WISPY MEMORY

He walked down the almost empty corridor, his steps challenging the resonant silence with its resounding echoes…. His quick gait, his hands clutching d bright green folder, his downwards tilted face, all betrayed the carefree expression that he worked so hard to perfect… His destination was the second last door at the end of this endless corridor, the thought of which made walking a bit lighter…

He reached the door, hesitated for a tiny bit, then entered… Covering the distance from his house to the door took him half an hour, but covering the distance from the door to the chair by the window… it took an eternity, or so it seemed to him… He did not know how to address him, the bald, old man in the chair, staring out to infinity… A few years ago, such a thought would never have entered his mind, but now…

He went near him and stood there for a while, but the old man showed no signs of even being aware someone else is there besides him… So he pulled up a chair and sat down, facing him… Still the old man sat, staring out, entranced, as if Utopia had shifted base, right in front of his window….

He cleared his throat, and opened his folder… He extracted some dozen white sheets, clutched them tightly till his knuckles were as white as the sheets…. His mind hurled a million questions at him, questioning his sanity… Then on an impulse he started put them one by one on the window sill….

They were sketches, random sketches, of random objects… There was a house, a vintage car, a dog, two children playing with an older man, a bench, a shiny green bench…. He placed them all, watching him intensely, waiting for a sign, something, a flicker of interest, of recognition maybe…

But he saw nothing… The old man saw them, his face a blank map, illegible, unemotional, vide… He closed his eyes for a long painful moment, giving up hope on his nth idea… He reached out to collect the fragments of his disappointment, when the old man suddenly reached out too, picking up the sketch of the shiny green bench…. A bench that stood somewhere, in a park he can’t remember, on a street he can’t recall, seating people he can never identify… But the bench touched a chord in the unsettled chaos, a faint whisper of remembrance…

He got up, leaving the rest of the sketches behind… He knew that the unruly wind would probably blow away most of the sketches, but  he could hope now that it won’t blow away the tiny wispy memory that had come back at last…to his grandfather….

HANDLING WITH CARE

It was like I was split into two... I was the audience and I was the protagonist... It was oddly surreal....

I watched me struggle with the mere act of walking, placing one foot in front of the other seemed like a terrible ordeal.. I wanted to help myself, but I couldn't...one of the disadvantages of being a part of the audience, you can only watch, never participate...

So I watched myself sweating and hauling a big heavy box... I did not know what was inside it, but it looked very cumbersome even from a distance.. I got a bit closer and the the legendary phrase on top of it "FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE"... So, it was glass, lots and lots of it...

As I watched, she or rather me... I stumbled... I regained my balance, then I stumbled again, this time I could not stop myself and down I went....to the rhythm of a faint tinkling sound... The horror I felt was mirrored exactly on the face of the fallen me... I got up, without bothering to check my wounds, fumbled with the box...and extracted the splinters...

And I bled... The fragments of the glass broken tore through my skin, my flesh, my veins, and blood flowed...almost as much as my tears.... Then I saw a change in me, as I got up and re-examined the box... I took out the remaining glass and wrapped them all up...in layers and layers of cloth and paper... I wrapped them up so much that it was un recognizable, the shape the size, the essence of what it was, the original glass artifact... It wasnt glass anymore. it was over protected lumps, without any entity of its own...

I knew it would not work... As I thought that I saw me trip, yet again, my over burdened, stressed out, suffering self... I did not even try to regain my balance, just went down with a resigned sigh... then i brushed myself, opened the box, and emptied out the shards again...but I did not bleed as much this time... There was anything left of the glass much, it was all smothered under the layers I had stifled it with....

I could not stop myself from shrieking out, "Let it go... You will never ever manage to carry them all till the end.. They are gonna break, and more you be careful about them, more you will fall, and bleed over them... Let go..."

The me on the road looked around, searching with wild eyes for the unknown voice (strange how my own voice sounds like a stranger when it is tinged with reason or common sense). Finding no one, I picked up the box again, with a pondering expression... There were only some pieces left in the box, the ones that endured the falls, the shocks, the tremors.... I picked them all up, collected them in my two hands, hugged them to my chest and started walking.... And I watched her, my other self as she walked with confident steps, knowing that even if she falls, the glass wont break again....

IRONY

No one can stand a foggy glass

Foggy mirrors are even worse

So he thought as he wiped

His soiled sleeve across

The broken glass

Peering so close that

His nose almost touching

He finally made out

His grimy visage

In the snowy mess

He winked & smiled

As he identified himself

In the unclear shadows

And he glanced back

The irony eluding him

At the dark corpse

Whose identity he'd removed

Forever...

EVOLUTION OF A F.R.I.E.N.D

You know, there are things that you know are important and you treat them thusly, and there are things that you deem pretty unimportant and therefore give them no significant attention... And then there are things that you know are very important for you, for your well-being, for your existence even...and yet at times you tend to treat them as Chunkey Pandey in an award function, ignored to the point of being ridiculous...

The subject of my super long prologue is friends. Friendship is a much hyped concept, where you end up putting in so much thought that if we did half as much in a particular topic, we'd all be Ph.Ds. And yet, after the prelims are over, the first excitement of hanging out together kinda fizzles out, where does your new friend come up on the friendship parameter?? Now that is a question so wickedly uncomfortable that we prefer to reroute it to the Dept. of Blissful Ignorance and leave it at that.

Before any of you starts getting all sniffy and injured, let me clarify... I do not mean that after the first excitement is over, you stop being good friends... It’s kind of like being married I guess. You have a honeymoon period, where lust is the topmost priority that needs to be fulfilled at all times, at all places. So we have one in a new friendship, where you simply can’t do without the intellectual stimulation...at all times, at all places...  

Married people move on next to the smug era, flaunting their new relationship with an obnoxious glow and millions of anecdotes, new discoveries, bonding with the second family et all. So do you quickly move on to the smug friend phase, where you flaunt them in front of your other friends, showing off the newest accessory of your life. Millions of anecdotes, check...bonding with their friends too...check....obnoxious glow...check.... you know you are in that phase when almost every alternate sentence of yours starts with, "you know my friend XYZ..." 

And then there's the third phase where you get more settled into the relationship, get more used to the fact that you are now part of an institution (no, not the asylum, marriage is called an institution too...), and just bring out your special marriage expertise if and when the occasion arises...

And so you get used to your friend, as you and he/she transform from being in a euphoric BFF state to a "hey what’s up, watchu doin, it’s been a while, wanna meet up??" You know, much more comfortable, much more at ease, and much less psychotic... And you never know....if your new friend survives the wear and tear of time....then well he/she gets to be one of the lucky dudes who gets to know of your marriage or your super cool new job or your first kid, personally and not via...well Facebook!!!

A DEATH ORDAINED

Where do these doubts come from?

The silent questions that break out,

Tormenting you with misgivings

So was I tormented

As I watched him leave...

Not the first battle fought,

For a warrior, for a warrior's wife

So why the trembling heart?

The premonition of doom,

Of death, despair and evil...

I did not fear his death, I knew

I had faith in him and destiny

What did I fear I could not be sure

But I somehow knew

Something dark was coming our way...

I waited in apprehension

As days turned to weeks, months

Then suddenly the news

"He's come, the messenger,

Bearing tidings from the master"

I walked slowly, my feet leaden

Unsure of what the writing bore

As I took the parchment from his hands

I could feel the weight of the letter

And I knew it was the dictates of Fate

The words swum before my eyes

As he wrote of his glorious victory

Smashing through the enemy ranks

And of his march of triumph...

His and his comrade in arms, Banquo

Then he spoke of his return journey

And their rencontre with three wise hags

The prophecy, oh the fateful words...

Duke of Cawdor, King of Scotland

The future, nay the predestined doom

Did it end at this unfortunate oracle

No, Fate had more games to play

They talked of the future heirs

Sired by Banquo, even though

His was not to accede the throne

The paper fell as I fought not to

 Dread took over my senses

As I went over the words

That rang as the knell of doom

On him, on me, on our destiny

For I could not shy away from it

The truth, what lay in wait for us

I knew it would overcome us both

Haunt our dreams at night

and poison days of wakefulness

I picked up the letter again

The seal of the Duke of Cawdor

With a sharp breath I realised

It had started, the games

The first prophecy fulfilled

I could not stay, I could not sleep

I waited for what lay in wait for me

Then the most vicious of tempters

Came to visit me in the dark

It was ambition, with his honeyed tongue

King of Scotland, Queen of the realm

How grand it sounds, magical

What could harm a seigneur so powerful?

What could damn a dynast so puissant?

It was our glory, ours to seize

And so I eagerly awaited the return

Of my lord, my master

The new declared Duke of Cawdor

And soon to be crowned

The King of Caledonia

The news preceded the arrival

As the yells echoed through the streets

"The lord is back, radiant victor

He's back with the enemy's head on a stake"

Hailing him all through the land

I rushed to meet him when I stopped

For the man I saw seemed a stranger

His visage feverish, his eyes wild

Its like he's seen a terrible,

Yet fascinating nightmare

I could not speak, I could not walk

As I saw him coming towards me

What ailed him I wondered

The hero of immortal honor

Should not, ought not look so ill

Then I glanced at my reflection

In a small puddle gathered at my feet

It mirrored my husband's absolutely

I understood his ailment then

It was the fever of torn desires

That night was a night momentous

Of decisions and of avidity

We drunk the wine of desire

And the potion of fear

An talked of what is and what could be

The potion stung and burned

And the wine intoxicated and blurred

The burning sensation, and we knew

That the intoxication will win

And we smiled, a smile of triumph

Just then the messenger entered 

And informed of the monarch's visit

The stars were moving

The fates were cackling

As we got ready to greet,

The king and our future...

AND IT RAINED...

I woke up smelling like him. In fact everything seemed to be enveloped in his essence. He of course was long gone, as he said he would. As everyone else told me he would. As I knew he would, even though I couldn’t come to terms with this truth. Somehow the realisation of this fact always brought an acidic tinge to the time we spent together. But I never was a rebel; I knew I would never go against the laws, convention, nature…

So…though it was hard, I knew I had to let go, move on. I’ll soon have loads to occupy myself with, so it might be easier to ignore that thorn on my side, because forgetting won’t ever be an option. So I let out a deep sigh and set out to find some water, I was so damn thirsty.

As I set out, I could sense something was wrong. For one I could smell rains in the near future, either in the afternoon, or definitely by night. It was good, rains meant good hunting, the smells were sharper, and for us, it meant we got our prey with much more ease. But rains never brought about the panic that I could see about everywhere. It was as if there was a really serious bushfire somewhere, but I could not see any smoke or smell anything burning either. Even if there was, the rains would anyway douse it, so there was nothing to worry about.

But then suddenly my hair started bristling as I realised what was the danger that was infecting the whole place with chaos. I got ready to rush out from there when suddenly my feet seemed to merge with the ground. The sound smashed through my ears and melted my bones to ice.

I crashed through the bushes, fighting against the dread that was slowing me down. It was as if I didn’t want to see what I would see once I reach. And then I came to a stop. And the time stopped with me.

The mourning skies opened up just then. As the rain fell down in torrents, the water blurred the amber and ebony inert mass lying in front of me. I couldn’t move, fear and grief had forged manacles on my feet. I kept standing there, hidden by the foliage, as two men came up and dragged him away into their four wheeled monstrosity. The rest of them kept clutching their murderous pipes, as if they don’t know they are the most frightening beasts in this jungle.

What elegance did they see in that striped corpse? What grace is there in that mangled carcass? His every step, his crouch, his roar used to boast of the regalness that defined us all. Where was all lofty dignity in that mud smeared body?

I wanted to snatch him away from them, to tear out their guts, smash their lead pipes that filled them with such arrogant confidence that meaningless slaughter to them had become their justified birth right. But I did not move a step, I had too much responsibility on me to risk it all for vengeance, justified or unjustified.

They started to drive away when I managed to put all my anguish in one last roar. The men clutched their weapons even harder. When they do not understand empathy, how do you expect them to understand pain? They could only understand fear and danger, and know how to react to them.

But the wild understood and stood by me as they drove the hearse away. Helpless, like me…

A MISERABLE ENCOUNTER WITH SILENCE...

I know I’m going to sound weird and ridiculous, but I really think that you can classify silence. There are the two common ones, the comfortable kind and the much more popular, the awkward kind of silence. Then there is the reproachful kind, and the exasperated and annoyed kind, usually used by mothers and girlfriends/wives. And then there is the one which comes out and boinks you on the head, jerking us up to break it. It’s not the same as the awkward kind, it’s much more acerbic and forceful, and almost always, no actually, always makes you say or do something stupid.

And so as I sat all hunched up in the passenger’s seat of my ex-boyfriend’s car, on my way back home from a mutual friend’s soiree, I expected a long, awkward silent drive. What I did not expect was that I would be visited by his absolutely unwelcome cousin, the boinker-on-the-head. Now I know that when people talk about ex-relationships, they always assume that there is either a lot of bitterness, or a lot of smouldering tension involved in it. Even when all the sympathetic queries are met with “oh no, it was a mutual decision, it was what we both wanted, we are still very good friends”, it’s usually met with reactions indicating anything from “yeah right, and the voodoo dolls hidden in your closet are just for a project for your unborn kid”, to “poor thing, you can actually see her eyes swelling up with the reined in tears”…

But ours was…well, mutual in a way… he wanted a ‘break’ (I swear, it’s like Friends opened up a box full of new-age clichés), and I just wanted out, not just a break. But I was too much of a coward to bring it up. That is my phobia, a fear of confrontation. So I was so relieved when he brought it up, I went all blank. No tears, no soft, sad smile, no whoops in the air, nothing… In my defence, I had reached a fairly crucial level in Angry Birds, just one ugly green pig was left, but it had a stupid Christmas hat on, and I had just one angry bird left. So I didn’t even register what he said for some time, until I realized he was waiting for a response from me, a logical response. So I came up with an “ummm, OK”, which in a weird way made things worse.

I was never a very demonstrative person, but this seemed extreme even for me. We went out for some three years. In three years some people get married and reached the ‘we are expecting’ stage. You don’t dismiss it with an ‘umm ok’, and continue yelling “die, you ugly bastard!” So…everyone automatically assumed that I was hiding massive tons of hurt beneath my calm exterior, which I wasn’t. But people have a very annoying habit of assigning what they think is appropriate behaviour for you, and judge you on those parameters. They didn’t really take away my stapler or all sharp objects, like knives or corkscrews away from me, but you could see them giving a very serious thought to it.

Coming back to my awkward situation in the car with my ex, after some 15 minutes of fighting the boinker, I caved in. I could have started on with conventional talk topics like ‘so what is up with you nowadays’ and so on, but thanks to our numerous mutual friends; I was kept pretty well updated to his recent happenings. So instead of passing on to some other inane conversational chestnuts, I asked him “If you ever wanted to dispose of a body, where would you do it?”

Well, honestly how do you answer a question like that? Who in his or her right mind spends time pondering on how to dispose of cadavers? So he, being the normal guy that he is, replied with an “uhhh…” So I jumped in, and started describing my top 10 body disposal sites. They were pretty awesome, and this I can say with total neutrality. They ranged from a wilderness right next to a sewage canal, to an abandoned supply factory, which is completely overgrown with weeds. I could see him squirming in his seat now and then, but that I attributed to his uneasiness with his seat belt and/or a tight pair of undies.

But then I finished my 15 minute long presentation, and he said “Wow, you really need to visit a psychiatrist!” Really? Huh, and I thought I was being interesting. I guess there is a very thin line between being interesting and being pathological. And whether you have crossed the line or not, depends entirely upon your audience. So I decided to just shut up, and that’s what I told the annoying voice prodding me to try again. I tried, I bombed and that’s the end of it. Next time I’ll drive down myself, and most probably I won’t have to hear of this again, or so I thought…

Two days later he disappeared. My ex-boyfriend, that is.

What I had forgotten to mention before, is that while I was showing off my psychopathic dark side, perched on the passenger seat, the back seat was occupied by his sister and her fiancé. So obviously when he just decided to disappear, which admittedly, was extremely unusual for him, she just freaked out, thinking I had something to do with it. Talk of being paranoid!

I was till then, blissfully unaware of the drama that was about to take over my life. I was planning to take a short trip over the weekend with my cousin (“it’ll do you good to take your mind off things”). So while I was getting termed as a vengeful, crazy murderer, I was struggling to get reservations at a hotel who seriously seemed to hire receptionists straight from the University of Duh (not mine, obviously!). I had just flung my cell down in frustration when it rang again. It was my friend (the one who gave the party…just thought people would want to know…), who as soon as I picked up the call, asked me “Did you really kill him”? I got a bit psyched out with her psychic powers; I admit I was sending pretty vicious thoughts across to that stupid receptionist. I countered with a careful “What are you talking about”?

I couldn’t believe it. I honestly thought it was all a joke. I mean, the prospect of anyone casting me in the role of a psycho killer was so ludicrous! But it wasn’t so funny when I got a nice little visit from the even nicer police guy. He asked me where was I the night before, and gently warned me not to move out of the city at the moment. Very nice, very polite, very unlike what I always pictured them as, and very scary, like some really badly written crime novella. And instead of the nice and pretty heroine, I was more like Glenn Close with a fatal attraction. I stopped getting calls from my friends, and started getting a lot of calls from my family. It was a nightmare, and I knew that I should be worried about him, but all I could manage was extreme fury. If he was planning on being in an accident, or getting mugged or killed, the least he could do was send a text someone saying I didn’t do it. It became so bad that I actually started believing in it, started thinking that maybe I suffered from schizophrenia, or a dual personality disorder, where I did go out and kill him, and I just don’t remember it.

Even my office wasn’t the safe haven it used to be. I used to escape to my office whenever I used to be a bit disturbed. That ecosphere filled with so many different kinds of people, stupid and accomplished, obnoxious and maternal, condescending and obsequious, I used to love being there. But now even that was poisoned, I still don’t know whether there was any tangible change in their behaviour, or was it only my raw sensitivity that made it seem so, but I was so ill at ease. And then my superior called me up and told me that they want me to go on a sabbatical, maybe get some sessions with a professional psychologist to help me out with my issues, which was apparently affecting my performance. I just nodded and left, what was the point of me arguing?

I looked up some psychologists on the Internet; I called up the nearest ones, and made an appointment with one of them. I was by this time resigned to my fate. Who would have known that a totally weird approach to deal with an awkward silence would lead to this, treated like a pariah by my friends, a deranged worker by my colleagues and to top it all, a psychopathic killer by the police, who had by now searched all my top ten disposal sites in search of a body. They did find a couple of dead dogs, thankfully there wasn’t any legislation against unnatural animal deaths, yet.

The next day as I roused myself to go for my appointment, resigned to accepting whatever diagnosis she would come up with, whatever mental disease I was suffering from, the phone rang. It had become such a stranger to me, that sound, that I couldn’t answer it the first time. Then it rang again. I picked it up, listened, and carefully placed the phone back. I took a deep breath, stared at the address and the number in my hand, of the psychologist, deliberating on what to do now…

And so here I am, sitting in the waiting room of the psychologist, waiting for my turn to come. But now I’m much more relaxed, knowing the truth is such a laxative! Knowing that the guy who turned my life into a living hell is alright, all that is wrong with him is a sick sense of right and wrong, which makes him go out, have one-night stands with a random stranger, spend days at her place, without a single call or notification to anyone. I know that if anyone needs a session with a shrink it’s him, for there can be no rhyme or reason to his bizarre behaviour. And yet, here I am, waiting for my turn at the psychologist, hoping that there could be a pill or something that can make me stop talking at the onset of awkward silence…