Ends & Means

There is a buzz in the office, even post lunch, when the silence oozing from the appalling siesta screams into the minutes between three and four. It is the financial year end. My foot.

Earlier, the parameters of "productivity" would depend entirely only on the ratio of ass-on-chair. Unfortunately, the conditions have wholly reversed, and most of us are stuck on our chairs, wasting precious hours off the one life we have. Such a pain. Literally.

For a person like yours truly, such a situation, from a distance, couldn't seem better. One could write as much when one had a desk and chair. Alas, it always seems fine from afar -- luscious, fulfilling -- like the endless videos meant to tickle either our satiation, or our wit. But, do they really? They all have one thing in common, the innate nature of "giving." As if they gave to our lives the little laugh we lack, the victorious moments we lost, the idea that we are learning. That they are the all in all, while we, we are hopefully and hopelessly dependent on them for our existence.

The information tells not more than a minute on our minds, but assimilates on our backs, in tremendous bounty, like now. The time ticks away to only one goal -- when to clock out.

Creativity does not perish with rejection as much as it does with boredom. If one gives one half of a day to "work" which is far away from the curve of creativity, one really has only day-end and month-end to look forward to.

And that, is not quite the end one wants, to regret, at the end of life.

So, we write.

The means? Is that not an end too?

Ordered Too Much

A great story is written,
Much like a meal,
Well-thought, intended,
Prepared,
Served.

A great story,
Is out of everyday.
Not out of the ordinary.

What is it,
If not thought of?
The mess,
If you like to call it,
A mad mix.

Too much has been
Written, cooked,
Too much had.

The palette is overload,
Senses overhead.

Did you eat, read?
Everyday?

Out of everyday.

Untitled

Once I tried,
To become,
An artist.
An artist, you know,
The one who paints.
Draws landscapes,
And figures,
And fills them all
With colours.
Someone who dares.
To shoot fish
Across the sky,
And have ducks
Along them, fly.

The instrument failed me.
The pencil, the palette.
And rejection too.
Of my art --
Unstiff muscles on figures,
Uneven dimensions.
Thoroughly roted --
Mountains, sun,
A river flowing out,
Huts,
And neighbouring
Coconut trees.
Stray lines for people,
Their shadows.

Newer lines were born.
Alive, unruly,
Yet disciplined.
Without much meaning,
Ambiguous,
Fulfilling.

For imaginative art,
The strokes weren't
Correct.
For spontaneous outpourings,
The crosshatches were
Dense,
Dedicated,
Dead.

I had to accept,
I was not one
To become
An artist.
One is not one,
Who draws on words.

What do you call one,
Whose words do?
Draw, paint.

Were I an artist,
And I left it
At that,
You would admire,
Attempt to understand,
Perhaps do,
And call it,
"Untitled."

But these,
Remember,
These are
My words.

Writi Wrote a Letter

Writi persevered, obstinate like a kingfisher, pecking. Pecking on and on. How to begin, how to begin. A perfectionist, even the clinking sound of stainless steel piled against stainless steel inside the kitchen disturbed her. The last letter is always a first. Or, I could well rephrase: My first last letter. She toyed with her pen and smelled the notebook. It had coloured handmade pages. It smells of cold, neglected food. She started writing:

Dear, dear,

The red of the sky is an extraordinary event. As is the yellow of the trees. The sparse incidents, not always pleasing, no. In between stood I, the brown wood in argyle pattern. I, of celebrated shows and negotiated roles, I cannot complain, yet here I am, melancholic, and to an extent, merely, massively bored. Beaten blue. Have you seen a tree with blue branches? Do you not get me? Let me try again.

I am a bird,
Devoid of wings,
I had no life of songs,
So I could rhyme it now
With 'sings.'

Precisely. 
Nothing I tried,
Has hardly been heard.
Shoe polishes, sticky jams,
Nude nail enamels,
Breakfast and quarrels.

So I gave in to addiction
To crisp linens of hotels -- 
I almost wrote hospitals! 
One is life, 
The other without.

My addiction was a failure, wasn't it too? "Eclectic," they whispered behind my back. This void filled me. I felt like a song without lyric, or reason. So I will swallow sleep tonight. And be solely responsible. There are no debts I hold, none. There is no regret too. Yes, somewhere in me a curiosity lurks -- to know -- what will happen when people get to know. "The crazy one is dead!", "We were expecting this!", "She was brilliant, in phases."

Do not attempt to reread this. Life and letters are same -- personal -- and often, one does fail to understand. My red sky, yellow trees, blue branches, and woody argyle apparel, all made my life.
You have a tremendous one!
Write one extraordinary letter at least.

Love,
Writi.

Carefully she folded the letter.

Twelve years on it came out as is, from within one of the slots of her wallet. Her faded denim wallet. While Writi lived in the aura of that long night where she came to believe that she wrote one of the most poetically stoic letter ever, she changed her wallet. And put it back into the suede glory. 

The Inevitable Downfall of Humour

Humour they admired,
"What a thing to have!"
A charm at times,
Oftener, a weapon.
Who could have thought,
And how.
It remains rare,
A privilege,
Almost.

They look for standards,
In oil, gold and why,
Even in how hair
Was parted.
And how it was not.
How questions were answered,
And why, how well,
They were not!

But like all good things,
Humour too came,
To a grand,
Grand end.
Why? How? When?
They couldn't understand,
Or appreciate,
Why this poem was written!

Letter to ____ III

Dearest,

As if one desperate letter wasn't enough (https://blacksheep-knownonsense.blogspot.in/2014/09/letter-to.html), I wrote you another (https://blacksheep-knownonsense.blogspot.in/2015/04/letter-to-ii.html). I am shamelessly aware that you audaciously read them both, but even more, that you royally ignored their intensity. Like me, their entity must have favorably vaporized?

This is yet another addition, and frankly, sometimes the entirety of you becomes rather overwhelming. I don't know if you made me or I made me. Or who made who. I am unavailable for you, yet I can never finish what we began. Your very memories are like favourite stories. But, they are my stories. If you ever have a shadow whispering curses into your ears, feebly first and fiercely next, know, that the monster is me. Wishing to kiss you, but knowing better to curse.

Do I scare you? I wish I had you around so that I could say, "don't be darling!" I wish I had told you once, like in songs, lovers do, "don't go away, come back, stay..." Are you impressed that I did nothing of the sort, behaving as if I had let gone, as if it meant nothing? Was my being cold sexy enough?

Well, I woke up one today, and decided that you are no longer alive.

A commitment to self was never to make you a 'perhaps'.

Who made who?
K.

The Festival of Colours

Red balloons,Pink Barbies,
Yellow Hot Wheels,
Green mints,
Colours of childhood,
Transparent, exact.

Till I learnt,
The red of angry
And the green of envy.
The yellow of spring,
Blue skies,
And the black of festivals,
Dark lights.
Translucent, true.

From pastels to shine,
The age called in.
Silver desires,
Gold conquests,
Metallic wounds,
Bronze hickeys.
Opaque, perhaps.

Between them all,
Lies the grey
Of life.
Lies,
About whites and blacks.
Bares the colours. 

A Post on Profession

Once, Mrittika was attending her uncle’s wedding, at an age when young girls’ cheeks are responsibly pulled, and are listlessly asked, “What will you become when you grow up?” Mrittika never bothered about replying, because nobody had the patience to listen to her. They would run across to the next question, “Such a pretty dress! Who bought it for you, little one?” But, to a certain elderly aunt, she did expertly answer, “I want to become a housewife” and smartly pointed towards her mother, who at that opportune moment was deftly handling the custom catering and the bamboo tray on her hands with the flair of a pilot. Indeed, the job of a ‘housewife’ is one of the most benevolent in the universe.

The various aunts not paying attention for so long were taken into a spell of stun, broken by one of the several self-proclaimed uncles, “Wonderful, Mrittika! But wrong. That isn’t your mother’s career, it is her responsibility.” The collective marigolds lost their glorious sunshine.

As a literature student I was always bemused by the categorization of literary ages and historical centuries. And as a country, I am profoundly ashamed of the manifold tiers of unjust attitude towards everything, let alone women. Yes, as studies show, Mrittika was correct, most Indian women do work fulltime in their homes, as housewives. She is the central workforce around which the family is aligned. She is as true as that part of the human body, let us assume, the ligament, which we take for granted, or do not pay attention to. Until such time that the ligament is injured. As soon as the housewife malfunctions, the cooking suffers, the washing piles, the caring rusts. She is the epitome of a glue stick, on to which the elderlies clutch, the husband dumps his loose ends, and her child/ren look up to for building their lives. Eventually, she becomes the invisible superpower, and inevitably she selflessly starts believing in it by putting others’ interests over her own.  

But, wait. We were calculating the conclusion of Mrittika’s statement. Isn’t being a housewife equal to heading a company? She is the production-operations-logistics-sales-finance-HR lead rolled into one, and working beyond biometrics. The pathetic part, of course, is the pay – not only is there no remuneration, mostly there is also no gratitude and thus her role remains unacknowledged.

Uncle did mention it was not a job, of course. And responsibility never yields recognition. Even today. Whatever be the age we are living in. The housewife relentlessly and thanklessly performs her ‘job’ / ‘duties’ irrespective of interest or devotion. She is merely the baker because her husband is the bread-earner.

Little does Mrittika understand, she has unconsciously opted for one of the most demanding professions in the world. I can only hope by the time she gets into it, she sees the wrong in it -- of any work remaining unrecognized, or being draped as "duty."

Letter to Chhuti XXIV

Chhuti,

Dearest, letters to you have been read, re-read, loved and loved well. And then you disappear, appearing as if life were a game of eternal hide and seek. When there could be nothing more direct and honest than the neutrality of trees, standing open and alone for everyone -- days filled with working hours -- you are the honest splash of colours that children aim streetgoers with -- a holiday -- sometimes stolen with the conviction that one deserves it.

Each minute with you yields a life that could be counted backwards with yearning, and finished in an unwanted jiffy. While the day passes in its mediocrity and school kids noisily walk pass into a gentle, dissipating lullaby, time stands still on the couch with you. The hours belong to us, purely, yet never quite adequate.

And that is all that I had to say. Sometimes I feel like hosting a party, at others I wish to be a guest, but mostly, I just wish to be with you. Little Chhuti, open your arms, take me in, sing me a story and let us write a day to ourselves.

Again, all over.
K.

Contests are Cruel

It was a quaint jewel, which would never yell once the treasure trunk was set open. The signboard was rusting from the edges and read "Central Juice Corner" in a shameless yellow, now sobered with age. Underneath the name, the tagline read a solemn truth -- Fresh Juice, Everytime. Neeti chose the darkest corner carefully, with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. She walked into the juice bar with the intent of a hunter. It felt like a storage of different smells -- sweet, spicy, cold, chatter of the juicer-grinder and secrets of the deep walls.

From the one-page laminated menu-card, she decided upon a watermelon and mint mix. As she opened her laptop, notebook and plugged in her earphones, she prepared herself for the assignment, heavily; the cashier prepared himself for a long sipping session from her. The impromptu ideation began thus, each followed by its deliberations:

How challenging is a contest? NO.

Does winning matter? NO-NO-NO.

Creation versus recognition. CLICHE.

Diffusing definitions. AM I A TAGLINE WRITER?

The Role of Challenges. REALLY?

Contests are Cruel. YES! THIS ONE.

Neeti called for the waiter and asked for a slice of lime. She knew she had found her pitch, her victim, and she was ready to aim at the kill. "Thank you" she smiled sweetly, and soaked in the props around her. The smells, they need to feature. The tastes too. Quickly she formatted them into bullets, to be shot later. She looked around for better baits. 

From the other corner of the juice centre, the cameraperson was focussing on Neeti's fingers, swiftly shifting from the keyboard to the pen and managing a sip of the juice in between. "She needs to tap on the keyboard" he whispered to the person next to him. "She typed the lines quite well, I didn't think she would need a reminder on the tapping!" 

"Do you think we should disturb the sequence for a mere tapping?" the assistant quipped.

Keshav now looked into his face. "Do I think? Yes, I do." Even as he spoke with refrain, his impatience was palpable. 

At the cashier's, the Director was on his third cigarette, on his mind the speck of doubt, like dust, had built large. Keshav can't be too wrong. But Neeti does look good without showing her body language disturbed. I wish I could go for a run. "Guys! Let's break for a ten."

Neeti quickly stood up and stretched. "I need a lime juice here!" As soon as she was done with it, she returned to her character. How the hell will she ever find her clue from the torn poster!

On resuming the shot, she tapped her fingers as was directed and vaguely looked at the walls. "Excuse me, could you put my phone on charge!" she told the waiter. He smiled and took it to the poster. It read, "Fre__ Ju__e, Every____" The fonts had faded. The focus came in from the camera behind her on the monitor. She typed:

Contests are Cruel.

Neeti took another sip from her watermelon juice. She continued:

Not everytime though.

She needed to feel it was a different "Central Juice Corner" this time. Jazzy. Snappy. These were the briefs as provided by the client. So they wrapped up for the day. The next shot would be on a stage where she would get an award for winning the contest which she won because she had the fresh juice. Lame. You could do better, Mr Director.

The people were happy with the final ad which showed an animation of a varitety of juices over Neeti's award, and a voice over saying, "Everything changes everywhere. But at Central Juice Corner -- Fresh Juice, Everytime."

Back on her bed with Keshav couple of weeks later, she ruffled his beard and asked, "You slept with him, didn't you?" Keshav looked back ferociously. "Well, it was a badly made ad. I couldn't have it on my profile. Yes, we needed to can it before it rolled out."

As he turned for a cigarette, "Cmon baby, everything changes everywhere, remember!" He laughed alone.

"Keshav! You knew how important this was for me. I needed the exposure." She smiled and put on the TV.

A look of concern on Keshav's face loomed large. The ad was out. And in a hour he understood how well it was received. "What did you do, Neeti?" he finally asked.

"Me? Nothing. I am fresh juice, everytime, baby. I just told him how good you are with me." 

Winning was a way of life for Neeti. It felt like the storage of different smells -- sweet, spicy, cold, chatter of the juicer-grinder and secrets of the deep walls.  

A Song for Take-Off, One for Landing

Speaking of dreams, I returned to the place I used to teach, and loved teaching at. But, the faces had grown older and the younger ones were densely disquieting. Cycling on the cobwebbed corridors, my inner rage did not know where and how to control itself -- I was given the shabbiest classrooms and the end of day time-slots -- things I could not accept. Not too long ago? When would things be the way I wanted them to be? When would the novel be written, the one where the protagonist begins Chapter One in a white benarasi? Not too far away?

Speaking of dreams, I am coining new words and signing first editions of my book, and orating like a silk butterfly, fluttering, capturing everyone's attention. Visualize this, a world I created is the one you could give your life to live in. On the verge of feeling like God, my humble ego leans towards realistic submissions and futile competitions. Speaking of dreams, they are precious dewdrops one can never cup enough for more than a moment, yet, the content is eternal. 

There are so many things happening in a realm within. So many occurrences that do not belong to this world. Mirages? Could be. What colour is your sky? Mine is mine. Unacceptable.

But speaking of life -- this ennui -- it bothers, burdens and finally, listlessly, persists.
It whitewashes desires.

Me II

"The husky voice called out, 'Wait for me, Meher, please!' And there was just a fragrance that followed -- the complex trigger of freshly ground spice and a faint hint of washed, mowed grass. The figure, I think, if I remember, was a shadow, of someone who was delicious...perhaps...yet, something I was running away from. You know, it felt being at home with how strangers smell. I did not feel the abandon, rather it was an embrace of kindness. But in the end, it was the borrowed, comforting world of unfamiliar faces. I do not know how else to recall that feeling, I wish I were there, really!"

"Mine was an intriguing one too, Meher. It felt like being a part of a Dali canvas, my limbs all over, and apart from each other. It wasn't a static canvas, of course! There were insects and animals, hanging in place of fruits, on trees...you know what I mean? Toads on a mango tree where mangoes should have been. Spiders on apple branches. And we were running. I don't remember if were chasing something. But there was a great rush, I can still feel it. Wait, somewhere there was also a seashore. When the waves left, our footprints remained, and we were amused! But we had to run, and you stayed behind, drew a ring, with all your attention, on one of the fingers in the footprint, and joined me. When you finally caught me, you clutched my jacket and then I don't remember. I think you were saying something about big birds..."

"Yes! That's it! Birds! In my dream I felt as if I was sitting on a bird, and it flew me away from the voice..."

"Oh Meher, but how is it possible? You were speaking about birds in my dream!"

"Hmmm. But I was there in my dream too. And I am here now, speaking about birds in my dream."

There was a longish pause between the two. Finally Meher spoke. "Do you think this is the bigger dream then? What if this is the dream in which we are both discussing tiny little dreams? And then what if there is no way to leave this space? Could we possibly be trapped here? Let's wake each other up, cmon!"

"Meher, Meher, please! This is us! We are here. Don't get carried away like the bird in your dream. Er...in my dream."

"I could not have been there in my dream, and then be in yours too! Do you not understand? We are all part of one dream, this!"

Meher rushed out of the room and walked out to sit under a leafy tree. Significantly, after a while, she began to draw a ring on the toe of her right feet, just like the one in my dream. And that was when I asked myself Meher's question. "What if this were indeed a dream in which we were both trapped? What if...?"

Plays

The once beautiful and large house was old, and beginning to decay. In fact, the chimney tops had clogged from under use, perhaps stonefied, in contrast to the ever-changing clouds. The inmates belonged to forgotten royalty -- the kind which took more than a tree to trace its roots. Indeed. Days crossed over to years and passed in the realm of rotting legacy like vanilla essence being smoothly swallowed by the buttery, sugary flour. The inmates -- clocks which initially stopped turning, took in the colour of the wall; first edition books, first yellowed now stay torn in extreme peace; while silverware now wore rust paintings wore off their colours.

Usmaan stepped into the property with the propriety of a predator having located its prey, sharp and reticent. He took out the key from his waist-coat pocket, and the lock revealed it annual envy. The ritual involved pulling the curtains apart and letting in the sunshine. The chair placed beside the window had also gathered the dust of a year, and very carefully Usmaan placed a newspaper on it, to sit upon. This was his spot. People crave for spotlight, and often have their own spots. This was Usmaan's. From here he faced the wooden cupboard with the fitted mirror, reflecting the sunshine. Well, it tried to. The mirror too, was dotted in dust-spots and wore scars of its timeline.

Ever since Usmaan left the behind the face of his surname, his tale became one with the many -- the story of the lost yesteryears, the narrative of the once-rich who gave it up to live in newer, faceless riches. He took this one day off, away from his wife, son and apartment to return to this house. Nobody knew he had bought it back. Nobody knew he came here once a year. Nobody knew he came here to meet Auraang.

He took his seat on the newspaper pile and looked ahead. It is such a pleasure to take a day off, away from the knowledge of one's most own. "How have you been, Auraang?"

"How have you been, Usmaan?"

"I have missed you."

"Liar. You could have come earlier."

Usmaan smiled, "It's that easy, correct!"

"You could have tried once before saying it isn't really." Auraang looked dejected.

"Auraang, cmon..."

"What Usmaan? I long for this day, everyday!"

Usmaan walked up towards him. Only the dirt on the mirror looked more clear than the photograph of a young Auraang on it, his eyes evoking conversation nobody could hear. Nobody but Usmaan. He touched the photograph of his brother, removing the dust off it. But he could never clean the guilt.

"You killed me Usmaan. This house knows it, I know it, you know it."

"Yes Auraang, Abba had written this house only for you. I could not have it that way. I had to push you out of my way. I wanted it."

"Push me out of the way, Usmaan? Who does that to his own brother? Who does that? How do you look into the mirror, Usmaan?"

Usmaan punched his hand onto the mirror. "I don't, I can't. I still can't, Auraang!"

Auraang laughed. "Here is your house, Usmaan, still mine."


Deaths, they say, can mock the greatest of rivalries, and trivialities. Between brothers, they knew better, who won and who won better.