Ache

“Last 1000 meters of the 5k run for males. Rolab, the state champion is leading, closely followed by the teen sensation Noku!”

There is nothing fancy about running. All you have to do is lift your leg. The rest is all done for you. You lift your left leg, then it goes down on its own. Then give it some time to acknowledge that gravity is a bitch. Now the right leg- lift. It goes down. It’s all about fighting this urge to go down, which inevitably wins. Winning is however overrated; there is nothing new about wanting to win. But to keep losing is an art in itself. Again, there’s nothing fancy about losing per se, except when done in succession. Then it has a charm of its own. It always makes sense losing for love. Or revolution. Those losses border on pleasure almost. I digress.

“800 meters left in this race. Nothing has changed upfront on the track, Noku shadowing Rolab like a bloodhound on trail!”

It is all about man’s inability to fly. As a thin, dark, poor and inevitably malnourished lad of fifteen, running became my lifeline. This was a time when letters meant a lot to people. Handwritten letters filled with words of love. Telegrams were too swift, too short and too troublesome. The post had personality. I was a postman’s son, his assistant and on his untimely death, an unenthusiastic substitute. I hated delivering letters, and it didn’t pay me enough. I hated that I never received one. I was the oyster, whose pearls got stolen. I felt bad, sad. I was young. A sweet summer child. Not anymore.

“500 meters left to go. Tiring legs, sweat pouring down as though from pipes. Rolab still leads… Noku playing second fiddle… he looks too comfortable for the last minutes of a long race! ”

But the pangs of hunger were always very real. Letters alone couldn’t get me food. Not enough anyway. So I started delivering milk in the evenings. It wasn’t tough. The farmers were real sweet darlings. As long as you overlooked the occasional addition of water. It was all sunshine and rainbows, till the Government decided to cut down the staff in the Post Master’s office. Now they needed just one postman, in place of three. And ‘the one’ would get twice the salary. The Government was smart. That’s probably why it became the Government in the first place. But this did put me in a spot of bother. Of the three of us, Haku, the oldest friend of my dad, was almost ready to retire and take his well-earned pension. Misa, the second, though, was a prick. To complicate matters, he sold his wife’s ornaments and bought a cycle. I was really not into marriages, so I didn’t have a wife, and hence no ornaments to sell. Not that I regret it.

This left with me no choice, but to deliver letters faster than Misa, the two wheeled demon. I chose to run. And run I did. All morning I would run and finish off the letters. All evening I would run and deliver the milk. Misa, soon decided to sell his cycle. I loved the bee stung look on his face.

“200 meters more… Rolab seems to be struggling in the heat but, the champion that he is, has found unfathomable strengths to carry on and lead. Noku though seems to be in no hurry…”

All that is history now, rags to riches is such a cliche. I am not rich. Yet. But I am better than before. I wear my country’s colors. I don’t run barefoot anymore. In fact, people want to pay for my footwear. If I let them, they’ll sew their initials in my briefs. Bloody bourgeoisie. But I don’t give a damn. For me it is not about the gold. It is not about the podiums. It’s all about that look on their faces. When a thin, dark, poor and impoverished monkey of a man, beats their icons at their own Meccas. The fancier their names, the shinier their labels: the faster I run past them. That bee stung look. I can feel my lungs burn, gasp, and sputter at times. I know they feel it too. Knives are plunging into my calves, or so it seems. I can’t feel my knees. I can’t feel anything now. But I know they feel it too. But they can’t see in on me. I won’t let them. I make them sell short and wither and die. I am beyond everything.

It’s time to run.

“Rolab is still on the lead folks as we pass into the last 50 meters of… AND NOKU BOLTS OFF. Two strides and … HE’S LEVEL. He is WITH ROLAB now. Did he just… TURN AND SMILE?  The struggle is real, Rolab seems to drift off. Noku is running the race of his life, and has probably mistaken this to be sprint event. He just finishes 20 meters ahead of …”

Rolab has been stung by the bee.

 

–  Sr Ja [05/11/2017]

 

Double Double, Toil and Trouble

We paced up and down the room.

Both of us. Same rate, same strides. We were brothers- Aftab’s umbilical cord was cut just a few minutes ahead of mine. That hadn’t stopped him from cracking the classic “I’m so older than thou” jokes. Ammi’s all-time favorite was the one where he claims that he was five minutes elder than me, followed by “You know what I did when I was your age?” Then he would proceed to describe whatever happened five minutes ago in lavish detail. Not “ha-ha” funny, our Aftab- but he had a pleasant voice.

I was born dumb. Yes, literally. I am very smart, but I’ll have to write down a few things to convince someone so. “Trauma to the vocal chords- identical twin born mute.” I loved writing imaginary headlines to an imaginary newspaper, which I’m planning to start soon. I’ll name it “The Afsan Chronicles”-after me, of course.

But I digress. Brotherly squabbles were the least of my concerns at the moment. It might not seem important to you, but we were making a huge machine. We were designing a Molecule de-aligner. We ‘are’. If you aren’t interested in scientific mumbo jumbo, it means that we are creating something which could alter the shape of anything. Basically give me clay and I’ll make your face with it. It will be pretty, if you are pretty. Give me a silver coin, I can make a silver screw that would weigh the same. The last time Aftab tried explaining this to a ‘well educated’ mutual friend of ours, he exclaimed “Wow, so does it mean that you can make money?” Aftab had lost his patience then and tried to explain to him the meaning of law of conservation of mass and how a large amount of energy is wasted in re-arranging molecular structure and so forth. The pour soul had just meant to ask if we were bound to become famous with our invention, and earn a lot of money, but my brother had a habit of jumping the gun. Ammi says he had begun speaking for the both of us by the age of three. I think he started way before that.

“Why doesn’t it start Afsu? I hate this! Tell me why!” I looked at him and then at the machine with mild irritation. One thing about us, not-so-gifted humans, is that we are patient. Probably due to the fact that one cannot be angry without making a bit of noise. So like the mature kid that I’ve grown up to become, I took a walk around the clunking old assortment of metal parts and began observing each of the components. Aftab was doing the same thing but he resembled of an express train running late.

“The variables are set to the correct value. The readings are perfectly normal. Temperature is under control. All parts are either in good condition or recently repaired, there seems to be no ….” he was muttering to himself amidst frequent pushes and pulls at random points. He hates it when things do not go according to plan. With folks like us it rarely does. I couldn’t understand what was going wrong either. He was right though. All factors that we could control seemed perfect. Owing to a highly rational state of mind, I am not a staunch believer in God. However after about three hours of tinkering even I began to wonder whether there was an almighty being who did not want us to borrow his powers, even in such small magnitudes.

Exasperated I walked behind the machine and sat down, with my head between my hands.

“Afsu, don’t step on the wires, I don’t want to clean them again. Not that I see the point, with this thing refusing to work. I wonder if we are doing something stupi…”

I opened my eyes in shock. Then it struck. Both of us followed the power cord with our eyes to the plug point. It was switched on. But…

The role of the infinitely small in nature is infinitely great.

We had forgotten to plug it in.

 

-Sr Ja [17/02/2016]

 

Whore

 

He climbed up the dirty set of stairs and reached the corridor. The lodge looked dingy from the outside, but the hallways were spacious. There were rooms on both sides of the path, and a verandah on either side after every five rooms. The whole building was rectangular- running much longer than its width. He stared into the pathway- the lights didn’t work, and at night there was just infinite darkness.

266. He had to go to the room on the left, right before the first verandah. That way, if you had entered the building through the back door, like he had- nobody could spot you at night. You climb the stairs, walk into one of the ten rooms and slam the door shut. None in the world would know where you were. Precisely why she wanted him to come here. Who knew, he was none the wiser five minutes ago, standing in the street.

He got inside and shut the door. He found the switches near the door. A dull yellow light filled the room. There was no plug point, no fan, no mirror– nothing. There was a short table in the corner, but no chairs. The bed was short but wide, and lower than what he’d have liked. The mattress was new, but there were no pillows or bedcovers. He sat on the bed and tried to pry open the lone window.

“Don’t bother, it’s locked from the outside”

He turned sharply to see her standing by the door, a bag slung across her bounteous front and a bottle of water in hand.

She walked in. Strong, long, calculated strides to the table and put down the bag.

“Do you fall asleep quickly?”

“Me? I’ve had trouble sleepi…”

“No. Not that. After you jack?

“Ehm… I guess…”

“Alright, would you like a bedsheet?”

“…”

“Take it- too many mosquitoes. Here, it’s on the table. Take it after I leave. No stains. And leave them here in the morning. Bucky will make sure that they are otherwise when you pay.”

She took a mirror out and started putting on lipstick. He lied down on the bed, unsure of what to say or do next.

“Take these”, her outstretched hands – shapely and embroidered with mehndi, had a packet of condoms and- for lack of a better word – a metal piece – strangely shaped like a lock bolt. He pocketed the condom and held the other up in the light.

“For the door”, she said taking off her sari.

He hadn’t noticed the door lock- or its lack thereof. There was no latch inside that could be locked. There was a lock for sure, but it had no metal bolt that could lock it shut. He pressed the wooden panes together and bolted it shut.

Four minutes. She stood up and drank some water from the bottle. Then washed the semen off her thighs, in the corner of the room.

“Need some?” she asked, pointing the bottle at him.

“No.”

She poured it down her face and started pulling on the petticoat.

“Thank you”, he said raspy-voiced. Like a love-lost, pimpled teenager.

She nodded and started packing her things. “What do you do?”

“I sell fish…” he stopped short, as if ashamed to keep talking.

“And…?” she probed.

“I write poems.”

She pulled a face, to show she couldn’t comprehend.

“Poetry. Poems. In a book. I mean, I write poems and I get the book published and then I carry around the books with me.” He explained, sweating now; more than what he was about five minutes ago. “When they come around to buy fish, I offer them to read. If they like, they buy.”

She laughed. A full hearty laugh. The laugh of someone who hasn’t sinned. The laugh of the brave. “You make a lot of money?”

“I made ten last month” he announced, proudly.

She raised an eyebrow in mockery and headed towards the door.

“Thousand. Ten thousand. In a month”

“So that’s why you are here tonight!” she laughed again. The laugh of the truly content.

She stepped out and adjusted her bra. “Pay downstairs before nine tomorrow. Don’t forget the sheet.” Before closing the doors, she peeped in –“Write one about me. I am a vegetarian, but I can read”

“I will”, he said as he closed his eyes.

***

In your eyes

And the fish’s, I see the sighs.

Looking at them, I whisper

“I can hear your silent whimper.”

The fish and you

Cost me so much, but I never knew

If you or them,

Would rot first; like phlegm.

But if you do not-

When death tightens its knot

Remember that you fought;

But you just forgot,

That life was worth a shot.

***

 

-Sr Ja [4/1/2016]

Inspired by a poem in a weekend newspaper. For those who can read Malayalam – http://digitalpaper.mathrubhumi.com/681913/Weekend/JANUARY-03-2016#page/1/3

Moving Ahead

“I hate running, I hate it!” he stormed into the room around eight thirty. Throwing his backpack into the corner of the room, he ran into his mother’s- my, study.

“Ma, did you make something to eat? I am famished!”

I knew his anger was targeted towards someone else. Amit hated being told what to do. Be it me, his step mom; be it Raghu his Dad, or worse- people he couldn’t scream back at – like his football coach.

“What did he do today?” I probed gently while serving him mashed potatoes. Had to be clinical here, one wrong word and he would visualize his coach and give me an earful. “He made me run, like a mad man! Mad man!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be running? I thought you played football”, Raghu walked in with his laptop and teased his only son. He loved messing with Amit. Both of us used to wonder where he got his temper from. We were peaceful, gentle souls who never even said a curt word. Amit would go bonkers at the drop of a lid. He didn’t pick it up from somewhere- he was an angry baby, an angry toddler, an angry kid and now he was growing into an angry young man- our own Amitabh Bachchan.

“Yeah whatever! If only he would let us play. I ran like ten rounds today“, he said gobbling down a spoon.

“Ten rounds is…” Raghu started and I gave him one of my stern looks, and he tapered off.

“He’s very tired, Raghu you need something to eat?” Translate- Get what you need and leave- if you want to live in peace, that is. I wanted some time alone with my son.

“Why is dad so annoying? He talks like this high school kid”

“Looks as handsome too doesn’t he?” I beamed.

“Ma, you are hopeless!”

I had a good hearty laugh.

“The worst part is we have been doing the same thing over and over every day. There is no difference, no change!”

“Life is all about change beta! It’s bound to come your way. Don’t worry”

“I don’t know anything, I just wish I didn’t have to run like a dog“. He stood up and walked out, seething in anger.

 

I stood waiting underneath a tube lit corridor, outside an orthopedic ward about nine months away from this conversation. I was anxiously waiting for the specialist to come out. I knew what was coming my way, but being an optimist I never had lost hope.

A white coat walked outside. There was a look of exasperation in his walk and manner. He came over and muttered the inevitable to me, in a low grave voice. I found it anti climatic. Amit wouldn’t walk normally any more. A drunk bastard behind the wheels had made sure that my son would be a cripple for the rest of his life. The fact that he died in the process, was no consolation.

I walked inside; annoyed, angry and consumed by own helplessness.

He was staring out of the window, awkwardly reminding me of an O Henry novel, except that we had no trees in the city; only lifeless cement blocks.

“I won’t be able to run again”, he announced. There was no pain, just acceptance.
“You don’t have to…”, there was a steely reserve in my voice, but no conviction.
“Things change Ma, I don’t have to. But I want to”

I walked out wiping my tears. Things had changed, but not in the way they were intended to.

 

 

-Sr Ja [12/03/2016]