten years later, I'm twenty. And I still feel like eating chalk. Not the modern coloured dustless variety. The white yummy sandy kind. Mmm.

Milk is so passé . I want me some good chalk.

Stuff I suck at.

Perception and intuition to me are very connected. I happen to suck at both. Although the former is a form of rationalization and the latter mostly a preclude to hallucinations, they do share a middle ground- sort of an educated guess. I suck at that too.

She is sitting alone in the park, staring into nothingness. She is one of those reticent souls, but she has these bouts of emotional diarrhea wherein she floods anyone sitting next to her with all that is troubling her. A week ago, I was one such unfortunate person.
And so it began. It was sad. Her grandmother was suffering from cancer which was detected in its 4th stage. It was hard to predict where it originated or how much time she had left- it might be 3 days, maybe 3 months, maximum 3 years. And her life was in a mess. Her parents took night shifts at the hospital which were to her an interim of relief, because when together, all they did was argue.
I felt sad for her- as sad as one can feel for someone they hardly know. But I knew this feeling was fleeting, and would entail only till it was usurped by the normal resentment I felt towards her. So I humbled her, said a few consoling words, patted her on the back, and went back to culturing bacteria in a plate.


Ah, yes. This must be what is wrong with her today. Maybe her grandmother's condition is deteriorating. There is sadness and guilt, but mostly there is this overcoming feeling of achievement: I know what is wrong.
I sit next to her. "It'll be alright," I say. "I don't think so", is her reply.

Damn. Maybe she has passed away. More sadness. More guilt.

"I'm sorry.."

"It's okay. I hope she burns in hell".

Hmm.
Wait. What?
I gape at her.

"She was a jackass," she says.

"I'm sorry you think that way. But you know, she's dead. I think you ought to respect her just a tad," I say disdainfully.

"Who's dead?"

"Umm.. your grandmother?"

"Who said she's dead?"

"But.. you.. she had cancer, didn't she?"

"She does, yes. But I'm talking about my girlfriend. Ex girlfriend. She's such a b****."


OH CRAP. And I thought I was improving.

Love or Envy

Love or Envy

He loves her.
He loves her. She's beautiful. She's perfect.
Her skin, so white, so clear.
The clay got ample water.
Her fingers, so long, so artistic.
Musical notes flow beneath them.
Her hair, so black, so shiny.
Sun rays fear to touch it.
Her lips, so red, so glossy.
Snow white's apple shies away.
Her eyes, so blue, so meaningful.
A deep well full of water.
Her face, so chiseled, so shapely.
A diamond carved by a diamond.
She's beautiful. She's perfect.
I hate her.

Hello

There are times when specific body parts suddenly become more conspicuous to you. For example, today I was walking towards the bus-stop from home and all of a sudden, I could feel that my nose was very blatantly there. I could see its ghost from the corner of my eye and it felt very strange. Because I knew it had always been there, making its presence felt more adamantly in times of cold, but never had I acknowledged that there was something protruding out of the center of my face. And in these weird thoughts of 2D transition to 3D, I felt that there was extra kohl on the corner of my left eye. And this was even more weird, because, you know, one shouldn't be able to see the corner of one's eye.
And both these things struck me as very odd: it's so odd when you suddenly realize the existence of something that's always been there. And once that realization strikes, that something feels so foreign, but there's nothing you can do about it. Because it may be something that you haven't chosen consciously. Or maybe minus that something, you'll look as devoid as Pamela Anderson without her assets . So you just have to put it behind you (or let it remain there in the front, if you get what I mean) and just accept it and get past it. And then wait for another day when you'll suddenly realize that you roll your tongue when you pronounce 'r' or your tittle is actually a circle and not a dot, by which time you know the feeling, and you know better than to actually do something about it.

And this is my first blog entry. It defines who I am: just another curious individual with a taste for eccentricities. Hello.