It was dark in the subway. The sodium bulb had fused. Anne took her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and for a few seconds the light from its display was the only light around for miles. Then she put it back in her pocket and darkness ruled again. She walked along the wall, tracing its coarseness with her finger-tips. It bruised the skin on her finger-tips and they bled a little. It left a red stain on the dirty walls. She emerged outside where the wind was bellowing loud and hungry. Her hair flew out in an outrage and she pulled her coat around her tightly. She kept walking, along the graffiti that read ‘Dead’, along the recycle bins, along the electric transformers, till she reached the bridge. The view from the bridge was breath-taking. City lights, all amber and red, tiny dots, bright and angry, lay across till the eye could see. There were no stars in the sky. She walked along, holding the railing; the dirty railing held by many hands over the years; where the germs and dirt bred. There were germs from common colds, diarrhea, muck and fleas. She displaced them with her wayward hand. Her nose was cold and red. She sniffed noisily.
“The sun is dead. We buried him.”
Anne turned around with a start. She wondered why she had doubted. Of course it was him. He sat on his hunches. His hair was long and hung around his shoulders. His pale white skin contrasted severely against his black hair and eyes. His hands rested on his knees, limp and empty.
“We put a heavy rock by the entrance. He will not rise.”
“Who will not rise?” asked Anne in a whisper.
The Prophet looked away. He hated repeating himself.
“The sun?” she ventured, “It has not risen for several days. At least there is no rain.”
The Prophet was looking away still, away from the city lights, into the darkness of the subway. Anne started to walk again. Why do they call him Prophet? He is only mad. She smiled to herself. Her lips cracked and bled.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Saturday 8 August 2009
The Memoirs of Red Johnson: Pebbles on the door
The fire needs a log sir, and the night needs a story. Let’s give it one, shall we?
It was a very long time ago. I was just a boy. Yes, that’s how long ago it was. Everyone in the village knew this girl, about ten years older than myself. A stout maiden with a long face. She was the owner of the longest nose you have ever seen. Eyes like two gray cats on the wall. No, sir, she was not pretty. The most distressing of it all was that she grew a dark stubble on her chin. It was plain to everybody’s notice but her own. People sniggered around her about how she needed a shave, while she walked on unoffended and unconcerned. A sensible girl, dear sir, would have secretly gained possession of a blade and a clear mirror, doing away every sign of that which made her so different from the other girls of her age. But a sensible girl she was not.
We were but nine. We would walk by her house after school only so we could through pebbles at her door. She grew used it to. On Sunday mornings, one would see her proudly walk into church, right up to the front pew. The elderly ladies who usually sat there began to sit by the second pew now. At first, she would stay in church till noon by herself, with her eyes closed and her head bowed. We would huddle outside the door and hiss to see if she would open her eyes. But she never did, Sir, not once. Then she began to spend less time in church till she gradually stopped coming. The elderly ladies were restored to their favorite pew.
Would you mind sir, if I refilled your glass? I do not remember where or how or why, but she slowly faded out of our memories, sir. It was when I was entering my teens and my voice grew deep that I remember hearing of her again. There was talk of how she had moved to the outer end of the village. She lived alone sir. And there was talk of strange smells. They say she boiled broths all day. They expected she was up to something. Some young girls who had accidentally developed a bump around their fronts turned up at her cottage expecting her to bring out a bucket and tongs. She, however, chased them away, shouting and cursing. Some of the mothers, when their babies were ill, wanted to ask her for help. But she would not hear of it. So we gradually forgot about her again, sir, as one does that plant in the corner that refuses to flower or bear fruit. We have little use for it. We may not tend to it yet how it grows.
The last time I saw her was when I was about twelve. My mate and I were fishing by the river, one summer day. There we found her, sat among the rocks, like some grey mushroom. Her skirt was drawn above her knees, revealing her unsightly limbs. She held a bottle of potent alcohol between her hands. She was muttering to herself. “I won’t tell them, sire. I promise I won’t. Do let me be. Please do not pain me again, sire. I shall be good.”
We ran away, sir. For, surely, she was casting a spell. But now that I think back, sir, I wish I had thrown no pebbles at her door. I wish I hadn’t.
It was a very long time ago. I was just a boy. Yes, that’s how long ago it was. Everyone in the village knew this girl, about ten years older than myself. A stout maiden with a long face. She was the owner of the longest nose you have ever seen. Eyes like two gray cats on the wall. No, sir, she was not pretty. The most distressing of it all was that she grew a dark stubble on her chin. It was plain to everybody’s notice but her own. People sniggered around her about how she needed a shave, while she walked on unoffended and unconcerned. A sensible girl, dear sir, would have secretly gained possession of a blade and a clear mirror, doing away every sign of that which made her so different from the other girls of her age. But a sensible girl she was not.
We were but nine. We would walk by her house after school only so we could through pebbles at her door. She grew used it to. On Sunday mornings, one would see her proudly walk into church, right up to the front pew. The elderly ladies who usually sat there began to sit by the second pew now. At first, she would stay in church till noon by herself, with her eyes closed and her head bowed. We would huddle outside the door and hiss to see if she would open her eyes. But she never did, Sir, not once. Then she began to spend less time in church till she gradually stopped coming. The elderly ladies were restored to their favorite pew.
Would you mind sir, if I refilled your glass? I do not remember where or how or why, but she slowly faded out of our memories, sir. It was when I was entering my teens and my voice grew deep that I remember hearing of her again. There was talk of how she had moved to the outer end of the village. She lived alone sir. And there was talk of strange smells. They say she boiled broths all day. They expected she was up to something. Some young girls who had accidentally developed a bump around their fronts turned up at her cottage expecting her to bring out a bucket and tongs. She, however, chased them away, shouting and cursing. Some of the mothers, when their babies were ill, wanted to ask her for help. But she would not hear of it. So we gradually forgot about her again, sir, as one does that plant in the corner that refuses to flower or bear fruit. We have little use for it. We may not tend to it yet how it grows.
The last time I saw her was when I was about twelve. My mate and I were fishing by the river, one summer day. There we found her, sat among the rocks, like some grey mushroom. Her skirt was drawn above her knees, revealing her unsightly limbs. She held a bottle of potent alcohol between her hands. She was muttering to herself. “I won’t tell them, sire. I promise I won’t. Do let me be. Please do not pain me again, sire. I shall be good.”
We ran away, sir. For, surely, she was casting a spell. But now that I think back, sir, I wish I had thrown no pebbles at her door. I wish I hadn’t.
Friday 17 July 2009
The Gentleman in the Public House:
Ah, the night is young sir. Is feels strange, does it not, to be sat here in a warm room were nothing stirs but the log in the fire and the ear of the resting dog? Men like you and I have seen different nights from these. I would not change that for all the money in the world. Would you sir?
There was once this gentleman I happened to chance on. It was at the time of the forest fire that burnt half of the pine forests to the north of the great mountains. Yes, it was not in recent times. The children that play on the streets laugh while they swear about the fire. Not you or I would sir. For we know better. So it was after the fire had burnt down and left a shame where a forest stood, and it was not just the forest it burnt. Our little house by the woods was now a heap of ashes at best and my brother and I had moved to the village nearby which was at that time called Spade. There in a public house, on a sunny thirsty afternoon, sat this young gentleman, in shirt and tie, drinking his ale and watching the world with half a smile. He was genial. He loved to talk but when he talked good sir, we listened. Full of mirth and anecdotes were his sayings.
“I love the far East sirs.” He says. “One tends to think around here that the peoples of the world be very different from each other and that the East in particular be a lot of uncivilized people that know not to use a spoon when need be. Right you are. They know not to use a spoon my sirs, but they will sooner not eat their meal than put a man at displeasure over their ignorance of spoons. They will wait till you have had you meal and left with a full stomach. They will pretend to be full themselves even while their insides cry of hunger. All this because they want only to be polite and not spoil your appetite. Now that is what I call true civilization.”
We shook our heads in wonder.
“I was with a family once sirs, who had the misfortune of having a rather large number of children. This was in the area between China and India. A no man’s land really, but a land with people never the less. This man, the father of the house took me into his modest home and paraded his children before me. There were about thirteen present, all very clean and disciplined. He then ordered them to bring us a meal. There were about three dishes full of meat and rice. I ate to the health of my host while he filled me in on their family history. A very pleasant affair it was. It was only later when I visited some others in the area that I learnt that this man was a poor as a rat. He had pawned his wife’s sole jewel to pay for the meat. His wife who had carefully kept from making her appearance, was too ashamed of her tattered clothes to be seen. And all along that man treated me like I was a king and he another. I can hardly say how much it touched me dear sirs to see this form of hospitality.”
We nodded, bringing up pictures of yellow skinned men and bowls of rice in our heads.
“I believe in the Bible sirs, and so I call myself a Christian. But I have known men of other religions and their faith has shown me not to be so conceited as to consider my opinion better than theirs. For I think if there be a God he makes no difference between them and us. The rich among them know no want, just as our rich know no want. Their poor know hunger in its true form as our poor do. So if there be a God, my sirs, he turns a blind eye to all of us equally. Who then are we to hold differences.”
We were convinced this man was a philosopher. Yes, he was young, even so he was far more knowledgeable than all of us put together. I must say sir, at that point I wished, even if for a very short minute, that I had not lived my life here on the mountains. I wished I had travelled to the Far East and eaten bowls of rice. I was convinced it was the elixir of knowledge. I felt like a country fool.
We would see him each night at the public house. He would talk and we would listen. Then one evening after a heavy bout of drinking, this gentleman made to go to his bed for the night. The next morning he was found dead. They found him still in his shirt and tie, lying by the road corner. He was dead. The government officials came and found his papers. They said he belonged to a small town off London. They said he had certainly never travelled outside the country. They said he had no money and was making away with some loose change from the keeper of the public house when he met his sudden demise.
There was once this gentleman I happened to chance on. It was at the time of the forest fire that burnt half of the pine forests to the north of the great mountains. Yes, it was not in recent times. The children that play on the streets laugh while they swear about the fire. Not you or I would sir. For we know better. So it was after the fire had burnt down and left a shame where a forest stood, and it was not just the forest it burnt. Our little house by the woods was now a heap of ashes at best and my brother and I had moved to the village nearby which was at that time called Spade. There in a public house, on a sunny thirsty afternoon, sat this young gentleman, in shirt and tie, drinking his ale and watching the world with half a smile. He was genial. He loved to talk but when he talked good sir, we listened. Full of mirth and anecdotes were his sayings.
“I love the far East sirs.” He says. “One tends to think around here that the peoples of the world be very different from each other and that the East in particular be a lot of uncivilized people that know not to use a spoon when need be. Right you are. They know not to use a spoon my sirs, but they will sooner not eat their meal than put a man at displeasure over their ignorance of spoons. They will wait till you have had you meal and left with a full stomach. They will pretend to be full themselves even while their insides cry of hunger. All this because they want only to be polite and not spoil your appetite. Now that is what I call true civilization.”
We shook our heads in wonder.
“I was with a family once sirs, who had the misfortune of having a rather large number of children. This was in the area between China and India. A no man’s land really, but a land with people never the less. This man, the father of the house took me into his modest home and paraded his children before me. There were about thirteen present, all very clean and disciplined. He then ordered them to bring us a meal. There were about three dishes full of meat and rice. I ate to the health of my host while he filled me in on their family history. A very pleasant affair it was. It was only later when I visited some others in the area that I learnt that this man was a poor as a rat. He had pawned his wife’s sole jewel to pay for the meat. His wife who had carefully kept from making her appearance, was too ashamed of her tattered clothes to be seen. And all along that man treated me like I was a king and he another. I can hardly say how much it touched me dear sirs to see this form of hospitality.”
We nodded, bringing up pictures of yellow skinned men and bowls of rice in our heads.
“I believe in the Bible sirs, and so I call myself a Christian. But I have known men of other religions and their faith has shown me not to be so conceited as to consider my opinion better than theirs. For I think if there be a God he makes no difference between them and us. The rich among them know no want, just as our rich know no want. Their poor know hunger in its true form as our poor do. So if there be a God, my sirs, he turns a blind eye to all of us equally. Who then are we to hold differences.”
We were convinced this man was a philosopher. Yes, he was young, even so he was far more knowledgeable than all of us put together. I must say sir, at that point I wished, even if for a very short minute, that I had not lived my life here on the mountains. I wished I had travelled to the Far East and eaten bowls of rice. I was convinced it was the elixir of knowledge. I felt like a country fool.
We would see him each night at the public house. He would talk and we would listen. Then one evening after a heavy bout of drinking, this gentleman made to go to his bed for the night. The next morning he was found dead. They found him still in his shirt and tie, lying by the road corner. He was dead. The government officials came and found his papers. They said he belonged to a small town off London. They said he had certainly never travelled outside the country. They said he had no money and was making away with some loose change from the keeper of the public house when he met his sudden demise.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
THE MEMOIRS OF RED JOHNSON: The Woman who sought her husband.
As I sit here this evening, on this heavy chair by the fire, the window betrays the red- faced sun. The rum is good and my glass is half full. None could be more blessed than me, except perhaps this dog that lies on the rug by my feet, gazing at the logs in the splendid fire. You Sir, seem mellow and content yourself. I think you have had a hard day. For there is a certain peace, a satisfying warmth, that can only come from having braved the hard whip of each day’s trials and emerged alive. We live still and so we mustn’t complain. For there are some less fortunate than us. They have lost their breath even while their eyes were open. Not that they were any less brave, only less fortunate.
Yes, Sir. My brown shoulders do not droop with age. That is more for the man who has tended to his sheep on the hills. For men like us, who have lived a life less enviable, no fatigue is come with age. We cannot afford to wilt. We will sooner die. Yet I would choose no other way to live than the one I know. To each his own.
I was saying the rum is good, and right I am. It is at times like these that one may let the mind wander for a bit. First to the lovely porcelain plate on the wall; a painting of a wolf in the snow. Then to the soft wool of the rug beneath my feet. Then to the pattern on the window made by the cold wind outside. Memories. Plenty of those have I. At my age Sir, it should hardly surprise anyone that I have memories enough to last us through this night and many more. Only if you insist will I share them with you.
There was Sir, a woman I once knew. Ah, the very mention makes you smile. Do not assume, Sir, that I embark on some account of courtship and romance. No. It does not suit me, Sir, to follow the skirt of a fair maiden. There have been times, I admit, when I have liked, even more than liked, some fair maiden or another, usually because she be the owner of a kind smile, or because she carry in her eyes the blue of a sea I have never beheld. But those have proved to be passing flights of fancy. A flower be best on its own branch. Once plucked and forced into a vase, it only droops and dies. I am sure you think otherwise. For some of us, however, it is only an unconquered mountain or an enemy’s land that delights. The price is heavy and we ain’t afraid to pay it.
But this woman Sir, that I now talk of was none of that. She was neither a flower nor a price. She had the misfortune of having a husband who was very prone to quarrel and vice. Of course he was loving to her, and they even begot two pretty children, I now forget their names. Round headed children with rosy cheeks, one boy and the other a girl, both of the same size, less trouble I am sure than what most children be. So this woman was a good wife and they pulled along. Then her bugger of a husband, went and had a good fist shake with the Jefferson brothers. You have heard of them I am sure. They used to be powerful in those days, manning the land around the thirteenth mountain from the lake, and making a general nuisance of themselves. They kept steeling his chickens, or so her husband claimed. No one believed him. They had no reason to. She spoke little and generally let her husband do the talking. She was well- brought up, she was. But then one day, her husband disappeared. Some said the Jefferson brothers had taught him a lesson, probably the last lesson he learnt. Some said he had eloped with the Parson’s daughter, though I would never believe that for once. People kept coming up with explanations of what had happened, like they always do. It is a common hatred that all of mankind share for the unexplained. After about a year, everyone decided he was dead. So he was dead.
This wife of his, however, would not hear of it. She believed he was alive. It is hard, no doubt, for any God- fearing wife to consider her husband dead while she has not proof of it. Hope lives on, particularly when nothing else does. She had them two little doves to see to. Times were hard. So she did what no one wanted her to. She left the two babies with the widow Ramsey and got on top of the one horse her husband owned. It was an old horse but it rode better under the lightness of her weight than it did under its true master. She told the village she was going to look for her man. For surely, she said, if he had not come home to see his kin and blood for a whole year, he must be in some grave danger. She would have to find him.
She set off, one misty morning, having cried at having to leave her pretty ones behind. How they wailed, those two tiny muttons. She gave the widow her last penny and bade her to see to her children. No one saw her for a long time after.
Now we men would see her now and again, galloping over the big mountains in the north. Now and again, we would see a glimpse of her big skirt as she rode across the cedar woods behind the mountains. It was a miracle how she lived, with no money and no man. No one knew how she got on. Once Tom the rascal said he had met her in one of the little public houses in the village to the west of the lake, where the toothless tribes live. He said she had stopped for a drink of water. The horse seemed older than before and she too seemed tired. She told him she had looked in all the villages to the south of the lake and was on her way to the rocky land further north. She still hoped to find her husband. Tom, being the rascal that he is, told her that it was all in vain, for her husband was surely dead and she a widow. But she only smiled and said that might be the case but she would not give up till she was certain of it.
Sometimes, on evening like these, as I sit by the fire with my rum, I do feel for that poor thing. How sad it must be for a woman to have to leave her dear brood behind and go out on horse- back in search of her wayward husband. I wonder how she must love him to want to destroy her everything for him, even her womanly nature. Then sometimes, when the rum is strong and in my head, I think she knew the truth. She knew he was dead. She knew she wouldn’t find him. She only wanted to roam the county-side without a care in the world. How evil the rum is, even as I love it so.
Yes, Sir. My brown shoulders do not droop with age. That is more for the man who has tended to his sheep on the hills. For men like us, who have lived a life less enviable, no fatigue is come with age. We cannot afford to wilt. We will sooner die. Yet I would choose no other way to live than the one I know. To each his own.
I was saying the rum is good, and right I am. It is at times like these that one may let the mind wander for a bit. First to the lovely porcelain plate on the wall; a painting of a wolf in the snow. Then to the soft wool of the rug beneath my feet. Then to the pattern on the window made by the cold wind outside. Memories. Plenty of those have I. At my age Sir, it should hardly surprise anyone that I have memories enough to last us through this night and many more. Only if you insist will I share them with you.
There was Sir, a woman I once knew. Ah, the very mention makes you smile. Do not assume, Sir, that I embark on some account of courtship and romance. No. It does not suit me, Sir, to follow the skirt of a fair maiden. There have been times, I admit, when I have liked, even more than liked, some fair maiden or another, usually because she be the owner of a kind smile, or because she carry in her eyes the blue of a sea I have never beheld. But those have proved to be passing flights of fancy. A flower be best on its own branch. Once plucked and forced into a vase, it only droops and dies. I am sure you think otherwise. For some of us, however, it is only an unconquered mountain or an enemy’s land that delights. The price is heavy and we ain’t afraid to pay it.
But this woman Sir, that I now talk of was none of that. She was neither a flower nor a price. She had the misfortune of having a husband who was very prone to quarrel and vice. Of course he was loving to her, and they even begot two pretty children, I now forget their names. Round headed children with rosy cheeks, one boy and the other a girl, both of the same size, less trouble I am sure than what most children be. So this woman was a good wife and they pulled along. Then her bugger of a husband, went and had a good fist shake with the Jefferson brothers. You have heard of them I am sure. They used to be powerful in those days, manning the land around the thirteenth mountain from the lake, and making a general nuisance of themselves. They kept steeling his chickens, or so her husband claimed. No one believed him. They had no reason to. She spoke little and generally let her husband do the talking. She was well- brought up, she was. But then one day, her husband disappeared. Some said the Jefferson brothers had taught him a lesson, probably the last lesson he learnt. Some said he had eloped with the Parson’s daughter, though I would never believe that for once. People kept coming up with explanations of what had happened, like they always do. It is a common hatred that all of mankind share for the unexplained. After about a year, everyone decided he was dead. So he was dead.
This wife of his, however, would not hear of it. She believed he was alive. It is hard, no doubt, for any God- fearing wife to consider her husband dead while she has not proof of it. Hope lives on, particularly when nothing else does. She had them two little doves to see to. Times were hard. So she did what no one wanted her to. She left the two babies with the widow Ramsey and got on top of the one horse her husband owned. It was an old horse but it rode better under the lightness of her weight than it did under its true master. She told the village she was going to look for her man. For surely, she said, if he had not come home to see his kin and blood for a whole year, he must be in some grave danger. She would have to find him.
She set off, one misty morning, having cried at having to leave her pretty ones behind. How they wailed, those two tiny muttons. She gave the widow her last penny and bade her to see to her children. No one saw her for a long time after.
Now we men would see her now and again, galloping over the big mountains in the north. Now and again, we would see a glimpse of her big skirt as she rode across the cedar woods behind the mountains. It was a miracle how she lived, with no money and no man. No one knew how she got on. Once Tom the rascal said he had met her in one of the little public houses in the village to the west of the lake, where the toothless tribes live. He said she had stopped for a drink of water. The horse seemed older than before and she too seemed tired. She told him she had looked in all the villages to the south of the lake and was on her way to the rocky land further north. She still hoped to find her husband. Tom, being the rascal that he is, told her that it was all in vain, for her husband was surely dead and she a widow. But she only smiled and said that might be the case but she would not give up till she was certain of it.
Sometimes, on evening like these, as I sit by the fire with my rum, I do feel for that poor thing. How sad it must be for a woman to have to leave her dear brood behind and go out on horse- back in search of her wayward husband. I wonder how she must love him to want to destroy her everything for him, even her womanly nature. Then sometimes, when the rum is strong and in my head, I think she knew the truth. She knew he was dead. She knew she wouldn’t find him. She only wanted to roam the county-side without a care in the world. How evil the rum is, even as I love it so.
Wednesday 17 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 4)
There it was. He found the page where The Winged Man had been slighted by a universal villain. He studied the expression on his face. It was shaded into black, on one side. There was a frown, but not one that showed weakness; rather one that showed patience. For the great need patience enough to keep them company while they await their greatness to be revealed. They must tolerate the mud slung on their faces, because in due course, the brilliance of their true self will be revealed. The boy went back to bed, to a sleep full of powerful dreams, each one a reflection of those books under his bed. His head was like the ceilings in some cheap motels; lined with several mirrors, in different shapes and colours but all mirroring the same image.
The next day, at games, the boy walked up to Billy. Billy’s friends all looked at the boy in surprise but Billy only grinned. The boy put on a frown, one that did not show weakness.
“Das darf nicht wahr sein,” the boy said in as loud a voice as he could call up from his belly. Everyone stopped playing and looked at the boy. “This cannot be true. You cannot win against me. For your victory would be a perpetual assault to the truth in human nature. We are divine when in our true elements. I will not bow to the Bal of vile ignorance. You may have won the battle but I will win the war. You can but only await your impending doom in silence.”
No one spoke a word. The boy walked away quickly, out of the playground, out of sight. Billy felt a tingle in his belly, a strong urge to burst out laughing. The other children decided they now had one person they would all avoid. And the girl of the Valentine’s Day card solemnly stared at her shoes.
Oh and the boy, when he grew up, still wore glasses.
The next day, at games, the boy walked up to Billy. Billy’s friends all looked at the boy in surprise but Billy only grinned. The boy put on a frown, one that did not show weakness.
“Das darf nicht wahr sein,” the boy said in as loud a voice as he could call up from his belly. Everyone stopped playing and looked at the boy. “This cannot be true. You cannot win against me. For your victory would be a perpetual assault to the truth in human nature. We are divine when in our true elements. I will not bow to the Bal of vile ignorance. You may have won the battle but I will win the war. You can but only await your impending doom in silence.”
No one spoke a word. The boy walked away quickly, out of the playground, out of sight. Billy felt a tingle in his belly, a strong urge to burst out laughing. The other children decided they now had one person they would all avoid. And the girl of the Valentine’s Day card solemnly stared at her shoes.
Oh and the boy, when he grew up, still wore glasses.
Monday 15 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 3)
That night, as soon as the lights in the house were turned off, the boy crawled out of bed and reached out for a book under the bed. He knew exactly what he was looking for. He turned it to the right page. It was all there, in black, white and gray. The Winged Man had his grip around the enemy. He flung the enemy around the railing of a high building. The enemy swung freely, his life depended on the grip The Winged Man had on his collar. The boy stared at the grip. He could see the veins on The Winged Man’s arms. He could see his muscles move. He could hear the throbbing of both hearts. He could smell the fear. The enemy would have to pay for what he did. The price would be his life. The Winged Man let go. The muscles in his arm relaxed. His breath grew steadier as he watched Billy fall down the building. Gravity. Death. It was all very natural. The enemy died as he hit the road below with a loud thud. Billy’s blood coloured the black tar road.
The boy wondered if there was a sequence where one of the blondes was slighted. Unfortunately there was not. So he shut the book in frustration.
He moved to the window. It was a moonless sky but the stars were aplenty. They seem so far away, he thought. Did The Winged Man ever gaze at the stars in wonder? Did Billy ever gaze at the stars in wonder? A sudden urge gripped the boy’s heart. He wanted to say something clever to Billy; something that will make Billy re-think his previous rudeness. He wanted Billy to be sorry for what he had done. He wanted the enemy to crave his friendship. Maybe something in German! German sounded so clever. What if Billy didn’t understand German? Anyone who read a lot of comics would know a least a bit of German. What if Billy never read a comic in his life? The thought made the boy’s tongue stick to the upper part of this mouth. What kind of a person never read comics? An unfortunate person, he decided. With this the primary difference between the two of them dawned upon the boy. Billy did not know The Winged Man. He felt a sense of pity for Billy.
He reached his hand under the bed again, this time pulling out an older edition. It explained how The Winged Man found his vocation. The boy took off his shirt and looked at his back in the mirror. He strained his neck to be able to see, in the mirror, the portion below his shoulder blades. He stretched his hand to feel the skin there. He also felt the protruding edge of some bone. No. There was no scar, no lump, not even a stray hair to show the start of a wing. It would never happen to him.
He looked at the book again, turning a couple of pages.
The boy wondered if there was a sequence where one of the blondes was slighted. Unfortunately there was not. So he shut the book in frustration.
He moved to the window. It was a moonless sky but the stars were aplenty. They seem so far away, he thought. Did The Winged Man ever gaze at the stars in wonder? Did Billy ever gaze at the stars in wonder? A sudden urge gripped the boy’s heart. He wanted to say something clever to Billy; something that will make Billy re-think his previous rudeness. He wanted Billy to be sorry for what he had done. He wanted the enemy to crave his friendship. Maybe something in German! German sounded so clever. What if Billy didn’t understand German? Anyone who read a lot of comics would know a least a bit of German. What if Billy never read a comic in his life? The thought made the boy’s tongue stick to the upper part of this mouth. What kind of a person never read comics? An unfortunate person, he decided. With this the primary difference between the two of them dawned upon the boy. Billy did not know The Winged Man. He felt a sense of pity for Billy.
He reached his hand under the bed again, this time pulling out an older edition. It explained how The Winged Man found his vocation. The boy took off his shirt and looked at his back in the mirror. He strained his neck to be able to see, in the mirror, the portion below his shoulder blades. He stretched his hand to feel the skin there. He also felt the protruding edge of some bone. No. There was no scar, no lump, not even a stray hair to show the start of a wing. It would never happen to him.
He looked at the book again, turning a couple of pages.
Saturday 13 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 2)
The trust only grew with time. The Winged Man did no wrong and the boy grew to depend on this quality in The Winged Man. He made a mask for his own face out of paper. He kept it hidden under his pillow at night. One never knows when one will need it. He wrote the initials (WM) in his note book. He made a scrap-book containing a flow chart of all the things The Winged Man had done so far. It was all in the right sequences. Inside his Physics text book, on the last page, he wrote ‘WM Rulez’. And the nightly rendezvous continued, by the torch light, by the moon light, as the stars gazed in amusement, a hero was born.
On Valentine’s Day, Marie who sat behind him in class gave him a card. He did not give one back to her. She was alright, but she was not blonde.
One unfortunate Thursday, Billy was bored during Games hour. Billy looked at the boy. The boy was short for his age. He had very thick glasses, owing to his cylindrical vision being week. The doctor said it was because he did not eat enough carrots. Now his mother only gave him carrots for dinner. One of the stars in the sky would have said something about too much reading in the dark, but it bit its tongue and remained silent. The boy did not care about his glasses. They would be gone by the time he grew up, he thought. It was not important. Billy kept looking at the boy. Then he spoke to the boy.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘It’s John.’
‘On?’
‘No. John, with a J.’
‘No. It’s John with a P.’
So saying Billy squeezed his water bottle right onto the boy’s trouser. A dark stain formed on the front and along his legs. Everyone was laughing. The boy did not see who was laughing but he heard. He heard Marie too. She was laughing. Women are such a waste of time, he said in his head. That evening, on the bus home, he kept thinking. What would WM have done? I know. He would have bashed Billy’s face in.
The boy did not bash Billy’s face in. He just did not.
On Valentine’s Day, Marie who sat behind him in class gave him a card. He did not give one back to her. She was alright, but she was not blonde.
One unfortunate Thursday, Billy was bored during Games hour. Billy looked at the boy. The boy was short for his age. He had very thick glasses, owing to his cylindrical vision being week. The doctor said it was because he did not eat enough carrots. Now his mother only gave him carrots for dinner. One of the stars in the sky would have said something about too much reading in the dark, but it bit its tongue and remained silent. The boy did not care about his glasses. They would be gone by the time he grew up, he thought. It was not important. Billy kept looking at the boy. Then he spoke to the boy.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘It’s John.’
‘On?’
‘No. John, with a J.’
‘No. It’s John with a P.’
So saying Billy squeezed his water bottle right onto the boy’s trouser. A dark stain formed on the front and along his legs. Everyone was laughing. The boy did not see who was laughing but he heard. He heard Marie too. She was laughing. Women are such a waste of time, he said in his head. That evening, on the bus home, he kept thinking. What would WM have done? I know. He would have bashed Billy’s face in.
The boy did not bash Billy’s face in. He just did not.
Friday 12 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 1)
It was there, right there, on the page in front of his eyes. He strained to see in the dim light of his night torch. He crawled, book in hand. He crept closer to the window and drew the curtains. The moonlight might help him see better. He was not yet 13 years old, but he lived a hundred lives, all at that time of the night, by the light of the battery- torch. He had climbed walls, pinned down villains with his bare hands, cracked their skull with one blow, made them confess, made them repent… he had saved the day, saved the world… all by the light of that torch, he had romanced pretty blondes, broken their hearts even, all for a superior cause, a cause that was his obsession, a cause that was his all. He had done this, without moving any further than the distance between his bed and the window close by. He had done it again and again, in his head, in his soul and through what he saw on those pages. He had a copy of every single edition ever published. His personal savior ‘The Winged Man’ had won again. He was right now on the terrace of a sky scraper, his cloak flying in the moon-lit breeze, holding his enemy by the neck. His enemy was the enemy of the world. The Winger Man was doing his duty.
John had been in this relationship with The Winged Man for about a year now. Since it started, it took over his life bit by bit. First it was the waiting for every new edition, the impatience, the longing, then it became compulsive, once he got the new edition he would read till it was over, on the bus to school, in the bath, in class, in place of his home work, even while he was playing rugby. He would just be reading. Once he had read it through, he would keep thinking about it, live and re-live it in his mind. It was like a song playing in his head. Then he would dream about it, while he was sleeping and while he was not. He would add to what he had read, fill in the gaps, with his own imagination. He would make explanations for the past and predict the future.
It was that face, always in his eyes, the masked face. No one had seen The Winged Man without the mask but the boy had. For we are not born with a mask on our faces. We make one along the way. To hide the pain, the embarrassment, the insecurities. To unlock the power within, the naked animal power, the power for cruelty.
Right now, by the window, he read again, what he had read a hundred times before, on that same page. He ran his palm along the page. The feel of coarse paper sent a tingle down his back. The put his head down, the smell of print went through his nostrils to the bowels of his being. The Winged Man would never fail. He was born to win.
John had been in this relationship with The Winged Man for about a year now. Since it started, it took over his life bit by bit. First it was the waiting for every new edition, the impatience, the longing, then it became compulsive, once he got the new edition he would read till it was over, on the bus to school, in the bath, in class, in place of his home work, even while he was playing rugby. He would just be reading. Once he had read it through, he would keep thinking about it, live and re-live it in his mind. It was like a song playing in his head. Then he would dream about it, while he was sleeping and while he was not. He would add to what he had read, fill in the gaps, with his own imagination. He would make explanations for the past and predict the future.
It was that face, always in his eyes, the masked face. No one had seen The Winged Man without the mask but the boy had. For we are not born with a mask on our faces. We make one along the way. To hide the pain, the embarrassment, the insecurities. To unlock the power within, the naked animal power, the power for cruelty.
Right now, by the window, he read again, what he had read a hundred times before, on that same page. He ran his palm along the page. The feel of coarse paper sent a tingle down his back. The put his head down, the smell of print went through his nostrils to the bowels of his being. The Winged Man would never fail. He was born to win.
Saturday 6 June 2009
Cool Waters (Part 4)
The girl would wait all day, suffer the mundane routine of life, only so she could at nightfall escape to this other secret world where she would meet the woman she wanted to be. She began to wonder if this woman was a princess of some sort, for she wore such beautiful clothes. She knew there were no princesses; we lived in a democracy, didn’t we? Yet that feeling that all that was taken for fact in the real world did not make sense in the world that the Woman was a part of.
During the day, the girl would busy herself making little baubles she could take to the woman. She would cut up bits of coloured paper and make flowers out of them. She would stitch bits of cloth together to make bunting. She would think of clever things to say to her. None of these really pleased the woman, who remained aloof even while she was polite. The girl tried not to be dismayed. She told herself, it is understandable that this princess would not like my paper flowers for they give no fragrance. My bunting is untidy and the things I say are, after all, childish. I must not worry, for, with time I will speak like this lady does; with politeness and restrain.
Finally one night as the two of them stayed by the cool waters, the woman seemed lost in thoughts. The girl had never seen her pensive and she was amazed. So the princess was capable of worry as well! Who could have guessed! The moon rays fell on the water and the ripples looked like stringed pearls. The queen of pearls herself sat on the swing and stared at her own reflection. ‘What is the matter?’ the girl asked in a low, scared voice, ‘Is something bothering you?’ The woman looked up and looked straight into the little girl’s eyes. ‘I want to ask you something’, she said at length, ‘Why do come here little one? Why do come see me?’ The girl blushed. How was she to put into words the truth? How do you tell someone that you admire them more them anything else in this world? How do you tell someone you want to be them? What if you are too scared to speak? ‘I like you,’ the girl managed to lisp. The woman laughed. I will laugh like that someday, girl said to herself. ‘You like me?’ the woman echoed, ‘How wonderful!’ Why was she behaving like she did not know that. Had it not been obvious from the start? ‘How much do you like me, little one?’ The girl looked up and stopped blushing. How could she answer that? She loved her a lot, but how much was a lot. She remained silent. The woman spoke again, ‘Do you love me enough to do anything for me, little one?’ The girl wanted to nod. She wanted to say something in the affirmative. She wanted to assure the woman that she would even die for her? Would she? She remained silent. ‘Then listen to me,’ said the woman, ‘If you like me, bring me something dear to you. Bring me something you cannot do without. Not these bits of paper or these rags of cloth. Bring me… bring me your father.’ The girl shuddered inside. ‘Go then. Do as I say, if you like me.’
The girl got up and walked away. She walked in even, gradual steps. She did not run like she always did. She walked as if she were old. She did not turn back to look, not once. She went back home to her own bed. After that night, she never went back to see the woman. Every night she slept in her own bed, a dreamless sleep, peaceful and content. She did not think of the woman, not once.
Sometimes the girl would be very bored again. Then, she would play with other children or complain about how she did not like tennis or cricket. Sometimes she would read books, but only books without pictures. She was happy, at least as happy as most of us. Sometimes she was sad, but no matter how sad she was, she never went back to the cool waters, not once.
***
During the day, the girl would busy herself making little baubles she could take to the woman. She would cut up bits of coloured paper and make flowers out of them. She would stitch bits of cloth together to make bunting. She would think of clever things to say to her. None of these really pleased the woman, who remained aloof even while she was polite. The girl tried not to be dismayed. She told herself, it is understandable that this princess would not like my paper flowers for they give no fragrance. My bunting is untidy and the things I say are, after all, childish. I must not worry, for, with time I will speak like this lady does; with politeness and restrain.
Finally one night as the two of them stayed by the cool waters, the woman seemed lost in thoughts. The girl had never seen her pensive and she was amazed. So the princess was capable of worry as well! Who could have guessed! The moon rays fell on the water and the ripples looked like stringed pearls. The queen of pearls herself sat on the swing and stared at her own reflection. ‘What is the matter?’ the girl asked in a low, scared voice, ‘Is something bothering you?’ The woman looked up and looked straight into the little girl’s eyes. ‘I want to ask you something’, she said at length, ‘Why do come here little one? Why do come see me?’ The girl blushed. How was she to put into words the truth? How do you tell someone that you admire them more them anything else in this world? How do you tell someone you want to be them? What if you are too scared to speak? ‘I like you,’ the girl managed to lisp. The woman laughed. I will laugh like that someday, girl said to herself. ‘You like me?’ the woman echoed, ‘How wonderful!’ Why was she behaving like she did not know that. Had it not been obvious from the start? ‘How much do you like me, little one?’ The girl looked up and stopped blushing. How could she answer that? She loved her a lot, but how much was a lot. She remained silent. The woman spoke again, ‘Do you love me enough to do anything for me, little one?’ The girl wanted to nod. She wanted to say something in the affirmative. She wanted to assure the woman that she would even die for her? Would she? She remained silent. ‘Then listen to me,’ said the woman, ‘If you like me, bring me something dear to you. Bring me something you cannot do without. Not these bits of paper or these rags of cloth. Bring me… bring me your father.’ The girl shuddered inside. ‘Go then. Do as I say, if you like me.’
The girl got up and walked away. She walked in even, gradual steps. She did not run like she always did. She walked as if she were old. She did not turn back to look, not once. She went back home to her own bed. After that night, she never went back to see the woman. Every night she slept in her own bed, a dreamless sleep, peaceful and content. She did not think of the woman, not once.
Sometimes the girl would be very bored again. Then, she would play with other children or complain about how she did not like tennis or cricket. Sometimes she would read books, but only books without pictures. She was happy, at least as happy as most of us. Sometimes she was sad, but no matter how sad she was, she never went back to the cool waters, not once.
***
Friday 5 June 2009
Cool Waters (Part 3)
‘The girl stayed by the cool waters all night. At daybreak, she hurried home, for she did not want anyone to panic on not finding her. She did not want them to know her secret. She pretended all was as usual. She pretended she was still bored but every thought in her head throughout the day focused on that beautiful sight. She wanted to be that woman. She was determined about it now. She wanted to call that woman her sister, her elder sister, to pretend they were born of the same womb, to pretend they were related. That would have made it so much easier to grow up to be like her. But she dared not call her that. She might upset her. She could not risk that.
‘The next night, she waited till all the world was in bed. She crept out of her home while the crickets prayed. She ran all the way to the cool waters, her instincts guiding her along the way, to the dream where the breeze was gentle and the sky silver. The woman would be there, with the dazzling eyes and the smile that never reached her eyes.
‘‘May I plait your hair?’ the girl would ask and the woman would smile politely, ‘Of course.’ The girl would need all the strength in her tender arms to gather that thick long hair. She would use all her ideas to make order in that mass of silk, but she would fail miserably. The hair was too heavy, too thick and too strong for her little arms. The woman would laugh pleasantly. ‘Let me show you how,’ she would say patiently, and with one movement of her long arms she would gather up all of the hair in her hands and twist it into a long snake like plait. ‘Fetch me some flowers’, she whispered to the girl who was more than excited to be of some use. The girl ran around looking for the prettiest, most delicate of flowers and brought them to the woman. The woman would put each flower to her nose before she decided if they were worthy of her hair. Many were rejected and put aside. Some were lucky enough to get wound into her dark hair. They glittered like the stars in a dark night sky. The best pick of them all was a full- blossomed rose, blood red and with a velvety texture. This the girl cradled in the palm of her hand with utmost care while she presented it to the woman. Surely she would receive a glance of admiration from the lady for having picked a flower as rare as that. But the lady picked up the flower with callousness, crumpled its petals and blew them into the cool waters. The little girl gasped in disappointment but the woman only laughed her eyes still on those red petals that floated on the water.
‘The next night, she waited till all the world was in bed. She crept out of her home while the crickets prayed. She ran all the way to the cool waters, her instincts guiding her along the way, to the dream where the breeze was gentle and the sky silver. The woman would be there, with the dazzling eyes and the smile that never reached her eyes.
‘‘May I plait your hair?’ the girl would ask and the woman would smile politely, ‘Of course.’ The girl would need all the strength in her tender arms to gather that thick long hair. She would use all her ideas to make order in that mass of silk, but she would fail miserably. The hair was too heavy, too thick and too strong for her little arms. The woman would laugh pleasantly. ‘Let me show you how,’ she would say patiently, and with one movement of her long arms she would gather up all of the hair in her hands and twist it into a long snake like plait. ‘Fetch me some flowers’, she whispered to the girl who was more than excited to be of some use. The girl ran around looking for the prettiest, most delicate of flowers and brought them to the woman. The woman would put each flower to her nose before she decided if they were worthy of her hair. Many were rejected and put aside. Some were lucky enough to get wound into her dark hair. They glittered like the stars in a dark night sky. The best pick of them all was a full- blossomed rose, blood red and with a velvety texture. This the girl cradled in the palm of her hand with utmost care while she presented it to the woman. Surely she would receive a glance of admiration from the lady for having picked a flower as rare as that. But the lady picked up the flower with callousness, crumpled its petals and blew them into the cool waters. The little girl gasped in disappointment but the woman only laughed her eyes still on those red petals that floated on the water.
Thursday 4 June 2009
Cool Waters (part 2)
‘And on that heavenly swing sat the most beautiful creature the girl had ever seen. She might have called it a fairy or a goddess even… but she did not believe in the existence of these. So she had to settle for calling her a woman, but mere woman are never as beautiful as that!
She was shapely and he skin looks as smooth as butter. She had very long hair that hung along her back like a curtain of silk. The girl was spell- bound. She watched this apparition swing calmly, back and forth; back and forth… the only sound was of her feet gently touching the cool waters each time. The word beautiful fell short of describing the sight. The girl could have stood there, gazing, for the rest of her life, had she not noticed the woman had turned and was now looking at her. Their eyes met and the girl turned her eyes away. She was afraid.
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked. Her voice was like a wind- chime in a far away temple. The girl swallowed. ‘I, er, am, er, I am a girl who lives close by… or far away, where these woods end, or start even. I just wandered in for water, no, I wasn’t looking for water. I am not thirsty. Actually I am.’
The woman laughed, a clear laugh, from her throat and not her belly. She smiled but it never reached her eyes. Her eyes shone like jewels. ‘You are funny’, she said to the girl. The girl blushed. That was a good thing, was it not? To be funny was good. ‘But don’t worry,’ said the woman, ‘You are young now, but you will grow up some day. Then you will be a pretty girl, like me.’
The little girl felt a sharp pain in her stomach. That was it! She knew it right then. The woman had said the very thing she had been thinking. She wanted to be like this woman. In fact, that was all she wanted. This lady had it all. She was beautiful, calm, wise and well- spoken. That was what everyone wanted to be. That was what she wanted to be. To realize this gave the little girl immense courage. She spoke up, ‘May I stay here with you for a while?’ ‘Of course you may’, said the woman politely, ‘You can stay as long as you want.’ Just the right thing to say, the girl observed, just the right way to say it too. This woman was perfect…
She was shapely and he skin looks as smooth as butter. She had very long hair that hung along her back like a curtain of silk. The girl was spell- bound. She watched this apparition swing calmly, back and forth; back and forth… the only sound was of her feet gently touching the cool waters each time. The word beautiful fell short of describing the sight. The girl could have stood there, gazing, for the rest of her life, had she not noticed the woman had turned and was now looking at her. Their eyes met and the girl turned her eyes away. She was afraid.
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked. Her voice was like a wind- chime in a far away temple. The girl swallowed. ‘I, er, am, er, I am a girl who lives close by… or far away, where these woods end, or start even. I just wandered in for water, no, I wasn’t looking for water. I am not thirsty. Actually I am.’
The woman laughed, a clear laugh, from her throat and not her belly. She smiled but it never reached her eyes. Her eyes shone like jewels. ‘You are funny’, she said to the girl. The girl blushed. That was a good thing, was it not? To be funny was good. ‘But don’t worry,’ said the woman, ‘You are young now, but you will grow up some day. Then you will be a pretty girl, like me.’
The little girl felt a sharp pain in her stomach. That was it! She knew it right then. The woman had said the very thing she had been thinking. She wanted to be like this woman. In fact, that was all she wanted. This lady had it all. She was beautiful, calm, wise and well- spoken. That was what everyone wanted to be. That was what she wanted to be. To realize this gave the little girl immense courage. She spoke up, ‘May I stay here with you for a while?’ ‘Of course you may’, said the woman politely, ‘You can stay as long as you want.’ Just the right thing to say, the girl observed, just the right way to say it too. This woman was perfect…
Tuesday 2 June 2009
Cool Waters (part 1)
Then one night, it was too warm to go to bed, so Amuma and I sat in the veranda. I was fanning her as she began to tell me this story.
‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl just like you. She was your age and your height as well. She was prone to getting bored all the time. Her parents would buy her books but she only wanted ones with pictures in them. They would buy her clothes but she only wanted ones with frills in them. They would buy her tennis rackets and cricket bats but she disliked them. They found her hard to please and unhappy. No one could entertain her for very long. So they all gave up.
‘So there she sat, bored and neglected. She knew she would have to entertain herself as all else had failed. So one evening, about this time of the night, she began to walk around her garden. Before she knew it she had walked a distance and into unknown woods. Now she was unafraid. So she walked on till she came to a clearing where there was a cool pool of water. The night was warm, like this night is. The air was light and a slight breeze flowed. The sight of water made her thirsty and she stooped for a drink.
‘The woods are a dangerous place, little one. Even as unafraid as you are, some fears are defenses. But the little one knew no fears. Blessed are the fearless, yet I would not want to be them. So she stooped for a drink and she felt a ripple in the water even before she had touched it. She saw feet, one pair touching the surface of the water, and another, it’s reflection in the water. She saw a swing, made of rope and wood, tied to the branch of a tree that passed over the waters. The rope on both sides of the swing was covered in flowers, elaborately and artistically…
‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl just like you. She was your age and your height as well. She was prone to getting bored all the time. Her parents would buy her books but she only wanted ones with pictures in them. They would buy her clothes but she only wanted ones with frills in them. They would buy her tennis rackets and cricket bats but she disliked them. They found her hard to please and unhappy. No one could entertain her for very long. So they all gave up.
‘So there she sat, bored and neglected. She knew she would have to entertain herself as all else had failed. So one evening, about this time of the night, she began to walk around her garden. Before she knew it she had walked a distance and into unknown woods. Now she was unafraid. So she walked on till she came to a clearing where there was a cool pool of water. The night was warm, like this night is. The air was light and a slight breeze flowed. The sight of water made her thirsty and she stooped for a drink.
‘The woods are a dangerous place, little one. Even as unafraid as you are, some fears are defenses. But the little one knew no fears. Blessed are the fearless, yet I would not want to be them. So she stooped for a drink and she felt a ripple in the water even before she had touched it. She saw feet, one pair touching the surface of the water, and another, it’s reflection in the water. She saw a swing, made of rope and wood, tied to the branch of a tree that passed over the waters. The rope on both sides of the swing was covered in flowers, elaborately and artistically…
Thursday 28 May 2009
Hiranakshi (part 7)
Hiran was nervous and worried. She appologized profusely to her husband and her mother- in- law, but they wanted an answer. Why had she done it? What had caused her to ruin her husband's hard- work? She did not know how to tell a clever lie, so she said a very foolish one instead. She said it wasn't her. It was a bangle- seller who visited her often. She had asked her to reduce the price of her bangles and an argument followed. The bangle- seller then proceeded to vent her anger by distroying what she knew was the most precious thing in the house. Everyone knew how much she loved her husband's paintings. Everyone did. So the bangle- seller marred them.
No one would believ that lie. Who could blame them? Hiran was very childish indeed. She had lost her husband's confidence and her mother- in- law's affections. She would now have to learn her duty as a wife and do all her house- work like before, but under the watchful gaze of her mother- in- law. If she had forgotten her role, she would have to be reminded of it.
The bangle- seller never came back. Hiran knew it was not because of the argument they had. She knew that could have been forgiven. The bangle- seller never came back because Hiran had broken the very bond of trust on which their friendship was based. She had blamed her for what she did not do. She had blamed her for the ruined paintings. Do you remember, the bangle- seller had said, 'as long as you remain true to me, I will'Hiran had not kept her part of the promise. But hold on, how did the bangle- seller know what had happened after she left? How did she know that Hiran had blamed her for the ruined painting? Hiran says, 'Oh that woman knows everything. She knows everything.'
So saying Amuma ended the story. I was appalled. What kind of a rubbish story is this Amuma? It makes little sense to me. 'Ah', said Amuma, 'That is what Hiran used to say to everything the bangle- seller told her.' I think Amuma needs to be put away.
No one would believ that lie. Who could blame them? Hiran was very childish indeed. She had lost her husband's confidence and her mother- in- law's affections. She would now have to learn her duty as a wife and do all her house- work like before, but under the watchful gaze of her mother- in- law. If she had forgotten her role, she would have to be reminded of it.
The bangle- seller never came back. Hiran knew it was not because of the argument they had. She knew that could have been forgiven. The bangle- seller never came back because Hiran had broken the very bond of trust on which their friendship was based. She had blamed her for what she did not do. She had blamed her for the ruined paintings. Do you remember, the bangle- seller had said, 'as long as you remain true to me, I will'Hiran had not kept her part of the promise. But hold on, how did the bangle- seller know what had happened after she left? How did she know that Hiran had blamed her for the ruined painting? Hiran says, 'Oh that woman knows everything. She knows everything.'
So saying Amuma ended the story. I was appalled. What kind of a rubbish story is this Amuma? It makes little sense to me. 'Ah', said Amuma, 'That is what Hiran used to say to everything the bangle- seller told her.' I think Amuma needs to be put away.
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Hiranakshi (part 6)
The days passed quickly for Hiran. Every afternoon the bangle seller would come with her stories, her bangles and her drawings. They would run around the back garden like five year-olds. No one would stop them.
Then she asked the bangle seller, 'Will you be my friend always? Will you spend all your afternoons here. I will buy a pair of bangles off you each day if you like.' 'Yes, I will be there. As long as you remain true, so will I.' And they were happy. However, there was someone who was increasingly unhappy; the husband.' The food he now ate was only fit for dogs, the house was a mess, clothes were unwashed and his wife, young as she was, seemed to have retarded further into some stage in her childhood where nothing seemed important.
Then, one afternoon, the bangle seller said, 'Why do you never show me your husband's painting? I insist on seeing them.' Hiran did not like what she heard. It was her husband's work and she was not having it laughed at. 'What do you mean insist? Are you commanding me?' 'No pretty one, It is quite boring to draw any more. Can we go inside the house and have a look at his works?' 'No, we may not.' 'Why not?' 'Because I said so!'
The bangle seller became quiet. She had never denied the pretty one anything she had wanted, yet the pretty one found it so easy to deny her everything she wanted. 'Alright then. If you don't want me to see them, I guess it is entirely upto you.' Hiran was amused, 'Ofcourse, it's entirely upto me. How could it be otherwise? He is my husband and those are his paintings. I can choose to do with them what I want.' The bangle seller smiled. 'Is that true? You are a lucky one then, if you have so much right over your husband. I have not know another so fortunate.' Hiran caught the hint of sarcasm in her voice. 'I think you should leave now.' she said firmly. 'Alright, I will.' So saying the bangle seller got up and put her basket on her head again. As she left to go, she felt a tingle of pity for the young girl so pretty and so naive. 'Would you like me to get you any new bangles tomorrow? I have a pair with me that have green stones studded around them. I was saving them so I could sell them to a very rich woman. You are rich enough. Would you like me to get them for you?' Hiran was not impressed. The bangle seller had more bangles then? Ones she did not carry in that basket? Ones she saved for better people? 'Oh, I am not so sure. Green was never my choosen colour. Also, my mother sent enough bangles with me to last me a life time. I just buy them from you to help you earn a living.' The bangle seller left without saying another word.
That evening, as it neared sunset, Hiran grew worried. Had she upset her friend? Would she not come back the next day? What if she did not? Where would she go look for her? She did not even know where bangle sellers lived? Would she be able to get her husband to find out? But it was all his fault in the first place. Had he not hidden all of those paintings in that silly room of his she would have showed them to her friend. He thinks he is making a shrine for them does he? Are his paintings so precious as to have a room all to themselves, while she shared hers with him? How long had it been since he had even spoken to her with love? She was not having any more of this! She took a tumbler full fo water and broke into the room in which the paintings were. She looked at them, those blue rivers, the yellowing leaves, the calm faces. she splashed the water across them, leaving a tiny stream of blotched paint behind.
Now the young are often impulsive. They are also more prone to guilt. The old have seen more of the world and thus convince themselves that their faults are not their own. They conjure up another figure, they name it destiny, circumstances, fate, God, life... anything but their own name. They blame this creation of their mind for their faults. But the young do not yet know this trick and so are defenseless against guilt. Hiran wept. The tears in those shapely eyes could have melted anyone; anyone but her husband.
He decided enough tolerance had already been shown. Now was not the time to sit down to meditate, now was the time to take action. Such faults must be corrected at the right time or they would become stronger. So he decided to take matters into his own hands and promptly sent word to his mother. He requested her to come home as there were matters to be discussed and sorted. This she did, for she loved her son and she loved her peace of mind.
Then she asked the bangle seller, 'Will you be my friend always? Will you spend all your afternoons here. I will buy a pair of bangles off you each day if you like.' 'Yes, I will be there. As long as you remain true, so will I.' And they were happy. However, there was someone who was increasingly unhappy; the husband.' The food he now ate was only fit for dogs, the house was a mess, clothes were unwashed and his wife, young as she was, seemed to have retarded further into some stage in her childhood where nothing seemed important.
Then, one afternoon, the bangle seller said, 'Why do you never show me your husband's painting? I insist on seeing them.' Hiran did not like what she heard. It was her husband's work and she was not having it laughed at. 'What do you mean insist? Are you commanding me?' 'No pretty one, It is quite boring to draw any more. Can we go inside the house and have a look at his works?' 'No, we may not.' 'Why not?' 'Because I said so!'
The bangle seller became quiet. She had never denied the pretty one anything she had wanted, yet the pretty one found it so easy to deny her everything she wanted. 'Alright then. If you don't want me to see them, I guess it is entirely upto you.' Hiran was amused, 'Ofcourse, it's entirely upto me. How could it be otherwise? He is my husband and those are his paintings. I can choose to do with them what I want.' The bangle seller smiled. 'Is that true? You are a lucky one then, if you have so much right over your husband. I have not know another so fortunate.' Hiran caught the hint of sarcasm in her voice. 'I think you should leave now.' she said firmly. 'Alright, I will.' So saying the bangle seller got up and put her basket on her head again. As she left to go, she felt a tingle of pity for the young girl so pretty and so naive. 'Would you like me to get you any new bangles tomorrow? I have a pair with me that have green stones studded around them. I was saving them so I could sell them to a very rich woman. You are rich enough. Would you like me to get them for you?' Hiran was not impressed. The bangle seller had more bangles then? Ones she did not carry in that basket? Ones she saved for better people? 'Oh, I am not so sure. Green was never my choosen colour. Also, my mother sent enough bangles with me to last me a life time. I just buy them from you to help you earn a living.' The bangle seller left without saying another word.
That evening, as it neared sunset, Hiran grew worried. Had she upset her friend? Would she not come back the next day? What if she did not? Where would she go look for her? She did not even know where bangle sellers lived? Would she be able to get her husband to find out? But it was all his fault in the first place. Had he not hidden all of those paintings in that silly room of his she would have showed them to her friend. He thinks he is making a shrine for them does he? Are his paintings so precious as to have a room all to themselves, while she shared hers with him? How long had it been since he had even spoken to her with love? She was not having any more of this! She took a tumbler full fo water and broke into the room in which the paintings were. She looked at them, those blue rivers, the yellowing leaves, the calm faces. she splashed the water across them, leaving a tiny stream of blotched paint behind.
Now the young are often impulsive. They are also more prone to guilt. The old have seen more of the world and thus convince themselves that their faults are not their own. They conjure up another figure, they name it destiny, circumstances, fate, God, life... anything but their own name. They blame this creation of their mind for their faults. But the young do not yet know this trick and so are defenseless against guilt. Hiran wept. The tears in those shapely eyes could have melted anyone; anyone but her husband.
He decided enough tolerance had already been shown. Now was not the time to sit down to meditate, now was the time to take action. Such faults must be corrected at the right time or they would become stronger. So he decided to take matters into his own hands and promptly sent word to his mother. He requested her to come home as there were matters to be discussed and sorted. This she did, for she loved her son and she loved her peace of mind.
Monday 25 May 2009
Hiranakshi (part 5)
That evening her husband noticed the food was not as well prepared as usual. He also noticed Hiran did not fan him well. She seemed to find it hard to hold the fan properly in her hand, as if she were too delicate to do so or as if her palms were too precious to be creased. He found her to be very pre-occupied. He said nothing to her. He was a wise man and knew that one must always be patient with the young. So he went to rest as usual.
In the morning, Hiran was up earlier than usual. She waited impatiently for her husband to leave for work. Afternoon seemed to take its own time coming. Finally it was that voice again. 'Is it me you await, pretty one?' Hiran's ears perked up and her eyes shone. 'Look what I found!' Hiran took the bangle- seller by the hand, almost dragging her along, to the back garden. There in the dark corner of the garden, where sunlight could hardly reach even in the prime of noon, Hiran revealed a large butterfly. It had caught one of its tentacles in the pattern of the bark and could not release itself. 'It will die today, won't it?' Hiran asked solemly. 'Maybe.' said the bangle seller and squatted on the floor. She began to trace a pattern on the sand. 'What are we going to do? How do we save it?' Hiran was getting paranoid. 'We cannot save it, pretty one. No one can save no one. We can only make it immortal.' 'How?' Hiran was almost screaming now. 'Watch me while I make it immortal,' said the bangle seller calmly. Hiran went on her knees to see what the bangle- seller was upto. She was drawing, with her index finger, on the sand. She was making a picture, a very pretty one, of the butterfly. When she had finished, she looked up and caught the bewilderment in Hiran's eye. She laughed to see the large almond shaped eyes so troubled. 'Nice picture,' said Hiran recovering, 'You are more talented than my husband.' 'Does your husband draw?' 'Oh yes. He is a very talented man.' 'May I see any of his works?' 'No, you may not! Are you trying to fool me? You said you would make the butterfly immortal! Now it hangs there on the bark. It's dead! And you have nothing but a drawing on sand that won't last till tomorrow.' 'Will you forget it, pretty one? Will you forget how you wanted to show me this insect? Will you forget how I drew it on the sand, or this conversation?' Hiran paused before she answered, 'Not for a few days atleast.' 'Alright. I won't forget it for all my life. So the butterfly did not die. It still lives.' 'Ah.' said Hiran, 'But only till you are alive. When you die, your memory of it will die as well. It will truely be dead then!' 'Not if I manage to make another person remember me when I am dead,' the bangle seller smiled. 'I don't understand you,' said Hiran, 'you don't make sense.' 'Do you want me to draw you another picture?' the bangle seller asked. The lines on Hiran's brow were eased and she smiled again.
They spent all afternoon together, one dictating what was to be drawn and the other obeying. The husband came back to a house where the lamp had not been lit though it was well past sunset. The food was simple. Hiran had not even bothered to tie up her hair. It floated around her face like a dense smoke. Had he been a weaker man, he may have lost his composure, but he was wise. He said nothing.
Sunday 24 May 2009
Hiranakshi (PART 4)
Hiran waited till it was evening. She then bathed, wore on a red saree to match her new red bangles and put a string of jasmines in her hair. She humed as she made ready his dinner. He came as usual, her husband. He sat down to eat. He ate. He got up and left to go rest. Tears tingled in her eyes. She had made it very hard for him to ignore her bangles. She had let them be noisy, clinking about while she fanned him. She had fidgited with them all she could. Yet he took no notice. He was content and happy. Too content and happy! She hardly slept that night. She ran it all through in her head again and again. Her mother had given her good advise before she was married off, she had told her how to ensure the potatoes were ripe, how to pick the lemons, how to grind the chillies, how to tie her saree and even how to smile! She was taught everything there was to be taught, yet it all failed her now. How was she to win his heart? Surely she had done everything a good wife ought to do. She had exceeded herself in her efforts. Yet there he sat, blind to her bangles and blind to the unrest in her eyes.
The next day she ate nothing all morning. She did not feel like it. She sat by the door as if she had nothing to do. For whom should she rush about? For whom should she prepare a meal? For that person who could not even notice those bangles that she noisily pushed around under his nose? And then she heard the voice again, 'Look who hasn't slept all night!' It was the lady with the coloured bangles. 'Slept all night? No, I did not sleep. Do you know why? Because of these silly bangles.' And Hiran proceeded to tell the woman her story. The woman only laughed. 'Why blame my bangles, pretty one? It's not their fault that men are such fools. Alright then, if I have caused you such sorrow, I will give you some comfort as well. Look what I have here.' She took out a few leaves of dark green. 'Smell them.' Hiran obeyed. They were leaves that leave a colour behind when rubbed on the skin. They were used to draw patterns of filigree on the palms. The bangle seller made a paste out f them added water and then drew on Hiran's palms. 'What would you like?' she asked Hiran. 'I want a bird and a nest with eggs in it!' Hiran was almost excited. 'Well, that's what you will get then. You will get what you want. You only have to want it strongly.' Hiran chuckled.
It took quite a while. The bangle seller drew the bird with a short beak, the kind that eats only grains and she drew a nest with rounded eggs. Hiran watched in rapt attention as her pale hands began to glow red, the red of the soil. When it was completed the bangle seller said, 'Now you can do nothing till it all dries off. Who will make your husband's dinner?' 'You will', Hiran answered, 'And I'll pay you for it.' The bangle seller agreed.
Friday 22 May 2009
Hiranakshi (part 3)
Nothing happened. Her husband went away each morning as usual and returned only by nightfall. All her wishing was in vain. The earth will not stop moving if you will it to.
It so happened that one afternoon, Hiran sat lost in thought, almost dozing off in the oppressive summer heat, when she heard the voice of a Bangle seller. It was a lady of about her own age, but taller and much darker. 'Aye Amma. Why don't you rid me of a few of these pretty bangles? They would look much better on your fair wrists than in my haggered basket.' Hiran smiled. 'How much are they for?' 'You ask the price, my dear, you do not ask how long I have walked barefoot in this rotten heat. You do not ask how sore my throat is from yelling for buyers. You do not see how my back bends under the weight of this basket. You only ask the price.' 'How she talks!', Hiran laughed to herself and said aloud 'Are you thirsty?' 'More than you will ever know. Fetch me a little water my dear and may your home always prosper.'
The bangle seller showed Hiran bangles of every imaginable colour. They were the bottle green, next to the turmeric yellow, the deep brown and the sky blue. Hiran wondered how many colours there were in this world. 'Wear then dear. They will look much better on your hand. Look! How they contrast against your fair smooth skin! Do you eat gold dust with your rice, to be glowing so? Try this one, the deep green. It looks like a snake coiled around your arm., the very same snake that is wound around Siva's neck. Or how about a red? You are too young to be married but all married women love this colour. Is your husband at home?' Hiran took offence to the last question. 'What is it to you?' she asked acidly. 'What kind of a man would leave so pretty a bride at home and go away to work? Would not his heart complain?' This made Hiran smile. 'Flattering me won't sell you any more bangles than otherwise.' she said hautily. 'My bangles sell themselves my dear. Just see how they glitter! They sing, they do. Listen. Chann chann chann. They sing don't they?' Hiran laughed. 'And what do they sing?' she ventured. 'Ah! Different songs for different people. For you it's probably a song of meeting and love, a song of the end of a long wait.' Hiran blushed. 'How these low caste women talk!' she thought ' So bold!'
'Alright. Just these red ones please. Nothing else.' Hiran gave her the money. 'Ah. I would have suggested the deep green, but you have made your pick and it is not mine to argue.' The seller gave her the bangles she had chosen and turned to go. She walked four paces and turned back to say, 'Be careful not to break them tonight. You know what I mean.' Hiran turned her face away to hide her smile.
Thursday 21 May 2009
Hiranakshi (part 2)
Hiran had been trained from childhood on the etiquette and customs that are expected of a wife. She knew them well and respected them. She servered her mother- in- law as long as she stayed with them. The mother- in- law, however, left her son and daughter- in- law in a matter of days after the wedding and sent forth on her long pilgrimage. Hiran then spent her time making delicious food for her husband and keeping his house in working order. The husband worked long and hard all day and returned home in the evening. The evenings he spent painting what he saw during the day. Hiran tended to his every need, making sure he was comfortable, healthy and happy.
The days dragged on and Hiran grew bored. She would wait all afternoon and evening for her husband to return home and once he returned she served him his meal. Those few minutes she spent watching him eat were the best minutes of her day. He would go away to paint for the rest of the evening and Hiran would be by herself again. She did not want to distract him from what he loved but she was growing restless.
Her waiting grew more eager. She would tie her hair in different patterns every evening. She would prepare every elaborate dish she had ever been taught. She would wear the finest of the clothes her parents sent with her. All for those few minutes in the evening.
Sometimes she grew jealous of those painting he made with so much care. Did they mean more to him than she did? Ofcourse not! How silly of her! She was his wife and he loved her. Didn't he?
When she heard his approaching footsteps in the evening, she would run to the door, which was always open in his anticipation. She would look at is tired face and feel a sudden surge of pity. She would help him wash his hands and feet. She would serve him his dinner and fan him while he ate. She would watch his face, his every gulp, reading his expression to see if he liked what he ate. Was it too salty? Was it not sweet enough? She could read it all on his face.
The nights grew longer and the waiting harder. She would sometimes secretly wish that he should be unwell, just so he would spend more time at home and she could see to his comforts with even more vigour. She would will it to rain so he would come home earlier than usual. She would wish some kind of law would be passed in big city, asking all husband to remain home for a few days. Something, anything to get a few more hours with him.
(to be continued)
Tuesday 19 May 2009
Amuma's tales: Hiranakshi
It was a lazy saturday afternoon. The schools had closed for the week and Monday seemed so far away. Time stretched out like an endless dessert. So I pestered Amuma, to tell us another tale, for she is a well of tales. She smiled slyly, the way children do when mischief is about. And she told us this tale,
"Once there was a rich widow, who was very humble and prayerful at heart. All her life she had taken care of the wealth left behind by her husband. With time she had doubles it. Her joy was her only son, whom she brought up to be God- fearing and hard- working. The boy had a natural mind for art, and spent much of his time painting all he saw. His mother was proud of him. Finally when his mother's sight was growing dim and her knees were beginning to hurt, she decided she wanted to spend the last part of her life touring holy places. She had heard that those who took the trouble of foregoing their own comfortable bed and walked barefoot to the 13 temples of various God's would gain liberation from the cycle of life. She decided she wanted that liberation. She was worried, however, for her son, who was now an able man. How would he take care of himself in her absence? He might fall pray to the company of useless men and forget all she had taught him. He might take to drinking, or gambling or women and that would be the end of him and with him the end of all her family. So she decided he must be married. She set about finding him a suitable bride.
She decided she wanted to find him a bride who would make his home a haven of comfort and love. She wanted her to be very beautiful so her son would lack nothing in his already blessed life. He was a worthy man and he deserved a lovely wife. She looked through all the neighbouring villages but was not satisfied with what she saw. Finally from a village miles and miles away she found a very young girl who was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. She had eyes like that of a deer and so her parents had lovingly named her Hiranakshi. Everyone loved her, for one could not see that angelic face and yet remain untouched. The rich widow was satisfied and brought the girl home to be her son's bride and the mistress of the entire house-hold.
The widow's son was wonder- struck on seeing his bride. He always knew his mother could do no wrong and she had proved him right yet again. So Hiran, the young bride left behind her home, her friends, all those were familiar to her and set about finding a new life...
(to be continued)
"Once there was a rich widow, who was very humble and prayerful at heart. All her life she had taken care of the wealth left behind by her husband. With time she had doubles it. Her joy was her only son, whom she brought up to be God- fearing and hard- working. The boy had a natural mind for art, and spent much of his time painting all he saw. His mother was proud of him. Finally when his mother's sight was growing dim and her knees were beginning to hurt, she decided she wanted to spend the last part of her life touring holy places. She had heard that those who took the trouble of foregoing their own comfortable bed and walked barefoot to the 13 temples of various God's would gain liberation from the cycle of life. She decided she wanted that liberation. She was worried, however, for her son, who was now an able man. How would he take care of himself in her absence? He might fall pray to the company of useless men and forget all she had taught him. He might take to drinking, or gambling or women and that would be the end of him and with him the end of all her family. So she decided he must be married. She set about finding him a suitable bride.
She decided she wanted to find him a bride who would make his home a haven of comfort and love. She wanted her to be very beautiful so her son would lack nothing in his already blessed life. He was a worthy man and he deserved a lovely wife. She looked through all the neighbouring villages but was not satisfied with what she saw. Finally from a village miles and miles away she found a very young girl who was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. She had eyes like that of a deer and so her parents had lovingly named her Hiranakshi. Everyone loved her, for one could not see that angelic face and yet remain untouched. The rich widow was satisfied and brought the girl home to be her son's bride and the mistress of the entire house-hold.
The widow's son was wonder- struck on seeing his bride. He always knew his mother could do no wrong and she had proved him right yet again. So Hiran, the young bride left behind her home, her friends, all those were familiar to her and set about finding a new life...
(to be continued)
Monday 18 May 2009
The Moon's story (part 3-Final)
His voice was like a lot of silk threads bound into a knot. She sat up and listened. 'Chaandi! Listen to me. I know you cannot see me or understand me, but do not be afraid. I come in peace.' She looked but could not see. She then shut her eyes so she could hear with all her being. 'I am the voice of the night. You did not think the night was alive. But I am. I am the night and I see you. I have watched you each evening as you sat by the river Jeevan. Even as the menfolk gathered to watch you, I gathered in the sky. Since I first saw you, I have wanted you for myself, but I waited. For you were too busy to hear me. Now that you have the time, I cme to you. Will you be mine Chaandi?'
A chill ran down her spine and her skin quivered like a horse's sometimes does. She waited and then spoke, 'But I do not know you.'
;But who do you know Chaandi? Did you know any of those men? Or even your sister? Or your mother who pains you so much? You know no one but I know you. Come away with me.'
Chaandi held back a sob that formed a hard lump in her throat. 'I have been living among strangers. Take me away from here. Anywhere but here...'
The Night replied, 'You will be much happier with me.' And so she left with the Night, flying out of her window on a gentle breeze that lifted her delicate frame up towards the skies. The Night took her as far from her home as he could, for he did not want her mother to reach her. The Night was afraid of her mother.
He said to Chaandi, 'You shall be called Chanda, for your own name will remind you of your mother and consequently of all the pain she put you through.' She smiled at him, the first smile in a long time. To her it seemed like she had never smiled before.
She became a round sphere in his wide arms, her silver against his black. The people looked up and saw. They marvelled at the wonderous sight. It was truely breath- taking. The Night was proud of her, his Moon, but he did not want the others to covette her. So he said to her, 'Take a little of my coloour onto your face, so when they look at you they will know that you are mine.' The Moon willingly oblighed. With time the love between them grew. The Night kept his embrace around her and she in turn kept losing herself in him. That is why you only see a part of the Moon on most nights. The rest of her is the Night, for she became one with him. Yet on some nights, you will find her full and shining brighter than usual. These are the nights when she remembers her mother. That is when her old self returns and she wants to seek again the attention and praise of others. They are glorious, aren't they, those full moon nights. But like all else in this world, they pass and the Moon happily loses herself to her Night again."
With this Amuma ended her story. Now I am an educated one, unlike Amuma and I know of the Solar System. I know the moon is a satelite and the night a natural phenomenon. Amuma knows nothig! Yet, last night when I was gazing into the night from my bedroom window, I swear I almost heard him speak.
***
A chill ran down her spine and her skin quivered like a horse's sometimes does. She waited and then spoke, 'But I do not know you.'
;But who do you know Chaandi? Did you know any of those men? Or even your sister? Or your mother who pains you so much? You know no one but I know you. Come away with me.'
Chaandi held back a sob that formed a hard lump in her throat. 'I have been living among strangers. Take me away from here. Anywhere but here...'
The Night replied, 'You will be much happier with me.' And so she left with the Night, flying out of her window on a gentle breeze that lifted her delicate frame up towards the skies. The Night took her as far from her home as he could, for he did not want her mother to reach her. The Night was afraid of her mother.
He said to Chaandi, 'You shall be called Chanda, for your own name will remind you of your mother and consequently of all the pain she put you through.' She smiled at him, the first smile in a long time. To her it seemed like she had never smiled before.
She became a round sphere in his wide arms, her silver against his black. The people looked up and saw. They marvelled at the wonderous sight. It was truely breath- taking. The Night was proud of her, his Moon, but he did not want the others to covette her. So he said to her, 'Take a little of my coloour onto your face, so when they look at you they will know that you are mine.' The Moon willingly oblighed. With time the love between them grew. The Night kept his embrace around her and she in turn kept losing herself in him. That is why you only see a part of the Moon on most nights. The rest of her is the Night, for she became one with him. Yet on some nights, you will find her full and shining brighter than usual. These are the nights when she remembers her mother. That is when her old self returns and she wants to seek again the attention and praise of others. They are glorious, aren't they, those full moon nights. But like all else in this world, they pass and the Moon happily loses herself to her Night again."
With this Amuma ended her story. Now I am an educated one, unlike Amuma and I know of the Solar System. I know the moon is a satelite and the night a natural phenomenon. Amuma knows nothig! Yet, last night when I was gazing into the night from my bedroom window, I swear I almost heard him speak.
***
Sunday 17 May 2009
The Story of the Moon (part 2)
Both daughters grew in years. Chaandi grew prettier by the day. Ansoo stayed plain. The mother was very afraid that Ansoo would feel inferior to her sister and so she tried to nurture her with utmost kindness and love. She would say to her, 'You are my oldest, the apple of my eye, let no one make you feel bad about yourself. Do not believ anyone tells you that you are not beautiful.' The mother tried to teach Ansoo to sing, to dance and to sew; but Ansoo was slow to learn. She grew more attached to her mother as she grew and her mother to her.
Chaandi, meanwhile, grew to yearn her mother's attention. She would wonder why her mother spent much time with Ansoo but not with her. She would throw tantrums, cry and even fake illness hoping that these might force her mother to love her more, but her mother only considered these the result of Chaandi's arrogance. She considered Chaandi a troublesome child with way too much pride in her looks. She grew even more stoid and placid towards Chaandi.
Then the two girls grew to be young women. Chaandi began to receive admiring glances from menfolk, but she did not care for them. Yet, she wanted her mother to noticehow the men admired her beauty. Chaandi dressed well and took care of herself, hoping that with increasing attention from the men, her mother would be compelled to admit that Chaandi was, afterall, a beauty. She would sit by the river Jeevan in all her bejewelled glory, looking like a swan. The men would praise her, write poems about her face and sing songs about her skin. Chaandi would listen and snigger, all the while hoping that her mother would hear them as well.
The mother did hear them, and the more she heard, the angrier she grew. 'What audacity! What arrogance!' she thought, 'To dress up that way, intending solely to lure men, and then turn up her nose at the victims of her own demeanor. She must be punished, or she will never be cured of this constant need for attention.' So mother locked up Chaandi in her room, forbiding her from meeting anyone till she learnt to be more humble.
Chaandi stayed locked up for days on end. At first she was puzzled. Why was her mother unhappy? Did she not see inher the goodness others did? Then she was angry, 'Mother only loves Ansoo', she thought, 'She never wanted me at all.' Then she was frustrated, 'How much longer will she keep me locked? Will she be upset with me forver?' And finally she became depressed, 'I have no one in this world who cares for me,' she thought, 'my mother does not think of me as her own, or she would love me.'
And Chaandi cried.
She cursed herself. She began to hate her life. She began to hate herself. She wanted not to exist. She wanted to lie still in the night and give up her breath. She wanted to cease. One such long night, she lay on her bed. She was willing herself dead when she heard the voice of a man.
(to be continued)
Chaandi, meanwhile, grew to yearn her mother's attention. She would wonder why her mother spent much time with Ansoo but not with her. She would throw tantrums, cry and even fake illness hoping that these might force her mother to love her more, but her mother only considered these the result of Chaandi's arrogance. She considered Chaandi a troublesome child with way too much pride in her looks. She grew even more stoid and placid towards Chaandi.
Then the two girls grew to be young women. Chaandi began to receive admiring glances from menfolk, but she did not care for them. Yet, she wanted her mother to noticehow the men admired her beauty. Chaandi dressed well and took care of herself, hoping that with increasing attention from the men, her mother would be compelled to admit that Chaandi was, afterall, a beauty. She would sit by the river Jeevan in all her bejewelled glory, looking like a swan. The men would praise her, write poems about her face and sing songs about her skin. Chaandi would listen and snigger, all the while hoping that her mother would hear them as well.
The mother did hear them, and the more she heard, the angrier she grew. 'What audacity! What arrogance!' she thought, 'To dress up that way, intending solely to lure men, and then turn up her nose at the victims of her own demeanor. She must be punished, or she will never be cured of this constant need for attention.' So mother locked up Chaandi in her room, forbiding her from meeting anyone till she learnt to be more humble.
Chaandi stayed locked up for days on end. At first she was puzzled. Why was her mother unhappy? Did she not see inher the goodness others did? Then she was angry, 'Mother only loves Ansoo', she thought, 'She never wanted me at all.' Then she was frustrated, 'How much longer will she keep me locked? Will she be upset with me forver?' And finally she became depressed, 'I have no one in this world who cares for me,' she thought, 'my mother does not think of me as her own, or she would love me.'
And Chaandi cried.
She cursed herself. She began to hate her life. She began to hate herself. She wanted not to exist. She wanted to lie still in the night and give up her breath. She wanted to cease. One such long night, she lay on her bed. She was willing herself dead when she heard the voice of a man.
(to be continued)
Saturday 16 May 2009
Amuma's tales for the child-like: The Moon's story (Part 1)
Once upon a time, there was a very old lady called Amuma. No one knew her but she knew everyone.
She had been walking the earth for as long as she could remember, wandering from one place to another. She sought no one and nothing. Her life was not a search. She lived to give and she had plenty to give. No, not sweets or biscuits. Not flowers. No, not dolls or clothes; but a gift no less. She told stories, and how she told them!
One day I asked her, 'Amuma! If you are as wise as you look, tell me, how did the moon come about?' And she said to me,
"Long ago in a cottage by a river called Jeevan, there lived a mother. The mother had two daughters. The elder one was a very plain looking girl. when she was born her mother suffered a painfull labour, and when she finaaly saw her baby, she was surprised at how plain the child was. So she shed a tear of dissapointment. She said, 'I have heard it said that all parents find their own ofspring very beautiful. But my baby is so plain that even all my love for it cannot hide it's plainness from me. How much more must it's plainness be apparant to others who do not love it so!' She shed another tear. 'I will call it Ansoo.' The mother loved Ansoo and gave her everything she needed. Ansoo was, however, very slow to grow, to understand things and slow to respond.
After a year or two, the mother had another child. It was an easy delivery. The child was a marvellous beauty. She had eyes that shone with enthusiasm. Everyone around came to look at the new- born child. They widened their eyes and congratulated the mother. Even nature, they said, must be amazed at this child. Look how her skin glows! It seems she is made of silver. So they called her Chaandi. The mother was happy. Then she noticed the older child who stood alone by the corner. The crib of the new- born attracted everyone like flies to milk, but no one as much as noticed the older child by the corner. The mother's heart cried out at this unfairness.
(to be continued)
She had been walking the earth for as long as she could remember, wandering from one place to another. She sought no one and nothing. Her life was not a search. She lived to give and she had plenty to give. No, not sweets or biscuits. Not flowers. No, not dolls or clothes; but a gift no less. She told stories, and how she told them!
One day I asked her, 'Amuma! If you are as wise as you look, tell me, how did the moon come about?' And she said to me,
"Long ago in a cottage by a river called Jeevan, there lived a mother. The mother had two daughters. The elder one was a very plain looking girl. when she was born her mother suffered a painfull labour, and when she finaaly saw her baby, she was surprised at how plain the child was. So she shed a tear of dissapointment. She said, 'I have heard it said that all parents find their own ofspring very beautiful. But my baby is so plain that even all my love for it cannot hide it's plainness from me. How much more must it's plainness be apparant to others who do not love it so!' She shed another tear. 'I will call it Ansoo.' The mother loved Ansoo and gave her everything she needed. Ansoo was, however, very slow to grow, to understand things and slow to respond.
After a year or two, the mother had another child. It was an easy delivery. The child was a marvellous beauty. She had eyes that shone with enthusiasm. Everyone around came to look at the new- born child. They widened their eyes and congratulated the mother. Even nature, they said, must be amazed at this child. Look how her skin glows! It seems she is made of silver. So they called her Chaandi. The mother was happy. Then she noticed the older child who stood alone by the corner. The crib of the new- born attracted everyone like flies to milk, but no one as much as noticed the older child by the corner. The mother's heart cried out at this unfairness.
(to be continued)
Wednesday 14 January 2009
Toil
The joy of toil is never old,
To sit alone and work among,
Those voluminous works of old,
As if to dig a mine of gold,
Or sing the song the blue bird sang,
As if to swing high and back,
From a sturdy swing of an old tree bark,
And while I swing, my feet do feel,
The softness of the clouds above,
The clouds like cotton or soft candy,
My feet aching to go higher still,
To learn till I breathe my last,
And if I can, keep learning still.
To learn in the silence of my heart,
As if to walk in its chambers red,
And sing the songs of Lord Alfred,
The heart beat giving a steady rhythm,
And on the throbbing fleshy walls,
I write in writing neat and bright,
The words of Wordsworth and his likes.
But on the deepest part of my heart,
The part that decides life and death,
I’ll write in ink indelible,
What in untidy papers Shakespeare wrote,
And may the blessed Saviour see this,
And take pity upon my foolish heart,
And help me to write, to make a start,
A work that my heroes would themselves like.
To sit alone and work among,
Those voluminous works of old,
As if to dig a mine of gold,
Or sing the song the blue bird sang,
As if to swing high and back,
From a sturdy swing of an old tree bark,
And while I swing, my feet do feel,
The softness of the clouds above,
The clouds like cotton or soft candy,
My feet aching to go higher still,
To learn till I breathe my last,
And if I can, keep learning still.
To learn in the silence of my heart,
As if to walk in its chambers red,
And sing the songs of Lord Alfred,
The heart beat giving a steady rhythm,
And on the throbbing fleshy walls,
I write in writing neat and bright,
The words of Wordsworth and his likes.
But on the deepest part of my heart,
The part that decides life and death,
I’ll write in ink indelible,
What in untidy papers Shakespeare wrote,
And may the blessed Saviour see this,
And take pity upon my foolish heart,
And help me to write, to make a start,
A work that my heroes would themselves like.
Thursday 8 January 2009
Wendy Speaks
So he decided he won't grow up?
H0w very clever! How very mean!
How adorably innocent and yet,
How heart- breakingly bold!
H0w very clever! How very mean!
How adorably innocent and yet,
How heart- breakingly bold!
Thursday 1 January 2009
Making a Start
January 1 2009!
Finally I awake,
From the slumber of well fed ignorance,
To see a beautiful day,
Or pretend to see a beautiful day.
But isn’t that always the case,
We make our own sunshine when none exists,
Sing hymns to a God we do not see,
Repent for what we are told is sin,
And argue a line that is not ours.
A year, an entire year ahead,
Lays stretching its paws and looking dumb.
What am I to do with it?
How am I to pretend,
That all the many things I want,
Fame and money and wisdom’s worth,
Will come to me in manifold?
How much further can I lie,
To be the master of my reserve?
As it stands this very hour,
I can turn back to my bed, not far,
Go back into my peaceful state,
Deep sleep is a gift. Be brave.
Or I could go out into the cold,
That inhuman place they call the world,
Do what every common soul does do,
Break my back for a pennies few.
Not much choice in there does lie,
Peaceful death, I still choose life.
Away with comfort, pity and vice,
Beyond them all I’ve set my eyes.
To becomes a creature strangely common,
Or die in my perseverance to try.
Finally I awake,
From the slumber of well fed ignorance,
To see a beautiful day,
Or pretend to see a beautiful day.
But isn’t that always the case,
We make our own sunshine when none exists,
Sing hymns to a God we do not see,
Repent for what we are told is sin,
And argue a line that is not ours.
A year, an entire year ahead,
Lays stretching its paws and looking dumb.
What am I to do with it?
How am I to pretend,
That all the many things I want,
Fame and money and wisdom’s worth,
Will come to me in manifold?
How much further can I lie,
To be the master of my reserve?
As it stands this very hour,
I can turn back to my bed, not far,
Go back into my peaceful state,
Deep sleep is a gift. Be brave.
Or I could go out into the cold,
That inhuman place they call the world,
Do what every common soul does do,
Break my back for a pennies few.
Not much choice in there does lie,
Peaceful death, I still choose life.
Away with comfort, pity and vice,
Beyond them all I’ve set my eyes.
To becomes a creature strangely common,
Or die in my perseverance to try.
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