I knew you all my life. Even though I didn't see you all that often, I always knew you would be coming home sometime in the future. To stay with us and bring us funny presents, to make jokes and tease me about my latest boyfriend, to take me out for lunch and teach me about being quick witted.
At your memorial I couldn't get up and say anything, because I just couldn't stop crying. I wanted to let everyone know that even though I wasn't your friend, or your student or your colleague or one of your supposedly numerous girlfriends, I treasured your visits and remembered you with nothing but laughter and good memories. As I will try to remember you from now on.
I regret so deeply that I couldn't know you as a full fledged adult. That our conversations were always you teasing and me giggling helplessly. Except for the last time that you were here, when I would crack a joke and you would look surprised and delighted before you started to laugh. I couldn't wait for your next visit, so I could make you laugh, and test my wits against yours.
Thank you for letting me have the brochures of Miss Saigon. I know you wanted to keep them, but to twelve year old me they meant a lot, and the pictures from it helped me get really good marks in my seventh grade project on the Vietnam War.
So many of my happiest childhood memories revolve around you and that beautiful house in Dehradun, and those fabulous visits to Delhi. Like the time when I was six, and I opened the door and you said "Driver!". I still remember that and smile, even though it makes no sense whatsoever. And thank you for eating that terrible food I cooked for you. Thank you for the yellow towels.
I will never be able to shake the feeling that you will definitely come to visit again.
Farewell Great White Fear.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Come The Spring
The transition from winter to summer is a traumatic time for many. Here in Delhi, where winter is an infinitely preferable state to summer, everyone watches the rising thermostat with unease and more than a little apprehension. Those with delicate constitutions, or in many cases just unlucky, crumble under the merciless onslaught of coughs, colds, bronchial pneumonia and other gifts from the change of season. It really is a miserable time, and all you have to look forward to is the blazing heat of summer.
Of course, my trauma at the hands of what cannot even jokingly be called spring, is more severe and desperately cruel. You see I have two dogs, and while for most of the year, they are sweet, lovable, and mildly inconvenient, come 'spring' and they are transformed from cuddly canines to gigantic balls of walking fur, the only purpose of which is to shed on everything. And when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING. My lungs I am convinced sport internal fur carpeting that would make PETA turn Iran and issue a fatwa for my immediate death. Every piece of clothing I own, almost all of which is black, is now brown. And not a very nice brown either.
Curses to you Mother Nature.
Of course, my trauma at the hands of what cannot even jokingly be called spring, is more severe and desperately cruel. You see I have two dogs, and while for most of the year, they are sweet, lovable, and mildly inconvenient, come 'spring' and they are transformed from cuddly canines to gigantic balls of walking fur, the only purpose of which is to shed on everything. And when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING. My lungs I am convinced sport internal fur carpeting that would make PETA turn Iran and issue a fatwa for my immediate death. Every piece of clothing I own, almost all of which is black, is now brown. And not a very nice brown either.
Curses to you Mother Nature.
Friday, 27 March 2009
The Coreworld Begins
There was a Tower that still stood, on the very edge of a cliff. There were no roads that led to it, no trails, no way to climb the forbidding rock wall it was perched on, but it was not empty.
On warm days, when the air was so still and languid it could be spooned into bowls, they could hear the voices of a castle drift down into the valley. The clink of glasses and clatter of hooves on flagstones, the high pitched laughter of the young, and the clack of wooden practise swords wielded by the enthusiastic, if unskilled.
Life was strange in the valley in the shadow of the Tower that still stood. It was about to become stranger still.
The Dragon came. She was gold and green, with enormous black wings that cast a shadow on the valley as she flew over it. Bound for the Tower that still stood, for the castle that once was. As she approached it she slowed, as if the still air had indeed turned to soup and fought the beating of her wings. It was a battle hard fought, but at last she alighted on the roof of the Tower that still stood. She spread her wings and roared silently, calling on powers ancient, wise and in many cases rather grumpy. They were reluctant to help, but the Dragon would have none of it. Slowly, as if it were rising from the depths of the squishiest bog, a castle arose around the Tower that still stood. The cliff became less fierce and more a hill. A road appeared grudgingly, unwilling to serve again after such a long holiday. And a wind began to blow. To all in the valley, it said, unmistakably and with great feeling, "Bugger off".
On warm days, when the air was so still and languid it could be spooned into bowls, they could hear the voices of a castle drift down into the valley. The clink of glasses and clatter of hooves on flagstones, the high pitched laughter of the young, and the clack of wooden practise swords wielded by the enthusiastic, if unskilled.
Life was strange in the valley in the shadow of the Tower that still stood. It was about to become stranger still.
The Dragon came. She was gold and green, with enormous black wings that cast a shadow on the valley as she flew over it. Bound for the Tower that still stood, for the castle that once was. As she approached it she slowed, as if the still air had indeed turned to soup and fought the beating of her wings. It was a battle hard fought, but at last she alighted on the roof of the Tower that still stood. She spread her wings and roared silently, calling on powers ancient, wise and in many cases rather grumpy. They were reluctant to help, but the Dragon would have none of it. Slowly, as if it were rising from the depths of the squishiest bog, a castle arose around the Tower that still stood. The cliff became less fierce and more a hill. A road appeared grudgingly, unwilling to serve again after such a long holiday. And a wind began to blow. To all in the valley, it said, unmistakably and with great feeling, "Bugger off".
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Has she really lost her mind... I said, I couldn't tell you, I've lost mine
There are heavy chains around my wrists, and they drag me down as we trudge across the endless landscape. The ground is dark, lit inadequately by a sinister grey sky, but it doesn’t really matter. There is nothing here to see.
I stop, for a moment and stare behind me. In the distance I can see light, bright, happy, twinkling light. The kind shed by a family eating Christmas dinner. My guide, for he is not my captor, the chains are of my own making, clears his throat, and I resume my reluctant trek across the barren ground below me.
We reach our destination soon enough. There is a slope, and it leads down into a deep bowl in the earth. There are people there. Well, they were people once. They look as I suspect I will as soon as I take the first step towards them. Bereft of a reason for light, they exist, fueling a promise once made, an exchange that once seemed essential. They were the halves left over. The bits that they always thought would die from the pain, the loss, the sheer cruelty of letting them live. They wait for me.
I hesitate. My guide waits with me, staring silently down at my fate, sharing none of my uncertainty. We both know I have no choice anymore. The bargain had been sealed, but he was kind in indulging my sudden fear.
The silence lengthened, and I found my lips were moving unbidden, I stared into the depths of the hell that I had chosen and asked him softly,
“Why?”
My guide, he had heard this question asked before. He took my chains in his hands and told me,
“You pay for what you get.”
I stop, for a moment and stare behind me. In the distance I can see light, bright, happy, twinkling light. The kind shed by a family eating Christmas dinner. My guide, for he is not my captor, the chains are of my own making, clears his throat, and I resume my reluctant trek across the barren ground below me.
We reach our destination soon enough. There is a slope, and it leads down into a deep bowl in the earth. There are people there. Well, they were people once. They look as I suspect I will as soon as I take the first step towards them. Bereft of a reason for light, they exist, fueling a promise once made, an exchange that once seemed essential. They were the halves left over. The bits that they always thought would die from the pain, the loss, the sheer cruelty of letting them live. They wait for me.
I hesitate. My guide waits with me, staring silently down at my fate, sharing none of my uncertainty. We both know I have no choice anymore. The bargain had been sealed, but he was kind in indulging my sudden fear.
The silence lengthened, and I found my lips were moving unbidden, I stared into the depths of the hell that I had chosen and asked him softly,
“Why?”
My guide, he had heard this question asked before. He took my chains in his hands and told me,
“You pay for what you get.”
Friday, 13 February 2009
The BIG question
I was not one of those popular kids at school. I was friends with the popular kids, for awhile anyway, but I was never one of those girls. You know who I'm talking about. As a child, one often attributes this decided lack of coolness, to one factor, that through its existence has ruined yours. For me, it was my glasses.
I acquired my first pair at the tender age of seven. I have notoriously bad eyes, and I often got attention at parties by convincing people to put on my glasses for a lark. My reasoning was quite clear, if a little pathetic. The boy wearing my glasses would exclaim with amazement at how warped his vision had become and call other boys to exclaim over it, and I could stand there in the midst of the excited chatter, without glasses and therefore obviously looking stunning. Of course, boys at any age are assholes, so I would invariably never get my glasses back, or at least not in one piece, and though I would be delighted at having to exist bare faced for at least a few hours, I soon realised that knocking into furniture and tripping over things are not exactly the most effective way to attract the opposite sex.
Time went on and the mild dislike I felt for my glasses turned into out and out hatred. Till this day I will do anything to avoid wearing them at all. Don't get me wrong, this is not a tale of heartless bullying. In all my years at school no one actually even mentioned my glasses, but as I turned thirteen my lack of a love life was clearly a result of the glasses perched on the bridge of my nose.
For years, I had begged my parents for contact lenses. I was always denied of course. Too young, too poor, too terrible at the studies to deserve them, but finally, at the advanced age of fourteen, they gave in, and I was able to assume my destiny as the pretty girl at long last.
Well not quite. I still wasn’t terribly popular, and I found myself, with the advent of my contact lense wearing phase, subject to a new and considerably more worrying problem. At fourteen, the only kind of sex I was familiar with was the Mills & Boon kind. Coitus was described in the most romantic terms, with euphemisms that included heat like the heart of the sun and the rhythmic pounding of the waves. And at the end of the umm, session, when the Earth had stopped moving and the afterglow was in full swing, the lovers invariably fell into deep, happily exhausted sleep, their naked bodies still entwined. This was how it always happened, and as far as I knew, it was the only way. There is no arguing with this rule.
Thus I was faced with a most unique problem. As any Contact Lense Wearer (CLW) will tell you, you are not allowed to sleep with your contact lenses on. If you do, or so you are told, your eyes will start to rot and the Devil's own eagle will pluck them out of your skull and you will be blind forever. There is no arguing with this rule. To my fourteen year old mind, it presented an insurmountable obstacle. Say, just say, that one day someone would want to have sex with me. Should I take my lenses off before hand and risk stepping on something important? How much before hand? How would I judge that we were in fact going to have sex? What if I was wrong and had to pretend I wasn’t blind for the rest of the day? Or should I just pretend to go to sleep and slink out of bed to the bathroom after a sufficient amount of time had passed and I could be sure he was asleep? Or just stay awake all night and take them off in the morning when he wasn’t looking, and then put them back on again?
This question consumed me. What do I do with the Lenses? I would lay awake at night and plan, trying to come up with the most feasible plan possible. I researched expensive imported ‘gas permeable’ lenses that allowed the CLW a few hours of sleep while in use, and begged my parents to buy me those instead, though I was much to embarrassed to tell them why. They said no obviously…
It is now becoming slightly clearer, why I wasn’t all that popular in high school.
I acquired my first pair at the tender age of seven. I have notoriously bad eyes, and I often got attention at parties by convincing people to put on my glasses for a lark. My reasoning was quite clear, if a little pathetic. The boy wearing my glasses would exclaim with amazement at how warped his vision had become and call other boys to exclaim over it, and I could stand there in the midst of the excited chatter, without glasses and therefore obviously looking stunning. Of course, boys at any age are assholes, so I would invariably never get my glasses back, or at least not in one piece, and though I would be delighted at having to exist bare faced for at least a few hours, I soon realised that knocking into furniture and tripping over things are not exactly the most effective way to attract the opposite sex.
Time went on and the mild dislike I felt for my glasses turned into out and out hatred. Till this day I will do anything to avoid wearing them at all. Don't get me wrong, this is not a tale of heartless bullying. In all my years at school no one actually even mentioned my glasses, but as I turned thirteen my lack of a love life was clearly a result of the glasses perched on the bridge of my nose.
For years, I had begged my parents for contact lenses. I was always denied of course. Too young, too poor, too terrible at the studies to deserve them, but finally, at the advanced age of fourteen, they gave in, and I was able to assume my destiny as the pretty girl at long last.
Well not quite. I still wasn’t terribly popular, and I found myself, with the advent of my contact lense wearing phase, subject to a new and considerably more worrying problem. At fourteen, the only kind of sex I was familiar with was the Mills & Boon kind. Coitus was described in the most romantic terms, with euphemisms that included heat like the heart of the sun and the rhythmic pounding of the waves. And at the end of the umm, session, when the Earth had stopped moving and the afterglow was in full swing, the lovers invariably fell into deep, happily exhausted sleep, their naked bodies still entwined. This was how it always happened, and as far as I knew, it was the only way. There is no arguing with this rule.
Thus I was faced with a most unique problem. As any Contact Lense Wearer (CLW) will tell you, you are not allowed to sleep with your contact lenses on. If you do, or so you are told, your eyes will start to rot and the Devil's own eagle will pluck them out of your skull and you will be blind forever. There is no arguing with this rule. To my fourteen year old mind, it presented an insurmountable obstacle. Say, just say, that one day someone would want to have sex with me. Should I take my lenses off before hand and risk stepping on something important? How much before hand? How would I judge that we were in fact going to have sex? What if I was wrong and had to pretend I wasn’t blind for the rest of the day? Or should I just pretend to go to sleep and slink out of bed to the bathroom after a sufficient amount of time had passed and I could be sure he was asleep? Or just stay awake all night and take them off in the morning when he wasn’t looking, and then put them back on again?
This question consumed me. What do I do with the Lenses? I would lay awake at night and plan, trying to come up with the most feasible plan possible. I researched expensive imported ‘gas permeable’ lenses that allowed the CLW a few hours of sleep while in use, and begged my parents to buy me those instead, though I was much to embarrassed to tell them why. They said no obviously…
It is now becoming slightly clearer, why I wasn’t all that popular in high school.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
On a Church Floor
Um... Hello!
Ah its you. I havent heard from you in awhile.
Yes well, I was... busy.
And you're not now?
No. Well. Actually, I had some questions.
Dont you always? What is it this time?
I still feel, somewhere, inside, where it counts I think, that it will all work out and things will go back to 'normal'.
And...
And well. I've never really felt that way before, and I wanted to know, what does it mean?
Why should it mean anything?
Well because! Its so profound, and unshakeable and.. and inherent. It must mean something!
Oh you mean that these feelings indicate that he is the one for you, and that the love you shared was special and would conquer all and eventually it has to work out because you were meant to be together?
Yes!! Is it true? Is that what they mean?
No.
Oh. Then...
Nothing. They mean nothing.
Nothing at all? Not even-
NOTHING.
{silence}
You love him. And you haven't quite stopped yet. Now, go get drunk and find a nice boy and a quiet corner. That should help.
Oh I... Umm, thank you.
Anytime.
Ah its you. I havent heard from you in awhile.
Yes well, I was... busy.
And you're not now?
No. Well. Actually, I had some questions.
Dont you always? What is it this time?
I still feel, somewhere, inside, where it counts I think, that it will all work out and things will go back to 'normal'.
And...
And well. I've never really felt that way before, and I wanted to know, what does it mean?
Why should it mean anything?
Well because! Its so profound, and unshakeable and.. and inherent. It must mean something!
Oh you mean that these feelings indicate that he is the one for you, and that the love you shared was special and would conquer all and eventually it has to work out because you were meant to be together?
Yes!! Is it true? Is that what they mean?
No.
Oh. Then...
Nothing. They mean nothing.
Nothing at all? Not even-
NOTHING.
{silence}
You love him. And you haven't quite stopped yet. Now, go get drunk and find a nice boy and a quiet corner. That should help.
Oh I... Umm, thank you.
Anytime.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
In Stone
In a beautiful house by a river in a land where the sun was always shining, a little girl lived all by herself. She had always lived there, at the edge of a beautiful forest with the happy little river, she could not remember a time before, and though she was alone she was not sad. She would often sit on the river bank and watch the water gurgle over the rocks and sand at the bottom and wonder idly what was on the other side. She had never left her side of the river, and knew nothing about what lay on the opposite bank. She would spend her day in a curious state of peace. Mostly staring at the sky and thinking of nothing. She would meander through the woods and the house, tracing the route she had taked the day before.
But when evening came, she would leave her house and walk a little way into the forest behind it. In the soft light of dusk she would stand before a marble tomb encrusted with moss and crumbling with age. As she stood there, not really knowing why she had come, the nothingness of the day would desert her, and she would suddenly be over come with emotion. She wondered why her heart felt so heavy and brimmed with so much pain. She tried to remember but the silent cruelty of the tomb banished her thoughts. Every night she decided never to visit the tomb again, but every evening, as the sun began to disappear into the trees she found herself walking into the woods. Something called to her, something that begged to be found, to be returned. To be forgiven.
But in her sleep she walked her life before. She walked along a wooded path dressed in black. She walked behind a train of silent people. She walked behind a beautiful stone sarcophagus. She walked across the river that would be her prison, she walked past the house that would be hers alone, she walked to the marble tomb, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight and watched as they placed the Sarcophagus inside. She stood beside it before they settled the heavy stone lid. She stared down into the cold eyes, watching as a slow smile twisted the cold lips. Her heart screamed in pain and without a thought she ripped it from her chest and threw it into the stone coffin. Her pain dulled and after a year of fighting for peace and freedom, her mind slept. She stepped away from the sarcophagus and walked to her house, wondering at the cold laughter that followed her, unmoved at last by what lay inside the tomb.
And so she lived alone in her peaceful, beautiful house by the river. She never remembered her dreams and never thought of her future. She knew nothing about her past. She never felt sad, and she never felt alone. She never felt anything.
Except for a few moments every day, in the cool grey light at dusk, when she stood before the marble tomb and tried to ignore the agony that she had paid so much never to feel.
But when evening came, she would leave her house and walk a little way into the forest behind it. In the soft light of dusk she would stand before a marble tomb encrusted with moss and crumbling with age. As she stood there, not really knowing why she had come, the nothingness of the day would desert her, and she would suddenly be over come with emotion. She wondered why her heart felt so heavy and brimmed with so much pain. She tried to remember but the silent cruelty of the tomb banished her thoughts. Every night she decided never to visit the tomb again, but every evening, as the sun began to disappear into the trees she found herself walking into the woods. Something called to her, something that begged to be found, to be returned. To be forgiven.
But in her sleep she walked her life before. She walked along a wooded path dressed in black. She walked behind a train of silent people. She walked behind a beautiful stone sarcophagus. She walked across the river that would be her prison, she walked past the house that would be hers alone, she walked to the marble tomb, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight and watched as they placed the Sarcophagus inside. She stood beside it before they settled the heavy stone lid. She stared down into the cold eyes, watching as a slow smile twisted the cold lips. Her heart screamed in pain and without a thought she ripped it from her chest and threw it into the stone coffin. Her pain dulled and after a year of fighting for peace and freedom, her mind slept. She stepped away from the sarcophagus and walked to her house, wondering at the cold laughter that followed her, unmoved at last by what lay inside the tomb.
And so she lived alone in her peaceful, beautiful house by the river. She never remembered her dreams and never thought of her future. She knew nothing about her past. She never felt sad, and she never felt alone. She never felt anything.
Except for a few moments every day, in the cool grey light at dusk, when she stood before the marble tomb and tried to ignore the agony that she had paid so much never to feel.
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