"Speak What We Feel, Not What We Ought To Say"

I believe only some talk is music; the rest is noise. This philosophy of mine has seen my buddies accusing me of going 'out of range' at times. The accusation is - I deliberately tune out of conversations which I, and I alone, perceive to be boring. My own verdict is - I am guilty. Close friends - old and new - say the same...Day in and out, Mom says as much...I can listen to confessions with the patience of a priest or a psychiatrist...I can listen to and share a friend's movie, book, music or play review...I can listen to the monotony of a buddy's life with the right expression plastered on my face, ears perked up and punctuate her talk with appropriate noises...I can listen to the injustices meted out to a colleague, empathising with her/his plight and add a few curse words of my own...I can listen to the PJs of a friend and chuckle...I can listen, and soar high on a buddy's flights of fancy...I can listen, with an indulgence, to a young friend's latest crush and when she says for the seventh time in three years that 'Love - This is it! Trust me, I've never felt this way before!' I trust her...But - and this is where the wilful tuning out happens - I can't endure monologues where the trivial is so inflated that I end up wondering - Why do people talk so much? Why can't they just shut up? Talk, talk, talk - ugh! Shopping travails; unwanted, lack-lustre pearls of wisdom; hackneyed descriptions/experiences of the ordinary world...List is endless...And it is then that I am no longer at ease...And I nod my head, though my eyes with the newly-acquired faraway look betray my boredom as I wear a 'glazed look' and look 'stoned' or 'spaced out'. And this is what bugs them even more - I make it obvious that I ain't interested in the talk. They are exasperated: "You are out of range!", "You are ignoring me! You don't seem interested anymore!" and "OK, won't bore! Get lost!" I smile but I don't have the heart to fake interest and let them carry on...I am glad they've found me out...And grateful that their painful monologue dies an instant death or that they switch over to some interesting stuff or I introduce a new talk by asking a strange and unconnected question out of the blue...After a few four-letter words, they are kind enough to let me be...And I remain grateful for their small mercies...Thank God, one can go 'out of range' with buddies...

The Pause That Refreshes

My dearest buddy nibbles away at the edges of her Chocolate Pyramid...And after having devoured two-fifths of a Black Forest, I am weighing the wisdom of this indulgence. It's a cool, Saturday evening, and the mall approximates our idea of happiness - comfy chairs and tables, the waiters don't hurry you up, you can talk-pause-stare-eat-drink-talk-pause at leisure and the night stretches out like an endless, velvety black carpet. Even the occasional silence is delightful - those pauses when she and I scan the air for the right word or thought or there's nothing more to add...and then our eyes meet and we open our mouths to speak at the same time and smile...is there a hidden choreographer guiding us? Our hands weave patterns in animated talks, now and then her hand seeks mine as if to convince ourselves this shared evening is as real as the burnt smell of the brownie wafting from a nearby table...my fingers wipe away some crumbs from her cheek with one swift, light movement...she removes a lock of my hair from my forehead so that she can see me better...at times, a conversation seems tedious...there's nothing to say or left to say...everything's known, and the unknown seems unimportant...we rejoice in these little parcels of proximity granted by someone up there who likes us...we look at people talking non-stop and wonder...how can you stretch talk for that long? All these dialogues, these words and sentences renting the surroundings - what do they signify? Everyone's trading information...a cacophony's created by the itsy-bitsy details of their lives, our lives...my phone rings and as I talk, she gesticulates with an urgency that I hang up...she reminds me this is "Our Time Out"...our own selfish, precious "Our Time Out" code says two's company, three's a crowd. Period. My hurried 'Bye!' elicits a grateful smile...her phone croaks but she won't answer...I laugh at the goddamn ring tone...she silences it...I try out silver earrings, bangles...the pretty trinkets make me feel oh-so-feminine...When was the last time I felt this feminine? When I wore that hazelnut lipstick or those pink socks or cried at the ending of Thelma & Louise? I take off my sneakers to try out a pair of strappy sandals. Deliciously feminine. My discoveries amuse her. I promise to buy them some other day. Her adamance wins me a silver bangle...she balances the tray as children fly past her and walks towards me half-scared and grinning as I set our table...these moments of togetherness - Lord, it's such a pleasure to be a woman and be with another woman...

It's Page One!

I am twined by laziness...I surrender to this feeling which seems to be induced by this mellow, yellow, afternoon light...Or pehaps it's some deeper, impenetrable malady...Is there a cure for lethargy? Every activity must cease after some time...Lord! How quickly I get bored! Too much of something's as bad as too much of nothing...I tap my fingers - diversions, Lord, I need more diversions! Books, music, movies, friends, walks and talks - I hunger for more....And I have tapped my reservoir of creativity dry...Or rather, I don't want to write...Writing is a solitary act and I guess am tired of this splendid isolation...Out, out, out of the city - the country sunshine's what I covet...Need a break...Like pack my bag and go for a two-week vacation in the deep, deep south...This is the age of "Spell It Out" where hints, subtleties and insinuations don't work for they have lost their meaning...What you feel, you must write in bold so that they understand you, and also misunderstand you...No one can see, even though it's Page One...It's not enough that I whine to my parents I am fed up with this goddamn routine...I have to spell it out - "I AM BORED. SO MAY I TAKE A BREAK AND GO DOWN SOUTH FOR A MINI VACATION? NO FLIGHTS PLEASE. I WANT TO TRAVEL BY TRAIN." Then I'll be understood or misunderstood...Either way, I win...For I see myself breaking free of this monotony :)

Terminological Inexactitude

I quite like Colty who just informed office he won't be coming today. Who wouldn't like a colleague who calls up his boss and weeps his inability to come to office because he's feeling extraordinarily manic-depressive and needs those 8 hours of precious office time to sort out his despair? So this was going to be one of the no-Colty days when some indefinable but grand disorder ails Colty and prevents his ass from sticking 2 his regular corner seat at the office (Colty's affinity for corner seats rivals only chlorine's affinity for hydrogen)...

I'll miss him...Sigh! And then my phone rings:"Colty calling..."

I press the green button but Colty at the other end hears no answer as I just greeted him with silence as he had instructed me yesterday ("For God's sake Mimi, don't ever say a 'Hello' when I call! It depresses me - Ugh, you summon the ordinariness of the world with your prosaic 'Hello'! )

Colty says cautiously, as if a thief may be lurking somwhere in his room or perhaps as if a thief was indeed at the other end of the line:"Hello?"

"Hmm?" I say.

"Hell Mimi! Can't you just say a simple 'Hello' since a normal, reassuring 'Hello' is all I wanted to hear to make me feel the world is fine?"

"Hello!"

"No, wait. I'll cut the line, and call again and we begin with your hello? OK?"

Does he suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder too? The line goes dead, and the phone rings again. Deja vu?

"Hello?" I co-operate.

"Hi Mimi! Wassup?!" he asks.

He sounds suspiciously happy for a fella down in the dumps!

"You ok Colty?"

"Yup! Not particularly well...Just one of those passing phases..."

"I know...This too shall pass..."

"It has passed...away"

"What?"

"This phase"

"So you OK now?"

"Sort of..."

"Coming to office?"

"No...Need to recuperate..This post-sickness phase is the most excruciating period of all...Requires bedrest..Lots of water...With a little makeout session thrown in..."

"Hmm...So what exactly happened?"

"Nuthin."

"Nuthin?"

"Nuthin."

Like King Lear chiding Cordelia, I feel like quipping: "Nothing will come out of nothing!" But I resist the temptation...Besides, it'd be wasted on Colty anyway!

"You ok then?" is all I ask.

"Hmm..."

"We thought..."

"Who?"

"We..."

"Who we?"

"We...Everyone at office!"
How long, Lord, how long - I think in mock exasperation. Can't he follow simple words?
"Ah! Them! Say 'them' Mimi! Now proceed..."

"We thought you must be locked up in a dark room, wrestling with your private demons..."

"You got a vivid imagination Mimi, like mine..Eeeeeet eeeeeees a compliment...So say gracias!"

"Gracias!"

"Btw Mimi, need a lil help..."

"Go ahead! Beg and crawl for it on all fours!" I say.

"Huh! What do the Englishmen say, Mimi? 'The answer is in plural and they bounce'?"

"Ugh! Colty! Hold your tongue!" I pretend to be scandalised by the five-letter word.

"No more nonsense. We got business at hand. At 8.30 pm precisely, when the movie gets over and the credits start rolling in, will you call me and say my Uncle's just had a coronary?"

"Colty! Are you..."

"Yes I am..."

"What?"

"Whatever it is that you think I am!"

"Uh...OK.."

"You'll call?"

"Yeah...But why this desperate deception? Not that it's unlike you..."

"Mme and I are gonna catch a movie. And later, she'd expect to be fed. And you know how she likes to feed only at certain establishments. And you also know how these certain establishments fleece a guy like me when I'm..."

"...Broke, as usual, huh?" I completed the sentence.

"Yup! So well you know me! Will you do it?"

"Your lil act is a - what do the Englishmen say for a lie -'Terminological inexactitude'? Still, I'll play along!"

"Good old sport! Have I ever told you lately that you are a gem, Mimi?"

"Prefer to remain a homo sapiens..."

"Just a metaphor..."

"I know! Thanks! Ok, Colty! Done! Have fun!"

"Thanks! See ya tomorrow ! Bye!"

"Bye!"

"Wait..."

"What now?" I am cheesed off.

"My love to office people!"

"Sure!"

At 8:30 sharp, I ring him up and Colty gets a bit too theatrical with :"No, no, no! Mimi, Don't tell me he's serious! Gawd, my only uncle!" He conveys to Mme his Uncle's impending departure for his heavenly abode, and with that, he departs...for his earthly abode. Mme was to later confess to me she had no clue Colty could disappear in a second, as if some invisible hand had just brushed an invisible coat of paint on Colty...At 9 pm, I get a text message from Colty, the unacknowledged humbug of a poet: "Roses r red, Violets r blue, Buddies like u, R 2 b kissed on the head :)"

House This For A Change!

Change is inevitable. And yet when the inevitable comes, we are taken aback. On my grandma's house at my native village, change was written in large, simple letters, easily read and understood; but difficult to accept.The four tall ashoka trees that flanked the huge gates of the house were gone. I missed the slender, waxy leaves which smelt queer when crushed and also the soft, small, thin green tree snakes which used to tickle me as they slithered along the length of my arms. You could then gently place them on the branches - they would creep into the dense foliage, peeping at you now and then.
I turn to my Uncle, annoyed: "Why did you cut down the trees?"
He: "Can't you see and smell the jasmine bushes planted? The ashoka trees were useless and their snakes scared your cousin."
Yeah, right...Am sorry I missed the bushes for the trees. I remember many an evening watching those tall trees sway in the wind, always afraid that somehow their lanky frames woudn't be able to withstand the strong winds and would fall, killing the snakes too.
The four mango trees are pale, fragile versions of their youthful selves; I feel tempted to bow before them in reverence for their old age. I remember the branches where I would hold court with the village kids as my minions during my summer vacations. Fine raw mango slivers, dipped in chilli powder,oil and salt, and at times grated coconut and jaggery, would be relished as we swayed precariously on the brances and shared an unparalleled thrill. Little red ants called 'misir' would build nests out of mango leaves. If you broke open the nests, the red army would be all over you and you would scurry down as they bit you while you brushed them away helplessly. As we would scream in pain and warn others while climbing down, my Mom or Aunt would enter the scene, ready to beat me and my cousin for allowing the village kids have free mangoes.

My Uncle and cousin call me into the house which looks like any other modern house now; with a few rooms demolished, and a few wings added. As I step into it and measure the changes, I feel like a stranger. The living room, which once resembled a memorial to the dead, has lost its old character. Gone are the four huge portraits of Marx, Lenin, Mao and Stalin against a fiery red background my 'Communist' grandpa had hung. He believed in wearing his Communism on the walls.
I ask: "Where are the Communists?"
My cousin grins: 'In the junkyard, Maini."
There's a certain warmth with which she calls me 'Maini', a Tamil word for father's sister's daughter.
Framed pictures, some sepia-tinted and some black & white, of friends and relatives are gone. A picture of her, taken when she was a 7-month old plump baby, looks suspiciously at me. I wisely refrain from asking about a picture of me, taken when I was a year old and grinning impishly, that used to hang at the same spot.
Cousin: "Maini, your baby picture was here. Dad has put that too in the junkyard."
I pretend to be unaffected by her innocent observation while I curse my Uncle silently for his...God knows what! My ego bruised, I wish I could just fly back to Cal. But then, what did I expect? Ghosts from the past ready with a red-carpet welcome? And am no prodigal daughter or grand-daughter either....
I spot an old armchair, retained more for its utilitarian value than for sentimental reasons and an overwhelming wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. Sadness, like medicine, can be had only in little doses...

In the kitchen, I recognise some earthern pots and porcelain pickle jars among the steel utensils. An old spoon curled out of its natural shape reminds me of my cousin whose favourite it was. A steel plate, which had my aunt's name engraved upon it, was our favourite and we would often fight over who would have a meal on it. My grandma settled the matter - I would have my lunch on it and my cousin would have his dinner. I saw a favourite spot at the dining room; the corner seat near a large iron bench was our favourite as often even in the midst of a meal, we could jump from the chair to the bench and jump back for fun. That was also settled - every alternate day, I got the corner seat. I had pleaded in my childhood since I came only once a year to visit my native village, my whims should be indulged. But my plea was rejected by the elders as my cousin seemed to desire everything particularly more during my presence! The old bench, I learn, has been relegated to the new shed.

A rivulet used to flow under the gates; and there were little gates which opened to steps which led you down to it. If I felt too lazy to take a walk in the fields and wet my feet in the pond or the slush on the wayside, I could do just sit by the rivulet, with feet dipped in the gently flowing stream and throw pebbles like any bored kid.
Lil fish woud nibble my feet, and now and then you could even see a water snake glide by, a dash of silvery streak. During the rains, crabs would mysteriously appear and scuttle about on the soft earth. My cousin would then pick them up, tie their limbs to strings and celebrate his sadism by flinging the thread across all the four directions. Disgusted, I would tell him to stop it as the poor creatures' claws and limbs scattered everywhere. That was his idea of fun!

Gone are the gates; and the rivulet has dried up.The old neem tree's still going strong - its nimble branches remind me of 'discipline.' That was an era when our mothers would 'discipline' us for simple things, making us feel like we were hardened criminals. But that was also an era when you could play up your suffering and announce your heroism by a simple act - walk up to the village chemist and ask for Band-Aid. My legs or knuckles were the honoured recipients of such beatings when everytime the neem switch fell, you became aware of thousands of nerves tingling in pain. But the Band-Aid was always placed on a spot visible - on the cheek, near the chin, on the elbow or just across the wrist. And when asked I would proudly say : 'Mom beat me up', 'I fell', 'Cousin & I had a scuffle'.......

More than the changes wrought on the house, I think I miss certain people more - my aunt and my cousin who lived for seven years there after a fight with her husband, only to return to him again; my grandparents and their friends, and my playmates whom marriages and jobs have taken to different parts of the earth...The brevity of everything strikes me...And strangely, too much of pain seems to sharpen my senses as I 'see', 'feel', 'hear', 'smell' and 'taste' the past that returns with a vengeance...The pain pricks are maddening...And the escapist desire returns...this time a desire to return home in Cal...to be with my parents and friends...which is the present, which is real and which shall become the past soon...And as a flock of parrots screech their way into the dusk, I think of Pixie and long for my flight home...

Moi non plus

A morning walk, dark afternoon clouds, reading while its pouring outside, music creeps into my room from a nearby flat, meaningless, giggles-filled conversations with a few old friends on the phone, some scribbles and a few doodles, lazing on the bed, lunch and window-shopping with a friend, long ride home in the drizzle..."I am home!" and after a small talk with Mom & Dad, I snuggle with a book in the living room while the promise of Mom's ginger tea lingers...
As Pixie calls out her name and mews like a cat, I do the same...And add a song too...Then a silence - Am I being stared at? Yep - Lord! My parents are watching me - that explains the sudden disquiet I feel in my blood. Even Pixie cranes her neck, questioning me with her beady eyes...I can't kill the song - it's too late...So I sing nonchalantly...Why don't they ask the question? Let's get it done with, folks...

"Are you in..ahem...love?" Dad ventures.
I have rehearsed my answer in the past five uncertain minutes...
"Of course, Dad! With myself! Isn't self-love the most gratuitous of them all?"

Dad persists: "No comments."
I have to have the last word: "Who cares, Dad! I had only asked a rhetorical question - one doesn't expect or desire an answer from a rhetorical question...You are not meant to answer a rhetorical question!"
He too needs to have the last word it seems: "Time will tell..."
I win or rather, he lets me win: "What if Time turns my co-conspirator?"

Pixie screeches, and I mew - meow, meow, meow...Then, quee-quee-queeeeeeee...A bird song is what I sing...Any questions?