Commitment

Things don’t always tie in neatly and nor should words.

They should be fragmented,

discordant,

sta.cca.to,
fluid like neraids wearing flowing green silk doing the backstroke,

hollow,

empty,

leaping off

the page in

pogo-sticked

exuberance

shouting their mad joy

SMACK

in the reader’s unsuspecting face,

intimate as the nook in your lover’s neck where he smells the gentlest,

turbulent like the blood in your heart,

constant like you.

They should be what you are, who you are, where you are, how you are. When you give up on them, they give up on you.

How can you?

Emptiness

(also called "a bit sloppy but it struggled out of me")


Fill it.

Mocking space

Midnight room

With you

With you

Fingers, forearms

Shoulders, calves

Your chest, your breath

You

We haven’t met

But do you remember

The last time we parted?

I’m afraid I’ve forgotten

Where we promised to meet

But I’m waiting

In my

Midnight room

Mocking space.

K.I.S.S

I feel like writing for Paris.

A letter of love to her.

A poem.

A story.

An ode.

A book.

Something that will capture what it means to me that she reads what I write.

That she loves what I write.

That she checks every two days for an update even when I go months without writing.

And I realize as I note these points… that this is more a love letter from her to me than vice a versa.

And I cannot top it with any words.

Dr: Yes a baby girl. I Fear there is No Cure

I’d have liked it if my birth was an environmental event. Some pathetic fallacy that I could prop up against. Pounding rain was Mars’ herald. In marwadi fashion someone ran from our house to a relative’s beating a plate announcing his birth. Titania came with first light after a moonless night. Their entry on stage was cued with lights and sound, drama and romance. I came at 6.06 am. There is no adjective for my birth. I don’t know if the dawn was soft or bright or unusually dark. I was just born. And despite nature I was born with the love gene.

Jr. Kg. I’d staked out my territory. I defended when he stuttered and looked disdainfully upon the class hunk.
Class 1: I got punished with guy and tentatively thought about holding hands.
Class 3: My mind found itself instinctively understanding smarmy lyrics like “duniya maange apni muraade, main toh mangu saajan, rahen salaamat mera sajna aur sajna ka aangan.’ Yes really. All bloggers are on a blogger oath to forget this.
So you get the picture. I can not help this. I was born this way. Way before books and romantic movies got hold of me and worsened the situation. Some people are born honest. Others are born happy. I was born believing.
When I learnt words I asked “How did mumma and papa get married?” and I got the answer, “Mumma proposed to Papa at the airport.” That’s it. There was no going back.
The story grew yearly. Different perspectives were added. How Mrs. H waited 6 months while Mr. H came back from his conference. How Mr. H had gone on a fast unto death till his mother agreed. How Mr. H dragged Uncle Red from the horse races to enlist his help. How Uncle Red sent out the wedding cards so that the match could not be canceled. There was a whole real life film in the family. And testimony to it was the chemistry between Mr. and Mrs. H.

Now we’d heard the tale from every possible source but Mrs. H. It was generally acknowledged in the family that Mr. H is the more romantic and expressive while Mrs. H still plays hard to get. It just didn’t seem to gel with the image of a woman who proposed and then waited for an answer. No matter how many times we asked her how and why and what she was thinking all you could drag out of her was a “don’t remind me. The foolishest thing I did.” We’d all laugh and put it down to her dry character.
But recently Paris and I cornered Mrs. H. We decided that an answer must be had and that it was a mite suspicious that she never said a word. Was Titania illegit? Hehhe.

So we hounded and hounded till exasperated Mrs. H said, “oof… he promised me that he’d take me for a holiday every year.” Silence. I could tell she was serious. After all these years this was the truth behind the Great Love Story. Mrs. H hurriedly added, “and he was the decentest guy I knew. Better than the options my father was coming up with.” Suddenly it all made sense. My mother was not a romantic. She was practical. She got married for security and comfort and because the known devil also happened to be man about town.

I have been proposed to a couple of times. They were people I adored and rich and could have offered me the world both emotionally and otherwise. But I couldn’t offer it back. If I’d accepted them I’d have been Mrs. H.
On this issue I am never going to want to be my mother. I was perplexed. My ailment seemed even worse when I realized that the love gene was not inherited but actually something that was all mine. I couldn’t blame my mother for my irrational choices.
Then I was talking to Salvatore and he laughed and said, “but don’t you see…you’re like Mr. H. You’ve taken after him.” Ahhh.
I always thought that I wanted Heathcliff but now I have to think that maybe I am Heathcliff.

Section II: Who Said to Whom

There are times when you just want to go back to simpler days; when the biggest challenge was evading your chemistry teacher’s eye in case she asked a question.
There are times when you walk around Cesspool with squelching dirt oozing in and out of your toe nails and wind tangling your ready-for-office hair and you leave your empty house only to go back in the evening. On such days you might be reading a biography and you think – what would mine read?
And thump. That was a metaphorical pole.
Most biographies tell one entire episode of a person’s life. It begins, it goes somewhere and it ends. They have this thing called an ending.
Biographers are smart creatures – they pick aspects of a life that have a story curve, an arc that goes somewhere.
I am the master of beginnings. The characters populating my tale are winsome, arrogant, loving, bitter, straight, hard, restless, crushing, baffling, intimidating, dull, enigmatic, schizophrenic, suffering, cheerful, alone, lonely, lost, hopeful, cynical, pretending to be cynical, fake, dreaming, irish, apart, focused, content, forgiving, resentful, scared, bored, sad, free, ahead of their time, behind, hurt, strong, busy, living. My story is not mine without them but it goes nowhere even with them. They have their own arc to build. I have the nails and hammer but don't seem to have the wood. I have the dialogues but not the screenplay.
So I hug the pole and think of the lines I’ll never forget. Some of those lines were stories that I thought would end and some are stories that can never end.
And there’s just a little twinge while thinking of both.

You know I love you right? I love you. I always have and I always will.
- boy to girl

What will I do without you?
- brother to sister

is there a manual that comes with you?
- guy to girl

You’re a mountain you know. Only it’s lost in mist.
- friend to friend

Will you marry me?
- man to girl.

Maasi! chiya.
- niece to aunt

Smoke in Her Eyes

Sky and Harry just saw a film about a 65 year old man and a 35 year old woman falling in love. The film’s light and doesn’t make bones about the concept. It’s quite simply a love story about a cantankerous old man and a plain speaking woman. Sky particularly was convinced with the line that the female protagonist speaks – that she can’t help it if men are taking 65 years to match her mentally and in maturity. Heh.
Harry has forever said that with the way they are India and she can only expect an old man. India is very careful about saying older and not old.
Well in honour of that sentiment, here’s a poem that she wrote quite a while ago. There are some water stains on the paper so I’m missing some lines in the middle but you’ll get the idea.

I met a man in a glade once,
He smelt old like the oldest tree and looked beaten like the weathered breeze,
I longed to touch his spare, lived face and feel his enough hands on me.
But I was young and he was not
And all that met were our eyes.

The wood smoke cleared as he looked at me,
My breath caught fire instead.
And still he moved and I stood still,
Uncaring to break the spell.

(Water marks… something about how age knows things youth fears. How age is willing to take risks and live while youth is playing safe.) (then…

But I was gaunt and he was full
And all that met were our eyes.

Picture courtesy: www.flickr.com

Between Heel and High Water

Once in a while I go through my closet and I find that I have more clothes than I did the last time. I'm a hoarder – good stuff, bad stuff.. I can make myself throw away nothing. So my room is the cleanest place of stashed away memorabilia.

Shirts that went out ofstyle years ago, papers and diaries that have nothing more interesting written on them than the lyrics of songs or list of appointments of a year gone by, every gift ever given to me – ugly ones in drawers ready to be put on display when required.. incapable of parting with anything that means something.

Paris and I shifted house. Since the job of packing annoys me as it can only annoy someone with too much of unwanted luggage – I decided to trash without thought. And I did. Two suitcases filled with things that hadn't seen daylight in more than a year.

And then I came to my silver heels.
These heels had been my soul (terrible pun) for a long time – stilettos of the sexiest kind, they were a standard of the woman who cannot be expected to stay, a woman who will dance when she feels like and slide them off and chatter in a moment. This stiletto-shod girl could make men drool and girls envy. Though they had pinched my feet for some time now, I resolutely refused to throw them away. That day I stopped amidst the dust and mounds of cartons and stared at them.

My bandana slipping off my forehead, and shorts looking morosely ill fitting I put on the footwear again. Sigh. Oh the joy of it. I stand four inches taller and distinctly start looking sexy. I know if I keep them on a little longer or walk around in them, it'll start to hurt.. but really is that reason enough to throw them out?!

These were the heels in which I had enticed my first love, these were the heels in which I had gone for my graduation, these were the heels that had been borrowed by my closest friends for the most illicit purposes. These were good stuff. Why throw them?

But I did. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to throw the good old stuff and create space for new. Sometimes the best thing you can do is forget even the good with the bad. Sometimes the best you can do is go buy the newest pair of white calf length stiletto boots and realize that you've outgrown them silver heels.

The Biggest Lizard

The Flanagan clan with its god fearing aunts and warm hearted uncles, wild older generation and goody two shoes young un’s, portly little tykes to devilish girls has two things in common.
One : Lizards scare the shit out of them…
No family gathering is complete without at least one discussion on their latest nightmares starring lizards. If Titania dreams of being under attack by a ruthlessly well planned army of lizards then India ‘knows’ that a breed of flying lizards will soon sweep in. Myrine avers that if you stare at them, they lift their ugly little heads and stare right back contemplating jumping on you. Piper has threatened Philip (her husband) that the next time he thought to play any trick on her involving them, she’d be heading straight for the divorce courts. Mars and Mrs. Havisham still shudder when they recall their particularly close encounters with lizards. (Mrs. H and her three kids have spent a good part of their lives in a hot village with lots of little creatures for company. This would be when Titania, Mars and India were between 3 to 11 years old) There was the one time that a monitor held Mrs. H prisoner outside a bathroom and her kids inside a tub as it held court on the bathroom floor. But that’s another story. Suffice to say that with a lizard in your hand you could get a Flanagan to sign away their child. Or at least their house.

The second thing that can set them off is their dog – Cykie. Short for Cyclone. This gorgeous, giant sized Alsatian with the dopiest brown eyes you’ve seen is the most adored dog on the planet.
Cyclone is Mars’ dog. He was gifted to Mars by an old, dog loving neighbour and got home against much opposition. The opposition lasted the first 5 minutes. Cyclone was born to be loved. A fat, cuddly looking cotton ball, he abhorred movement. Mars, his siblings and their cousins spent an entire afternoon wondering if Cykie was deaf because he refused to move. He just looked at them patiently as if waiting for them to realize that he doesn’t want the ball and he really rather sleep. By the time they finally caught up with this ‘Why bark when you can sleep?’ ethos, he had cultivated new ideas.

Everything was his. He must be the centre of attention always. All humans are friends and all animals are enemies.

This last caused as much trouble as pride. While they could gleefully laud how he had single handedly mauled a pack of street dogs that attacked him, they also had to contend with him seizing and shaking a neighbours dog by the throat. He was a great conversation starter. People everywhere stopped to sigh over him and for years the three were known as Cyclone’s owners in the neighborhood. But this was also the single minded dog who dragged India all over a thorny field because a pig had pissed him off and he just had to take a bite out of it. Never mind the chain tangled in India’s sweater.
This force of life, a vegetarian (!!!), music loving zen master was the focus of all the love in a mostly non-tactile, undemonstrative family.

If India had one shadow in her heart, it was the thought at the back of her head that Cykie was a dog and dogs get older faster. While traveling for work, she’d often try to grapple with this fear and then abuse it with a ‘oh.. he’s young yet. Just 10.’ And then a hurried prayer ‘let it happen when I’m not there. Let me be busy. Let me be away.’

It didn’t happen that way. One very normal day, Cyclone vomited while on his walk. It was not out of the ordinary. Mars decided to take him to the vet. India went along. The vet gave him an injection and put him on a ice cream diet – cold liquids were what they were to feed him. Grin. Cykie was going to love this. They rode back home in a rickshaw. Cykie imitated a flying dog the entire way. He periodically pushed half his body out of the rik, ears flat on the side like helicopter wings to feel the cool air. Then he’d dizzily slink back, shove his nose in a corner and cover his eyes with his paws. Only to do it all over again.
On reaching home, he got his belly rubbed while the three discussed changing his food to some special pedigree dog product to avoid colic in future.
He didn’t want to chase the ice cube but no one wondered about that.

Early the next morning Mars and India came back from their jog to find Titania hugging a wheezing Cykie. His stomach had swelled up more. Mars called the vet. It’s 7 in the morning. He isn’t in. India called a friend to get his vet’s number. That vet isn’t in either. Meanwhile Mars gets the vet’s home number. The vet gives a medicines name. Mars runs out to get it. Titania and India sit by Cykie hugging him, pleading with him, please stop wheezing, crying. Mars rushes back with the medication and tries to drip it down Cykie’s mouth. But Cykie’s prone and can’t lift his head. They’re all crying. The vet’s asking them unrelated questions, ‘Is his tongue turning blue?’
Somewhere they know what it means. ‘NO.. NO.. the tip’s still pink, the tip’s still pink’
I don’t know what the vet said to Mars. As they hugged and kissed Cyclone, he passed away.
Mr. and Mrs. Havisham were not in town. They called to talk and in the manner that only elders have of working around grief, brought up burial. He had to be buried. Mrs. Havisham suggested a cousin’s garden. The three refused. India suggested a tree near the river where Cyclone had been sniffing the previous day. Mars checked it out and refused. ‘My dog will not be buried in such filth.’
Finally, the perfect place. Salvatore’s garden. If Cykie had loved anyone as much as Mars, it was probably Salvatore.
Wrapped in a blanket with red and blue bikes racing on it, a 20 year old keepsake from Mars childhood, Cykie went to Salvatore’s garden. They took turns digging the ground. And still wrapped they lowered him in. The memory of his black, brown, golden body covered in white salt with a yellow flower on his soft nose has stayed with India and afforded her a peace she would have doubted when she thought of this day. And India is glad she was there to see him enjoy his last ride. He’s the happiest memory she has.
And another favourite topic of discussion. His acting skills, his willingness in letting Eve, Pearl and Ray maul him, his love for beer, him.. he’s still the most adored dog in the world.
------

An excerpt from India’s Sleep Travelogue:

Later that night I slept only to dream of a narrow bathroom. I’m trapped in a corner of it watching the fattest, ugliest lizard. The damn thing is looking right at me. Then suddenly it falls to the floor, scuttles around a bucket and disappears.

Artless Observations

The reason for the lack of faith in the world is probably the excess of it.
Scared by the bunny boiler gleam in Maya’s eye I shall be using her representation of Mars.
I'll put up art work on Monday. But I can wait no longer (my face is turning blue), so here are the protagonists in the Affairs of India Q.

The Cast of Characters:
(in no particular order) (what nonsense.. ofcource there’s an order.. even if it’s random)

Paris (of no surname): the friend. Drop dead pretty, put together and supremely competent, Paris has but one failing, okay two.. uhh.. maybe three.. a memory that would make a goldfish feel proud, the attention span of a flea and an astounding lack of tact. On the plus side, she remembers that she loves Mars and that she has no choice but to love India.

Mars Flanagan: the older brother. Mars has transformed over the years from a ‘I’ll-bash- u- before- I-speak-to-you’ kind of guy to a yoga loving madman. He’s an automobile enthusiast/designer with thoughts he calls ‘brain passengers’. The boy older women dote on; his inability to be anything but nice (even with the neighbours!) causes Paris immense grief.

Salvatore: Mars’ oldest friend. An honorary member of the Flanagan clan. (not an honor he always wants). If James Bond was also the boy next door, you’d get Salvatore.

Piper Gardiner: a married cousin. While no one can say for certain what lies beneath the dark eyes, Piper is still the one stop place for a sense of comfort, discussions, troubles solved and fun.

Myrine: The oldest Flanagan sister. Big woman, big voice and big heart. Brash and naïve, the word for Myrine is simple.

Ms. Sheila Havisham – the mother. Has a tendency to be a camel on the verge of just getting the last straw but with the survival skills of a cat. A woman of many parts, she passed on her expressiveness to India, her creative flair to Titania and her nose to Mars. Thankfully she kept her sense of humour.

Mr. Havisham – the father. Mr. Havisham is the absentee father who one day decided to wreak havoc in his kids’ lives by ‘becoming involved’. A widely traveled, social and generous guy, he’s a split between the saint and the dictator. Unfortunately charity doesn’t begin at home in this case.
(note : yes.. the surnames don’t match their children’s.)

Titania Flanagan – the older sister. She did Mars and India no favours by being the perfect daughter. A shrink, a cooking artist and a budding jewelry designer, Titania is freelancing on all of this while looking for an actual job – she’s groom hunting! Now, if only they could find her either Tarzan or George of the Jungle she’d be really be happy.

Carmen: a maternal cousin. Excruciatingly polite, Carmen’s the original iron hand in the velvet glove. Don’t expect him at family functions (unless they don’t involve family), don’t expect him to answer questions (unless with another question) and don’t expect him to sit around (unless it involves drinking beer). But you can expect him to turn up if you need him.

Alanis: If birds of a feather really did flock together, the chances of Paris, Alanis and India hitting it off would be dim. Flap flap. Alanis is the original wild child. Though she says, she’s hardly wild, it’s a relative world. Highly intelligent, grimly displeased and warmly generous, no college memory seems complete without Alanis’ presence or marked absence.

Katharine: The fourth of the three. The four friends spent most of their time either in India’s house or Kat’s car. Infact her chauffeur has been privy to more girl talk than any man alive! Which reminds me, If Katharine has a problem, it is that she’s a member of business royalty. And believe me, that’s a big problem. From restrictions on career choices to men, Katharine is the original poor little rich girl. Disarmingly down to earth, suddenly wicked and inherently grid oriented, Katharine has but one passion – to dance.

J.B. Aldair: India’s first love. A smooth talking charmer with rare moments of sweetness. India caught a couple. Whether passionately arguing or coldly contemplating, J.B always has a point with three sub points and they’re always going somewhere. His being a lawyer is really just incidental.

Shade: India’s friend from college. Now in another continent. The friendship has only grown with distance. While Shade thrives on pretending to be cynical, India thrives on pretending to be a romantic. They’ve both fooled themselves but not each other.

Smith: A friend of Mars. Descended from one of Medusa’s victims, stoical Smith is a constant source of bafflement to friends and family alike. Dry, practical and inscrutable, the one reason his friends have hope for him is because he suffers from the restless leg syndrome. Obviously something’s waiting to come bursting forth.

Quinn Bingley: Another friend. While his father is aiming to launch Quinn as the next big CEO, Quinn’s ambition is getting people to acknowledge him as the funniest guy they’ve ever met or to lead the country’s cricket team in the next World Cup. The fact that he has absolutely no training will obviously make his triumph all the greater.

The friends who were also fellow lodgers:
Sky Bennet: also a cousin. As happily spaced out as a doper on a binge. Somewhere in her self induced haze, she’s transformed from a highly energetic mad person to a single minded workaholic. The tabla and ghungroo’s that medleyed in her soul either aren’t playing or the auditorium’s empty. And she doesn’t miss it.. India does.

Gaia: A diminutive Hitler with space issues. Can be prevented from going to war by a strategically timed game of badminton or a movie watching plan. Loves all things living except humans.

Sytar: a bespectacled recluse who only gets animated when you discuss Rhett Butler, pasta or books. A voice like a siren while singing and foghorn while talking. Sytar marches to her own drum, plays a secret tune and waits for her serenade.

Harry: Harry read her first film magazine when she was 4. She had her first breakdown when she was 5. She ran away from home 6 times. Got into fights x times. Fell in love a couple of times. Now she’s not just writing movies but living them. One unforgettable scene at a time.

A huge family with close ties, a gaggle of adorable nieces and a nephew.
Other friends: Audrey from post grad and George from school.
Nieces names : Nikita, Eve, Pearl, Anya, Rosalie.
Nephew: Ray

Maya Jones.. whom you’ve already met is going to continue with the art work. It is my intention to always use her work (that is.. some of it) simply in acknowledgment and appreciation of her sheer umm.. zeal and irrepressible spirit.