Conversation at a Family Function

‘Fuck you,’ I said as I reached for the last jalebi on my plate.

‘How dare you!’ my mother muttered under her breath.

We were at my younger sister’s wedding, at a farmhouse in the outskirts of the city. The venue was decked with uncountable flowers, lit by a dazzle of gaudy lights and looked like a motion picture on jewellery. My parents had blown a lifetime of savings for the occasion. I wanted to vomit.

‘You haven’t told . . .’

‘Arey, Smita, the food is amazing!’ my father’s maternal uncle’s cousin—an asshole through and through—interrupted what I’d known would be one of the first questions my mother would ask.

You haven’t told anyone, have you?

I had. The father knew. I handed my plate to a nearby waiter and asked him to get me some whisky. As she spoke to the asshole, my mother did not show even a trace of the storm my revelation had probably spawned in her stomach She even laughed at something he said.

If there’s something I wish I’d inherited from my mother, it is this: The Ability to Pretend Everything Is Okay Even Though the Shit May Be Dripping from the Roof. As for the asshole, I would have stabbed him with the fork he was eating chicken pakoras with if I had had my way. Fortunately, someone called him, and he excused himself.

‘. . . anyone else, have you?’ my mother finished her question as soon as he left. I marvelled at how quickly she had changed her tone. From saccharine to cutting, within the space of a sentence.

‘Raj,’ I fired the bastard’s name like it was a bullet.

It hit its mark. My mother’s face fell, albeit briefly. Composing herself, she declared, ‘We’ll get it aborted this weekend.’

‘Not really. What we’ll do is to get you a fucking counsellor.’ A woman passing by heard me say that, I think, for the bitch turned and looked at us suspiciously for a microsecond before turning back to the hideous girl she was speaking to. I didn’t know either of them. My parents had squandered bank accounts to please people who mattered as little as the cigarette stubs my mom flicked in dust bins around our home day and night.

The waiter got my whisky. I still wanted to vomit.

‘Mallika, listen to me.’ My mother held my hand and looked into my eyes. She had spent lacs on the make-up that made her look tolerable, just this once. I smiled and held her gaze. ‘You are going to get it aborted, you know why? I’m not going to let you make the same mistake I made thirty years ago.’

It took me a moment to register that. She nodded ever so faintly when she saw the disbelief in my eyes.

I ran for the washroom.

Love Gory

“A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.”

– Stewart Alsop

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night but quite the opposite actually. No lightning, no rain, no winds, no flying curtains, no banging windows. Instead, all was silent, dark and wet. Life often doesn’t imitate Art, or at least not all of it. It borrows what is congenial and manufactures the rest. But isn’t that true for Art as well? If it is, is it an endless exercise in imitation then? Art imitating Life and Life imitating Art and so on?

But it is not such philosophical questions that run through your mind when you are lying in a pool of blood, naked and alone, on a cold marble floor, and you feel as if you are falling like a ball tossed out from an airplane, and your mind is fighting a losing battle with consciousness, and while a part of you wants to let go of it all and slip into an enticing oblivion, the other wants to stay awake and feel whatever and all of what is left to be felt. No, at times like these, you want to go back to your past and retrieve all that was happy and beautiful and serene from it; you want to gather all the peace of your life and fill your mind with it, because they say that when it is finally time, you must rest in peace.

For him, her memories and the times that he had spent with her were the source of all this happiness. And beauty. And peace.

The first time he saw her. It was his first day in college. A small-town boy in a big city; nervous, hesitant, apprehensive. She, a bundle of energy, comfortable in her own skin; his classmate. He later liked to think he fell in love with her even before he saw her, that even before she entered the room, he had felt her presence in the air, like you can feel the sea when you are close by it. She did not look particularly breathtaking but when he saw her he knew that she was the one. He had seen her in his dreams; he had missed her all his life. When she came up to him and shook his hand, he could not tell her his name and she smiled. It was only after the first time he made love to her that he could forgive himself for that error. That class was lost on him, like many other classes later on.

The first time they talked. Really talked. They happened to be alone in the class and she asked about him out of courtesy. Where did he come from; how was his school like; did he have siblings. He answered each question in great detail; he had rehearsed well. He asked about her in return and wrote down whatever she said, even the superfluous bits, even her umms and wells, in his head, like a student taking detailed notes in a lecture by his favourite professor. He went over the conversation many times in his head later on, and he could not sleep that night, like many other nights after that one.

The first time she laughed at his joke. They had become friends; he a part of her group, she always near him, even outside the class. And, inside, she sometimes sat next to him, and, whenever she did, he would fill his lungs with her perfume, and her hand would sometimes brush against hers, and when it did, his heart would miss a beat or two. It was one of his innocuous remarks about the boring professor that she had laughed at; her pretty, vivacious laugh, like a river gushing out from its source, an avalanche breaking out. She often laughed like that at his jokes after that day, and, whenever she did, he would sink further and deeper in the mire of her love, until all that he could think about was the sound of her voice and the fairness of her arms and the innocence of her ears.

The day they first talked on phone. She had called up to ask what had happened in a class she had missed. He could only tell her half of what had happened because even in her absence he could hardly concentrate. They went on to talk about other things after that and only disconnected when it was time for her to go to bed. He sent her a self-composed good-night message to her before sleeping himself; it took him an hour to write it. She replied with a good morning the next day and this became a daily ritual: his calling her, their talking for hours, his good-night message and then waiting till morning for her reply.

The day he proposed to her. It was in college and he did it dramatically, like Bollywood heroes, like the way he lived his entire life, until Life stopped imitating Art and left him in a pool of blood on the cold marble floor of his room. He went down on his knees, procured a rose, said I love you, people whistled, she smiled, said yes, people clapped, and the fish inside his heart found its ocean, and his mind acquired wings and jumped from a high cliff. She said yes because she had always wanted to be asked out like that, dramatically, movie-like; and she enjoyed his company, engaging, affectionate; and he looked fine, average, above-average; and he seemed to like her a lot and called her daily without ever asking her to call him; and he came from a decent, prosperous family and was not very smart and demanding like the other boys who read books and smoked cigarettes; and he looked like he could protect her from street Romeos, unlike the other boys who read books and smoked cigarettes; and he could take her to happening, expensive places and call her pretty daily in different ways and get her nice gifts and weekly top-up cards.

Their first official date. One of the most expensive restaurants in the city. He got her flowers—white roses—and dark, luxury chocolates. She came in looking prim and pretty, and he got lost in her lips, and they talked about silly things and ordered dishes that cost twenty times more than what it took the chef to prepare them, and he held her hand a couple of times and felt goose bumps on his legs that tickled as things fell over each other inside his chest. She enjoyed the evening because he listened to her banter attentively and ordered all that she asked him to order without raising an eyebrow, and treated her like a princess, like handsome men treated beautiful young ladies in the fairy tales she had read as a little girl.

The first time they kissed. They were in a cab, coming back from their third date, and he looked into her eyes with a question writ inside them, and she leaned forward and their lips met and he kissed her and she kissed him back and their tongues met and it was all wet, and he held her in his arms and she embraced him back, and they paused for air and got back to kissing, like fish pulled out and thrown back into water. They stopped only when the cab pulled outside her home and she smiled and said good night and went inside, leaving behind something of her inside him.

The first time they made love. They were in his room and knew what they were there for and couldn’t wait for it to start happening. They lay together in bed, cuddling, intertwined, and she started talking about her friends, but he had no ears for that, so he shut her up with a kiss and she kissed him back and they rolled in bed, slowly, then urgently, and soon lost track of time and the shame about their bodies, and the moment came and he entered her and it was as if there could be nothing else in life to feel and nothing more to pine for. When they got up there was no blood, and he asked her if it was her first time and she said no and he became mad inside.

Their tenth date. She seemed upset and needed appeasing. So he got the live band to play a song for her and ordered an expensive wine and told her she looked beautiful and held her fingers in his hand and said he loved her like no one else ever would, and she smiled and said I love you but added that she wanted some space of her own and that he had gotten very possessive and that she also wanted to spend time with her friends, both male and female, without him messaging her every fifteen minutes and calling to say I love you every hour. He was taken aback but apologized and promised to not repeat it, and she smiled and said thanks and her eyes twinkled, and he was proud to have made her happy again and delighted to see the smile on her lips. When they made love that night, it was all passionate and pretty again, and he held her and kissed her and entered her like the way he had held her, kissed her and entered her ever since the first time they’d made love, with the desire to possess and obtain all of her, even those parts that she had inadvertently given to others before he had felt in the air her presence on his first day in college and had been struck dumb when she had asked his name.

The fifth movie they watched together at the cinemas. It was a romantic comedy and they were seated in a corner in the platinum class—plush, velvet seats—and he held her hands and could feel her pulse and count her heartbeats, and when it was the interval, he went out and got themselves popcorns—hot, white, spicy—and cold-drink—one glass, two straws, more love—and while he was imagining himself as the hero of the movie and her the heroine, she was comparing him to this new guy—handsome, richer, same caste—she had met in the neighbourhood a week ago and whom she had ended up kissing—softly, slowly, romantically—the day before.

Their twentieth date. He was going to pop the question and was the happiest guy in the world; the ring ready in his pocket, the proposal in his mind, and he was wearing his favourite shirt and his lucky jeans, and she wanted a break-up for she had had enough of him. It wasn’t as if she could not see how possessive he still was and how stifled he made her and how serious he had become and how dumb he was. His theatrics had started annoying her and his perfume made her want to puke, and the way he looked made her wonder why she had started dating him in the first place. When he touched her now she felt like killing him. The new guy was better in bed and looked delectable, decent, dignified and seemed to be her perfect match and even her mother approved of him. When she hinted at it, his eyes became wet, and when she finally said it, he broke down and asked her why, and she told him why, and he felt his heart constrict and his mind go blank, and it was as if he had been hurtled from the edge of a cliff into a bottomless valley of despair and grief, and when she left the café, he felt like running out into the street and coming in the way of a speeding truck. That night he could not sleep, because when he closed his eyes he could not breathe.

Their last phone call. He called her. At 3.45 a.m. He had a dagger in his hand and bawled into the receiver. She had been dreaming of a garden and was enraged on being disturbed. He mentioned doing something drastic and at first she thought he may kill himself, but then she remembered his camera and her pictures—bare, vulnerable—and was forced to be good to him and talk to him till late into the morning and calm him down and assure him that she would come to his place later that day and love him like before, and that she would not leave him ever. He asked her to stop talking to her new friend and she said okay, and he said that they would get married in a temple and live in a house of their own, and that they would have two children—one boy, one girl—who would grow up to become either engineers or doctors and she said yes, of course. When they disconnected he was able to breathe properly again and his heart acquired its normal rhythm; she, on the other side, called her boyfriend immediately, and he asked her to go to his place and retrieve the pictures, and sit him down to tell him to move on, and to call him immediately if things got out of control. He would rush immediately and finish the bastard if need be.

Before allowing his mind to close with the peace of all these memories, he got up to lock the door and then looked sideways at her. She lay there still, naked and alone, so he laid himself back beside her in the wetness of her blood. He noticed how lovely she looked now that she could not be anybody else’s ever, the last man to ever make love to her, him. Even though she had not reciprocated his kisses, he had not worried about it too much for she had lain there as beautiful as ever when he had entered her, although her eyes were now hollow and vacant and the blood oozed from her neck in a continuous flow, as if the air was hungry and was sucking it out.

Why We Love Books

Because in this world of ethereal pleasures, books make it possible for you to sit down with a cup of coffee on a cold winter morning and leisurely stroll around someone else’s thoughts. Because when you read multiple books by the same author, you feel as if you are rekindling an old friendship; the ice has already been broken, and you can refer to a shared past.

Because books make it possible for you to briefly fall in love with someone down the compartment reading your favourite paperback. Because you can mark your favorite lines in the book you are reading and go back to them later and smile. Because when you buy books second-hand, their pen marks and scribbles give you an unauthorized sneak peek into a stranger’s life. Because books take you to places you would never visit and introduce you to interesting strangers you can secretly have silly affairs with. Because, in the worst of situations, the question “What are your favourite books?” can lead to long-winded conversations about this and that and everything else in between.

Because you can carry your books with yourself on trips and feel as if your world is traveling with you. Because books make tedious train journeys special and magical. Because when you open your suitcase and see books inside, you feel instantly at home even in unknown places. Because books ensure that you never have to go on a vacation alone.

Because the smell of books—the ink, paper, and word smell—gets better with age. Because you can read books late into the night and cuddle with them as you fall asleep.

Because if you have a friend who loves books as much as you do, you can meet them in coffee shops on weekends and discuss literature and stories for hours. Because if a generation is locked into a library and is forced to read books for years, you can be sure that, when it comes out, it would be full of interesting people to hang out with. Because you know a person is your best friend when you can lend them your favorite paperback without worrying whether it would be returned to you.

Because you can spend only thousand rupees in a bookshop and come back with a supply of your month’s pastime. Because bookstores in a market are like your friends in a crowd of strangers; you constantly feel like going up to them and giving them a hug.

Because when you are feeling low, you can rearrange your bookshelves and feel the world fall back into place. Because books ensure that you are not alone when you have spaces to be lonely in. Because books set you apart in a crowd; they give you an identity; they complete you. Because reading books is personal therapy; it heals quietly and in solitude.

Because books tell stories, and stories are all there are to live in.

The Secret Underground Race

Walls, motion, pages, sounds,
Stuff that tell you stories of,
Those distant wars, those arms within,
That heart and all those broken lives,
That wretched house, those wrecked limbs,
And the ideas, those affairs clandestine,
They speak to my macabre split personality,
In a language that’s discreet, pristine.

Maybe the links are novel, or maybe merely special,
But the voices of that pain, of those muffled cries,
Ring in my ears, pure and true and clear.
It’s a relationship that will last a life,
It had no end, will have no beginning,
And may even not a plot to tell.

So all this while, and all your life,
My walls, my motion, pages, voice,
Have told me some different tales,
Of battles that were never sought,
And of the minds that had never thought,
Of the life, the flowers that will never be,
And the lies, the desires that were never free,
The affairs always clandestine.

The whistle blew, the visits made,
The secret underground race,
That everybody ran, and which all of you fake, 
Was never, ever run by me.
I was too busy watching you run.
I was too busy breaking your rules.

And even though I have finished last,
And there are regrets for not running fast,
I am happy that I was left behind,
In front of me the starting line.
Now I can run my marathon.

And while the wind would whoosh past by,
My walls, my pages, and this rhyme,
Would talk to me above the cries,
Above your claps, above your crude,
And as the secrets tumble out,
I would run my stories before you.

And as I cross the finish line,
I’d shout the truth of all my lies,
I am different, and yet one of you,
I’ll be freer and yet be one of you,
My affairs ever clandestine.

Winter of Winters

Winters were vile,
They were vulgar,
Woeful,
Villainous.

They would wreck my wisdom,
My victories,
And
My vigilance.

They would leave me whimpering,
Wailing,
Without
And within.

I would writhe,
And Wrestle,
But
The worms would not wane.

I would wriggle,
And vomit,
But my wrenching
Would be but worthless.

I would be wretched,
Withheld,
Wishful,
My wishes all valueless.

Winters were wars,
They were wrong,
Vicious,
Wickedness.

These were winters,
Where there were women,
Vaginas,
And Vampires.

***

This winter was white,
It was winsome,
Weird,
Wonderful.

It washed my veils,
My veins,
And
My visage.

It left me willful,
And wanton,
Without
And within.

Now I walk
And wonder
The when
And where of things.

Now I wade
Via winds
That whoosh
Wackily.

Now I am willing,
And weird,
I wear
The vibes of vanity.

It was a winter
Where there were veterans,
And weirdos,
And my well-wishers.

This winter was visible,
It was venal,
Vibrant,
Vivacious.

***

Winters of worries, a winter of vividness.
A winter of vigour, winters of weariness.

A welcome winter, after the winters of weakness.
Winters of virginity, and now a winter of virginness.

Winters of wistfulness, of wastage, voluntary.
A winter of vignettes, of vindication, of virility.

A winter where I won, unlike the winters of virulence,
A winter of voice, after the winters of violence.

Vulnerable, virulent winters,
A violative, violet winter.

Viral, wakeful winters,
A winter of wakefulness.

Winters of the world,
Of walls, of watchfulness.
A winter of my world,
Of vanity, of whappiness.