Evensong

The woods were green,
And full of fragrance,
I wandered searching,
For my beast,
My demons freely,
Took a chance,
Upon my soul,
To take a feast.
I grew weary,
And tired still,
On the path,
I trod on,
My sight grew dim,
Yet was a will,
To overcome,
And carry on.
Behold! I saw,
The beast appear,
Resplendent, blinding,
As I drew near.
Her name was Ashmeth,
She stirred my soul,
And left nothing,
But an empty hole.
She looked upon me,
As a child,
And I felt like,
Twice the man,
Innocent thoughts,
Thus defiled,
Somewhere else,
They grew and ran.
And then my demons,
Found a voice,
"In her you must rejoice".
And so did reason,
With sweet abandon,
Give way to passion,
And evensong.
As darkness fell,
I fell from grace,
No more man,
Just a beast,
Yet in the morning,
He rose again,
He said to me,
"Travel East".
I could not hear,
Still His calling,
To Ashmeth,
I had lost my will.
In her beauty,
I forgot my duty,
Eastward bound,
I no more was.
My demons grew,
Strong within me,
No longer could I,
See the cause.
And soon I had,
Taken root,
In the forest,
Of her love.
I blossomed,
Flourished,
Grew removed.
And there was,
Ashmeth,
In evensong.

From me to You...

Tangled up in my masks,
It is myself I seek,
To comprehend the convoluted,
It is a little simplicity I seek,
To contain the aggravation within,
It is a little peace I seek,
To survive this unempathizing world,
It is a little disconnection I seek,
To break the monotony of solitude,
It is a little love I seek,
To pour out the miseries untold,
It is a tear-drop I seek,
To share myself with You,
It is Your warm embrace I seek,
To give meaning to my existence,
It is only You I seek.

Until the next one

Writer: There is a reason why people fall in love. Maybe it's the dropped handkerchief, a meeting in the back of a van, or maybe just plain desperation. My problem is only that I can see the reason. My problem is that I am a reasonable man. Tell me, how can a reasonable man fall in love?

Director: You know Henry, the creature you speak of has been extinct for over 30 years now. There are no reasonable men on this planet anymore. I thought I swatted the last of that scourge in 1970. You're not trying to tell me you are a reasonable man? Are you?

Writer: I am trying to tell you that the character I am writing in Jack is a reasonable man.

Director: Oh, is that right? Does he wear a lightbulb on his head too?

Writer: Now what's that supposed to mean?

Director: Oh nothing. It's beyond reason.

Writer: Well say that then (pause) maybe I'll rewrite it?

Director: Drop it. It's too cerebral anyway. Throw in some warmth in there will you? We don't want our audience to freeze in Siberia!

Writer: But Siberia's the perfect setting for this.

Director: (coldly) Because it's cold?

Writer: No because it's white. It's pure. It is...

Director: Frigid.

Writer: I see.

Director: Yes.

Writer: So what do I do about it?

Director: Have you seen a doctor? I believe there are specialists for this kind of thing. You mean you really never want to do it?

Writer: What?

Director: You know...

Writer: See?

Director: Well that would be a start...

Writer: Well I am quite happy in my own world. It's a little bland, but you can develop a taste for bland.

Director: Oh.

Writer: Yeah.

Director: You know what, I think we could really use a drink.

Writer: I'll drink to that!

Director: Me too.

Writer: So how did you know I'm colour blind?

Director: You're colour blind?

Writer: Yeah. How did you know?

Director: Oh.

Writer: What? Come on, how did you know, was it the ice? So much white in my writing?

Director: Well, how did you know?

Writer: Hmmm, they had all these charts, and they were in all these beautiful shades. But something was aesthetically wrong. The gradients on those shades, they were disharmonic. It was horrible.

Director: So how did you deal with it?

Writer: (change in tone) I started writing. Ha ha. I discovered when it came to writing, the rest of the world was colour blind.

Director: (defensive) I still think Siberia could be changed as a location though.

Writer: (aggressive) Keep thinking. It's gonna be Siberia.

Director: And the re-writes?

Writer: In your dreams buddy boy.

Director: (frustrated) And for once I thought I was getting through to you. For once.

Writer: Believe me. You are. Good luck next time buddy boy.

(Director stunned exits)

Writer: (pours himself a drink and hides it behind his back) 'Ella, can you get me my laptop please.

Ella: But you promised...

Writer: 'Ella not now. I need to write.

Ella: Oh, you're gonna write?

Writer: Yeah, it's come to me.

Ella: I love it when you are like this.

Writer: Yeah love, it's set in Mexico. It has passion. It has sex. It has ... warmth, and you know what? I even know who is going to direct it! This is the big one 'Ella. This is what I've been waiting for. What we've been waiting for. This is Technicolour.

Ella: You're really gonna do it then?

Writer: Yes. I am a different writer. I am coloured. Colour is my passion.

Ella: (laughing) You sound racist. You wanna come up and celebrate your new idea?

Writer: But I am. This is my race. And I'm on steroids. I can’t wait to start celebrating! Laptop please baby.

Ella: (pause) Alright.

Writer: Good night then. See you in a couple of months.

Ella: (sadly) Right. (raises a glass that was lying on the table) Until the next one.

Writer: (Produces a glass from behind his back). Love you baby, until the next one.

(glasses clink... Fadeout)

Twins

I think this one might have beginning and end. (A Diner. everyone is frozen in motion. Only Alvin speaks)

Alvin: There is something that you can tell about a man's character from the time that you meet him. Heck I used to know Bozos who'd meet me at 10 a'am and offer me coffee. I always knew they were bright as a spark plug. Heck. Catch me drinking coffee at 10am. No Sirree. I am a nightbird. Now if you're lucky, you offer me coffee at 6pm, I might consider; if you're lucky.

But I'm always up for some scotch, you know what I mean? So when I spot a man, across me at the diner, with a hip flask at 10am with a label on it that says Ballantine's.

I know he's raw but he aint no fuckin spark plug.

(motion resumes)

Alvin: What's your name son?

Bob: What the fuck's in it for you?

Alvin: I beg you pardon?

Bob: You ain't no spark plug? Don't kid me. You're not here to sell me coffee are you?

Alvin: What's the matter with you? Are you a dimwit? Can't you see who I am? Here, have a drink. (pours from a magically produced bottle of single malt) It'll make you feel better.

(pours a drink).

(pause)

Bob: So what is in it for you?

Alvin: Well, you see, I am a teacher of sorts.
(drink pouring bonding routine - "cheers", pause)
And right now I'm out of pupils.

Bob: Fuckin mother dilate my pupils. Are you insane? You offer a man a good drink at 10 am. when he's been drinkin' all night and then you try to en-roll him as a student? That is a fuckin freakshow of nature man, that's out there.. that's...

(irritated re-clinking of glasses. pause, shot is consumed, second drink is poured, a cigarette is lit - Alvin's)

What the fuck do you teach anyways?

Alvin: I teach observation?

Bob: Well ring my bell, William Tell? (aggressive) Do I look like a fuckin observatory? Tell me do I look like a fuckin observatory?

Alvin: Yes. (offering a lighter instead of a match-box Bob's been struggling with)

(pause)

Every man who is not drinking coffee at 10 am. is either an observatory or is being observed by one. Which do you prefer?

(Alvin orders some coffee)

Bob: Boy, you have some ego you ...

Alvin: Son of a bitch? Come on, I can teach you better.

Bob: What..

Alvin: ..am I talking about? Join me and you'll soon find out.

(pause. Bob is dazed)

Bob: Can I have another drink?

Alvin: Only when you agree to quit.

Bob: What?

Alvin: Doubting me of course. What's wrong with you? Cat got your tongue? Here have some more whisky.

Bob: Right.

Alvin: Now come on, we have a job to do.


----

(the scene is a diner, everyone is frozen except Bob)

Bob: Alvin was a trip. You see, he always thought he had people figured out. He always thought, he was teaching them, grooming them and all, when all they were doing was taking his ideas and making them their own. You see the world wasn't as kind as it seemed to Alvin.

(motion resumes)

Well we did it Alvin. Great idea!

Alvin: That's the old school; boy. See I told ya, you would learn. Don't you love it? Ha! Here have a drink, offers some scotch.

Bob: (toying with the spoon). No thanks Pa, I'll pass. It's not like I've discovered some silver spoon hanging in my mouth.

Alvin: What?

Bob: I said I feel like I could touch the moon and that’d be going south!

Alvin: Well, that's what I feel! Now listen here Alvin. I know you feel like you've figured me out. When I was your age, I swear I thought the same pretty much about everyone around me especially the girls. Here, have some coffee.

But listen to me now, and this is important. Don't let rules rule you. You'll end up becoming a teacher. Do you understand?

Bob: I think I do.

Alvin: Then why are you alone? Now I'm the old man, and I'll tell you this. Every person is not a map. You can't figure everyone out! Sometimes, you have to lose yourself to find yourself.

Bob: (viscously) I think I know enough about loss.

Alvin: Hmm it's your old man, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes. It's not the same. I hope you discover your pupil earlier than me.

Bob: Excuse me?

Alvin: I said Alright. I hope you discover your true bill earlier than me.

(there is a look exchanged. both people know that nothing more need be said)

(motion freezes, except Bob)

And at that moment. Something made me unsure of myself.


---

(the scene is a diner and it's night, everyone is frozen except Alvin, Alvin is drinking coffee, Bob is eating Bacon)

Alvin: Bob! He could read me straight as a book! Now I've always had that, but to see that in another! Foof! He made me unsure. And the more unsure I felt about myself, the more sure I felt about him.

Heck, there I was old and supposedly wise, but it sure as heck seemed he was on to me!

(motion resumes)

Alvin: That was well planned Bob.

Bob: Thank's, I'm a quick student.

Alvin: So how'd you know?

Bob: About the plan? Simple. You told me.

Alvin: I don't understand.

Bob: Well you told me the plan would be whatever you thought I would do.

Alvin: That's interesting, and you knew what I thought that you thought that that was wht I would think you'd do? Here, have a drink. (pours some coffee). Do you play chess Bob?

Bob: What the fuck do you think we've been doing?

Alvin: What?

Bob: I said it wouldn't it be luck, if that's what we're doing?!

---

(the scene is breakfast time at a diner (morning), everyone is frozen except Bob. Bob is visibly older)

Bob: You know the strange thing about time? It only passes when you don't realise it. It's like Shakespeare said. The world's a stage and you're an old geezer. You only realise that you are right when you're a child again and by then, no one gives a fuck anyway. Don't you see it?

(motion resumes)

Bob: Pa! Are you alright?

Alvin: Yeah son, I think I am now.

Bob: Can I get you something Pa?

Alvin: Coffee. And don't forget the fuckin cigarettes. Never forget them.

Bob: Right, coffee and cigarettes any thing else?

Alvin: Oh and could you see if you can get the legend of 1900 too? These kids these days, they pay attention to everything important. Steal the card will you? I want to know who they are; I want to know where they are; I want them to know who they are; who you are; I want them to see, and I want them to... what was I saying?

Bob (pouring coffee for himself and whiskey for Alvin): The question Pa, is what makes you think they don't pay attention to everything important?

Alvin: Oh Bob! You never understood me, as long as you think they don’t; they don’t. You see, I had a talent. Now, I've given it to you. Go out and get them. I taught you to be a teacher because I had none. What are you a fuckin sparkplug? Did I teach you that? Hah? Dimwit moronic, modo. You are a dodo. Quack quack. Hahaha.

You see what we’ve done? Hah? You see it? We’ve screwed each other. ‘cos I’ve fallen in love with you. And you’ve taken to call me Pa too. Which fails to make you ridicule me in public and you do it in private which is worse. And I tell you I aint no sparkplug. QUACK QUACK. I may be a duck but I ain’t no fuckin sparkplug

(pause)

What you drink your coffee black now?

Bob: Yeah.

Bob: I taught you how. Don't you see?

(pause)

Alvin: Well, what are you gonna do about it? I die tomorrow. Do you even know who I am, will you know who to call to the funeral? QUACK.

(pause)

Bob: No.

Alvin: Well you better start find out, yes?

…

(the scene is a cemetery. Alvin lies dead. Everyone is frozen in condolence. Only Bob is animated)

(there is a line of never ending people, who line up to offer flowers at the body (they are not frozen even though the priests and everyone else except Bob, is/are frozen). Each flower is a “thank you teacher” muttered under breath)

(someone's flowers drop, Bob picks them up and places them on the coffin).

(motion resumes and the Priest says:)

Priest: And at the end, he said, “Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachthani”, Father, Father, why have you forsaken me...

(the end)

Sketch

Her eyes, he drew, with a piece of charcoal,

Blue skies now dark and gray

screamed a rebellious rain. 

Then he drew her without a mouth

And the world was quiet again.

Confines

You sketched me in charcoal
I wrote you in ink

Bold, strong strokes.
Lines and Edges connecting the dots.

And that's where it ended.
We were never water colors.
We did not fade into each other.

Strange to meet you

The post has no beginning. Don't bother imagining one.
Satan: Now I make friends few and far between, but I make them my own. With that big picture, with that big picture, I tell you Mr. Director, Direct, don't try to act. Don't try and act. Sigh.

Don't you understand the quality of these words uttered with my voice on your stage?

You are nothing without me and plausibly the converse about our relationship with each other.

Now the trick behind my question in saying this, is go ahead, direct me. I implore you, no in fact I challenge you, to direct me, give this boat out there in the storm, some direction.

(to servant boy) Boy, give the man a compass. (boy hands director a compass) Yes, directions?

God: South by south west. 5 degrees north and a bit to the right.

(Satan moves to the indicated spot on the stage).

There now we go, now you say your line. (very crisp and proper) "Storm is over".

Satan: But what is my motivation? What am I feeling?

God (irritated): You are feeling love.

Satan: My position?

God (pleased): Doggy style.

Satan: Use me. I am a medium too of your immense expression, of your power, your energy. What is this shit? Are you kidding me?

God: Perhaps, it's a strange possibility. Ok. I'll go with it. Read that into the lines.

Satan: Which lines?

God: "Use me. I am a medium too of your immense expression, of your power, your energy. What is this shit? Are you kidding me?"

Satan: Really? Oh!

God: Precisely. Now who came up with that idea?

Satan: We did? How nice to know that.

God: Yes very nice. Now let's breath some sanity into this piece. Shall we?

Satan: That would be very nice too.

God: All right. Actor, out with your real name. Don't be a stranger. It's not just Actor, is it? It could be interesting!

Satan: No not "Actor" don't submit to vanity. Vanity is my domain. Sanity is yours! You can call me Satan.

God: Pleased to meet you Satan. And what part are you auditioning for today?

Satan: The part of an Actor.

God: Which one would it be?

Satan: I don't know. The script writer knows. He is my friend.

God: But surely you must know the name of the characters or at least the name of the play perhaps?

Satan: I forgot them next to the cigarette that was burning in the ashtray, yes that's where I forgot them. Sorry, No.

God: Now come don't be playful.

Satan: I remember there were two characters. This shit is real? You're really filming this?

God: I see several cameras whizzing around like planets on a universal stage. Don't you?

Satan: Wow. A real screen test. My mama would have been so proud. Fuck! I can't remember the name of my mama. This is bad.

(pause)

This is such a nice combination of the creative energies of theater, stage, audience, camera, film, editing technology, biotechnology, astrophysics, and religion. Quite intense. This script writing thing! What? Now I'm supposed to be a scriptwriter?

God: No. A secretly diseased schizophrenic actor, who is auditioning for the part of an actor playing a part in a script written by the Director in which the name of the actor happens to be Satan?

Satan: And you're the director? And I'm the actor? Are we sure of that?

God: Actually, I don't know. It's an interesting possibility. Now read that into the lines, please.

Satan: Are we sentient beings?

God: (sarcastically) No, we are energy. Now the lines?

Satan: What lines?

God: The ones next to the dot's.

Satan (puzzled): Are they vertical?

God (highly ammused): No.

Satan: Horizontal then?

God: (almost laughing): No.

Satan: Then?

God: Verbal. They are in that book you've been holding for so long.

Satan: Oh so this book is the script.

God: Yes and you wrote it.

Satan: Eh?

God: Yes. Oh so now I've become a writer at this moment.

Satan: Yes, you or me?

God: Does it matter? What's your reading of it?

...

Amid words unsaid, unreal,

glances, angry, averted,

I forgot to reveal,

that each unshared taunt,

existed, for you remain,

the one, I want to want.

60 (80, 4x5)

Six months ago, I was starting the new season on a positive note. The previous year had been an unprecedented success and had led to my election as vice captain. People were citing my averages from the last season. I was bordering on cocky, was buzzing with ideas and was raring to have a go. That is when it all went the clichéd way.

We are so often forced to call cricket a funny game that it has become clichéd to say so. You can guess what happened then. It started with a couple of unlucky dismissals - a wrong call here, an overambitious shot there. I rubbed them off and kept the faith that the big innings was just round the corner. Then misfortune intervened. I took a blow to my left hand which put me out of action for a couple of games and in my absence my understudies put in some strong performances. I was still confident in my mind but an element of doubt was beginning to creep in. On my return to playing I couldn't retain my usual spot in the line-up. The captain shifted me down, as much to give the other contenders their chance as to see if maybe I would click at another position. It wasn't going to work. The "demotion" hit my ego. I became desperate and went further downhill from there.

Over the next month I played at every occasion I could. With a false bravado I would go in to bat and try to hit myself out of trouble, believing luck could not desert me forever I gave every ball a mighty go. Some connected, enough didn't. I was searching for any runs, ugly or lucky, hardly any came by. I dropped further down the pecking order. So down that the captain started playing me as bowler. I was a fair bowler but that's not the point. I was there to be a batsman and I wanted to keep things so, but it wasn't a matter of wish now - I could no longer lay a straight bat on ball. The previously cited confidence was by now properly shot. Every slight deviation in line looked out to get me. My hands shivered when I picked up a bat. When I stepped in to bat I was already imagining a drudged walk back to the pavilion. Cricket started to frustrate me.

So desperate and frustrated was I that I would try anything. Fortunately, a batting course came by. I silently signed up. They had video analyses, trained batting coaches, fitness trainers, bowling machines and other fancy things, all to help me bat. Over the course of a week they recommended changes in my technique, they put me through a tough fitness regime, they started from scratch and taught me how to play all the basic shots that my muscle memory had all forgotten about. My batting looked crude and messed up. They tried to tighten its screws and chisel at it. One day I was terrible, the next day I could get into the right position. Then came some drives. Cuts. No pulls still. They talked to me about temperament, about sticking in there and valuing your wicket. I had good final session. Crisp shots flowed off my bat, my defence was tighter and I was fitter. Some confidence oozed back. I was ready for redemption.

Still a funny game, cricket. Fate(rain) curtailed the next match and the Captain couldn't justify slotting me in above other deserving men. I was still playing as a bowler for him. I went in last after prolonged wait and whatever confidence had gone in my system had by now rushed swiftly back out. I over-enthused over a simple straight drive and was out first ball. We lost the game, due in some measure to my non-performance. The team lost its cool, the Captain lost his sense and strong words flew. Sense prevailed ultimately, but I knew had hit rock bottom and it was emotionally painful. However, as is often the case with that place there was only one place left to go.

So over the last two weekends I have scored a 48 and a 60. The first was a wretched looking but gritty performance in an insignificant friendly game. Significantly though, my captain was there and he appreciated my willingness to stick it out in difficult times. The team appreciated the score. I felt good about holding a bat again, after a long time. I rued missing out on a half century but the time for that was to come the next Sunday.

Against strong opposition in the last league fixture of the season I opened batting. I started patiently and unhassled. Soon the ball was leaving the bat-face nicely. Boundaries came by - off cuts, even off pulls ! Drives which used to find fielders started finding gaps. Runs started to flow, the opposition deflated and the runs flowed harder. Somewhere between the first and the second drinks break I reached my half century to the hard applause of my team. The bat was raised for a moment and hands were shaken with the other batsman. Then I went back to batting. It wasn't much for a reaction because I wanted many more such moments and I was hungry for many hundreds of runs. It was not redemption yet. It was a very good lesson in life.

That haar ke jeetne waale ko Baazigar kehte hain.

The Poultry Farm

Tender warmth cradles the egg,
The vigorous life that sprouts anew,
Carefully nourished, the ball of fur,
Thanks heaven for granting it's due.

Delicious feed she's served on a plate,
Conditioned to lead a life of leisure,
The rows of eggs she laid on Monday,
Were surrendered to them as their share.

Innocent and unaware,
In the grand illusion of paradise,
To the world outside the poultry farm,
She was being used in disguise.

In all earnestness, she tried each day,
To satisfy the worldly demands for more,
With age, when she failed to produce,
Was sold for slaughter as a useless whore.

Fluttering on the butcher's plate,
The glittering knife was rising high,
She awakened to the harsh realities,
As her warm blood sprinkled by.


- Indradeep, July 5, 2008

Moral Science in America -4

 Suddenly, someone screamed. It was Venkat. His wrist was bleeding. Binoy had sunk his non-vegetarian teeth straight through the veins.

Venkat jumped in pain and seemed to regain his senses. He looked more horrified than his victims. 

Binoy stood up and blinked. He seemed horribly shaken. He looked at me, pale as a sheet and breathing hard.

' O dear,' He said. 'I hope that thing doesn't get septic.'

My brain became available to me again.

' The lamady', I mumbled.

'What?' He asked.

' The landlady, you should tell the landlady. She's also a doctor.'

So we went downstairs and explained everything to the landlady. She banged on Venkat's door and forced him out. The wound wasn't going to get septic, she said.

' If you kids are telling me the truth, you better go to the police you know'

So we did. The police weren't moved by this tale, they had seen and heard far worse. But one of them pointed out that if one eventually managed to kill the other, the police might get into trouble, so they decided to go investigate.

They knocked on Venkat's door and asked him what had happened. He pointed to the fresh bite marks on his wrist and said, 

'You see this officer? this is the only problem here.'

'Really', Said the officer, "but why did he bite you in the first place?"

Venkat didn't have the balls to fabricate a story. Or perhaps, he thought his honesty would be received with understanding. 

"You see officer, this guy here, he's weird. He isn't like us normal people. So I decided to show him a little lesson. He doesn't get it when I just tell him."

" Tell him what?"

" Tell him how things are done. He just doesn't do things like the rest of us. Like I said he's weird and things had gone far enough. So I decided to teach him a lesson."

Thats when I really got the wind of who these characters were in this story. Venkat and I...were the same person.

The policeman, who sat comepletely frozen till then and slowly rose up to his full height. He walked over to Venkat at an even, deliberate pace and looked down at him.  He pressed down on Venkat's shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

"Son," He growled. " You look weird to me. You don't hit people just because you think they are weird. If you so much as touch this guy again, you are going to jail for a federal offense." Then the police officer turned on his heel and walked out of the apartment.

Venkat went back into his room and slammed the door shut. Then he cried like a baby.

I still meet Binoy and Alan these days at the usual bars, although Alan and I have been broken up for a while. The three of us sit around and talk science or art or politics or take turns imitating Hannah Montana or came up with ideas to save the cheerleader. Binoy always orders cherry coke, burps out the gas and eats up all the peanuts, but nothing he does seems to bother me all that much anymore.  

Moral science in America-3

Venkat, the good, religious, true to Indian culture boy, hated Binoy the most. Once, after Venkat had finished his late evening pooja, he walked into the kitchen to find Binoy frying fish. He was pretty much boiling with rage. 

'How dare you' he said. ' I couldn't concentrate on my pooja because of that disgusting smell.'

' Well, this is my dinner today and it takes a long time for this fish to cook. Sorry man.'

'You don't understand. Do you realize that you are making my ceremony impure? Do you believe in God? Its terrible to cook dead fish during this time, it ruins the whole pooja!'

' Listen. I don't know anything about God, but I'm sure he'd rather not have me faint out of starvation. I missed lunch today and I'm tired so lay off, will you? I'll try to fry my 'dead fish' around your pooja times from now on. But this is my house too and God doesn't pay my share of the rent."

After that day, Venkat treated Binoy like an untouchable. He took great care to scrub and wash the stove twice before he cooked, he left the living room when Binoy came in with food no matter what he had for dinner, locked his room very noisily with a mean looking, heavy duty padlock and demarcated the easy chair in the living room as his personal territory and would purposely sit there with a large mug of tea starting exactly when Binoy would get back from work, ready to sink in and watch TV. Strangely enough, Allen, cow-eating, beer-guzzling, all American, all white, art-student Allen, was never subjected to any ill will, at least not directly.

One particular evening when Alan was out, Venkat came home looking furious. He had scored really badly on a test. He slammed his door with a vengence and went about his evening pooja with such a fervor that it scared the shit out of me. Binoy, who took the same class had scored better.

'It wasn't an easy paper,' he explained to me, 'I had to bury myself in the library for days before the test. He's being too hard on himself, he keeps a pretty tight schedule with his poojas and all.'

I expected him to sulk in his room all day but Venkat was on the easy chair like clockwork, to engage in his daily ritual of hate. I could set my watch by him. As he determinedly pretended to read fluid mechanics, Binoy turned down the sound and said, ' Maybe you should consider cutting down on all these meaningless poojas you know. I really don't know how you get any studying done.'

'Meaningless?,' he spluttered, ' Meaningless? You culture-less freak. Just because you scored more than me on this test....it doesn't mean anything. You just wait. You'll have to pay. You just wait!'

With that, he stomped off into his room. Binoy got up and sank into the easy chair and let out an obscenely happy sigh.

Then he looked at me a bit puzzled, 'Pay for what?'

It was the wrong question. Because all of a sudden, Venkat burst out of his room and answered the unasked, ' Pay, how?' question.

He grabbed Binoy by his collar and pulled him to the ground and started punching the life out of him. I screamed and tried to pull him off but presently wound up on the floor, sort of, wounded (I think). Binoy was struggling helplessly against this raging animal. Then, Venkat grabbed a cushion on the floor and began to smother Binoy.

' You think I'm wasting my time? Ha? Think you're smarter than me? You think you know it all? I'll teach you man, I'll teach you. Don't you wish you had prayed harder now? Don't you? I hate people like you. I hate people like YOU!"

I was pissing in my pants. Frozen. Rooted to the spot. I couldn't move, even as I was witnessing a murder in action. 

Moral science in America-2

This other flatmate, Binoy, had a habit of asking too many questions. I'd be watching Sex and the City and he'd ask me,

'Do all women really just want to sleep around?'

And I'd say, ' Of course not. Just sleeping around is not what these women are doing.' 

'Looks to me like thats all they do on this show. Do you know any women who live like this?'

No, but I did  know of many women who tried to live like that and many others who wanted  to live like that, just so that they could have all those shoes. But I didn't tell him that. What an idiot. Stupid, conservative oaf.

But again, that didn't fit either. He was neither stupid, nor conservative. He was a non drinker, but I had seen him frequently in bars around campus with other people who, in spite of having an economic advantage, didn't know how to dress. He always drank milk. He was part of the debating society, whose contests I liked to attend and he was always bold and maverick in whatever side he took, be it abortion (pro choice!), Iraq ('Bush is a jackass but Iraq had to happen'), prostitution ('of course, it should be legalized) or wheat grass juice ('Bullshit!').

 But still, when he asked me why I only used beautiful people to pose for my pictures ( A good photographer should be able to bring out the best of anyone, right?) or when he laughed about my boycotting the kitchen because it tied up women ('Thats silly, what are you gonna do about food for the rest of your life?'), my blood would boil and I would hate him with such a vehemence, it was all I could do to get out of the room. 

Alan, much to my indignation, liked the guy. They would spend hours discussing Carl Sagan's Cosmos or the life of Bob Dylan and such things and during these times, Alan never even noticed his terribly thick accent, how he had a tendency to stretch and draw out sentences and the really strange facial contortions he managed to pull while making the average sentence. I  felt embarrassed for him on each of these accounts and always worked myself into a severe disgust, especially when he directed his excessive rationalism toward me. 

He managed to find out (from me) that my parents knew nothing of Alan and once had the audacity to ask me what they would think if they found out. He laughed at me till his sides split when I couldn't tell that the cheap $12 wine from the corner store wasn't expensive French wine, as he had pitched it. The last straw was when he said that most movies these days merely entertained you while keeping you ignorant, I lost it. Nobody has any right to say that about  a movie with Christian Bale in it.

I begged...O, how I begged! I pouted, I tried holding back the goods, I did every thing I could possibly think of. But Alan flatly said no, we weren't going to move. Both the rent and the location were too good to be true. Then I screamed and shouted. If I had to stay, Binoy would have to leave. It was a strategy of overwhelming force, I planned my arguments against him, I screamed at him, I insulted him, his family and the town he was from. But nothing worked, Binoy barely gave me any notice and refused to budge. The rent and the location were too good to be true. Eventually, I started worrying that Alan might dump me for being a bitch so I decided to pipe down. 

However my issues with Binoy didn't hold a candle to Venkat's. 

Moral science in America-1

My first year in America was turning out great. I arrived here all set to get my diploma in photography and I met Alan on the very first day. He was already an expert with his digital SLR and was only happy to teach me more. He shared his apartment with two Indian guys whom I mentally classified into weird and super wierd. These guys had uncannily managed to find the cheapest place in town, a hole in the wall incredibly close to the university. They were both graduate students studying engineering and Alan told me that it had been I, who had introduced the possibility of Indians being non-geeks to him. At first I didn't know if that was a compliment.

Anyway, Alan and I had some amazing times together; I remember waking up to his 'sky collage', as he called his artwork on the ceiling, and thinking, that this was exactly where I had wanted to be, ever since those miserable 'Keralite-convent-school-of-the-sadistic-nuns' days and then a suffocating women's hostel in Chennai, as a visual communications student. I mean, I thought I'd had a good time in Chennai, we ruled all the 'cool' hangouts (you know, Bikes, Barista, Amethyst), hobnobbed with Kollywood starlets, stoned our brains out and even managed to throw in an internship or two between our hung over weekends, but this... this was different. All that madcap 'being young and wild' phase had finally passed and I was now settling into the real pace of my  real life. This was the real world and I was going to be everything I was meant to be. 

Alan took me to dinner at his parent's almost every weekend and they loved me. College was great too; we had workshops every alternate week with the greatest artists of our times; even George Lucas once gave a guest lecture. Rose, Juanita and Marie where my closest girl friends. We met for lunch every thursday and together, we represented every skin color in America. Yup, we were all so cool and cosmopolitan. I felt like I was living in Chic Lit and was eagerly awaiting the turning point, the one that would inevitably sweep me to my destiny.

But there was one thing that didn't fit. In fact, it was so jarringly out of synch with my perfect picture that I did everything I could to edit it out. Considering the amount of time I spent at Alan's, I was forced to share my time and space with Alan's super wierdo house mates. There was a Kannad fellow (or Kannadiga? I don't know), Venkatraman, who still wore the sacred thread, refused to touch anyone else's utensils, had an elaborate pooja set up in his bedroom and concocted cauldrons of rasam each day. Every other self respecting Brahmin I knew, had long since begun to live on Kentucky's Fried Chicken and worshipped only the Gods of Rock. Venkat seemed utterly uncomfortable to be living with two non vegetarians and constantly muttered complicated slokas under his breath, as though trying to ward off all the evil surrounding him. Alan and I stayed out of his way as best as we could.

But Venkat was not the problem. He could be dismissed as the comic stereotype. If this were a sitcom, he'd be a dislikable sort of Fez. Plus, he was bound to change; nobody could retain this sort of cultish devotion for long in America (Or could they?). No, the real problem was the other guy.

Sisters.

Calling it our hiding place,

day after day,

we made our way,

secretly and without a sound.

I  always knew they cared not,

but I played along,

stood on my toes,

and followed you around.

I knew not then as I know now,

that each reckless, loud step of yours,

only revealed,

 how you longed to be found.

Bad Poetry

Broken words, broken thoughts -
Remnants of a broken soul.

Stilted sentences, fragmented paragraphs,
Scrawled on a burnt parchment.

Jilted and jolted out of the comfort of rationalization -
I am now a series of bad punctuation.

A misplaced period, a tentative comma -
I am a dangling clause awaiting conclusion.

Her first trip to the therapist

Disclaimer: By no means is this passage meant to poke fun at people who’ve really had it tough and have real problems.

Well, as you can see, I’m not a very well sown up person. I’m practically spilling over myself on every side. But I still keep finding one life raft after the other. That’s when I think that some one out there is looking after me. It was The Secret last month and this month, its Feynmen’s I wonder why coupled with Feng Shui. Both were recommended by Cosmo’s latest issue. Apparently my room is totally at odds with my Feng Shui Map…but apparently you can appease the negative energy by introducing more of your birth element into your midst. My birth element is fire; I was born in the year of the tiger. That was a few years before the anticipated arrival of Orwell’s dystopian deluge. I know, because I read that book in school, but it, the deluge you know, didn’t really get here till recently. Now that the End is here, I’m drowning quite willingly, completely happy to accept my fate because...
.... living is really getting to be a pain.
My brother always told me that I would meet my end in a bad way, because I wanted too many free lunches. And dinners, and vacations and pretty, sparkly things and drinks every Friday night. He is very, very good at finding out exactly what is wrong with me. I know exactly what’s wrong with him though; he knows too much. The thing about being right all the time is that everyone else around you turns out to be wrong and so they hate you anyway. I don’t care to be right, you know. I just want people to be happy. A guy I dated for a nearly a year…you know he was one of those writer types… he gave me a book for my birthday after we broke up, a Paulo Coelho book, and it had this inscription on it. Here, I’ve got here it with me, 'coz I wanted to show you…I don’t know why it fucks me up whenever I read it. “You have excelled in the art of being the faulty one and hence, will always be loved for your simplicity, helplessness and eagerness to atone for your sins. Add that to the mild, unthreatening look of an innocent and there! What a terrific combination! All you ever have to do is be yourself – and there you are! An it girl in every crowd, because whatever they want you to be, you are it.”

I’m not like that you know…he makes me sound like I’m such…such putty. But that was when I was younger, I’m not that naïve now…I guess I’ve learnt the hard way.

If you want to know who I am, all you have to do is ask my friends. They’ll tell you I’m talkative, funny, extremely absent minded, always pleasant, artistically talented am always eager to try something new. If you want you know who I want to be, all you have to do is raid my bathroom cabinet. I want Straight to perfection hair, Irresistibly smooth skin, a Clear, Light, Blemish-free complexion (from tea tree oil, lemon extracts and SPF 25), feet with soles as smooth as a baby’s behind, to wake up bright and energetic (with citrus body wash) and smell like happiness (with Clinique Happy!). You might also want to check out my bedroom closet, the overused Yoga mat and the free weights in a corner, sets and sets of chic, aspirational executive wear, two ‘little black dresses’ and six or seven other little dresses you know, 7 pairs of stilletoes- 2 of which are red, one black, two white and one golden, trainers, all purpose Pumas and 2 pairs of flip flops and bathroom slippers. My room smells of sandalwood and cinnamon, wafting alternately from the open jar of potpourri and scented candles. My bookshelf has an odd assortment of classics, paperbacks and self help books, of which I am most often caught with the latter. My CD stack consists mainly of chic flicks with the occasional Oscar winners and Cannes film festival Palm d’Or to impress any smart people who visit my bedroom. Hey, I’m a Lit major, its not like I’m stupid. I just like movies about girls like me…that’s all.

I would have been fine now, if it hadn’t been that there were no babies. I’m 28 years old and according to my life plan, I should be married by now, with my second baby on the way, since I want three children, preferably sons, and all babies born after the woman’s thirtieth year are several times as likely to have Down’s. The absence of the Husband doesn’t upset me so much, because I’ve long since realized that men my age really want to fool around till they’re much older and the much older men actually want to have their babies with much younger women; the much younger than me, women. I went to the adoption agency only to find out that I didn’t meet some of their credentials and thought, fuck, I don’t want any Mandarin-speaking babies anyway. But still, not to have even the option…now that really unnerved me. My friends, who are mostly married keep telling me that I’m better off, I can really concentrate on my career unlike them, who had to take 10 months off and haven’t since recovered from the slide down the corporate ladder. Maybe…well ya, maybe I should just get a dog. Not cats, since, as you know, cats eat their owners after they, the owners that is, are dead.

Work is actually one of the things I actually enjoy doing…I work in publishing and the thrill and the gossip and the politics of a real job is really great. I found my calling three years ago, after I met a career counselor who helped me find my Personal branding. Once I got that down, I knew who I was and what sort of employer would be looking for me plus, I was never stumped when they asked me what my USP was. I was a unique brand, a thing the world needed. Its been an upward journey ever since. Buzz around the office is, I’m going be promoted again. But before I branded myself, I held jobs in three different advertising agencies as a copy writer, but I was miserable and was spending a lot of time really trying to establish myself as a model and actor. And I did get pretty far, you know, did about twenty commercials and even worked on three short films, one of which actually entered the Cannes short film segment. I gave up advertising ‘cause it wasn’t working since I had too much on my mind and it made me worry, and worrying isn’t good for your face. Plus shoots were getting pretty hectic.

I had a few more offers but the roles didn’t get any meatier, like I’d hoped, so I waited around till something better showed up and I waited till one day, the electricity was shut off. That’s when I had to get a job again. My first job after that stint was at Starbucks. I had an Honors degree in English and my mother told me over the phone, that she cried herself to sleep every night wondering where she had gone wrong with me. I felt like shit so I decided to get busy. I scrounged and saved like a dog or something and saved enough money for Personal Branding. I think it was the single most smartest thing I ever did.

But even the office doesn’t distract me enough these days from the reality of the world’s situation. I look around me and all I can see are things that are going down hill. Look at America, for instance. I always wanted to go to America and Disneyland and live in my very own rented loft in New York and become a columnist. But I mean, I can’t go there now…not after what they’ve done in Iraq. Plus, have you watched their TV these days? Gossip girl is so immature.

And I know…that its here, the time is nearing, because every other non-fiction book on Borders these days has something to do with the non-existence of God. I wish people had more faith. In God or in Feng Shui or whatever. Its when you think too much about these things that you get into trouble with yourself. You’ll start thinking about what you did with your life and about death and such, and you might even start regretting some of the things that you did with your life, but I don’t like that because I don’t believe in regret. My boyfriend, my ex that is, he for example, told me that he did regret cheating on his wife. I told him if it weren’t for that, we would never have discovered each other. All of a sudden, he looked so destroyed, that I knew, I knew then, that he really didn’t want to be with me. I dumped him the next morning and he got his stuff and left without kicking up a fuss. That’s when I felt really bad about letting him in and opening up in the first place because every time you do that, people just use you and leave you with a broken heart. But that’s when I remembered that I didn’t believe in regret. I decided that hell, I would have a family with or without a man and I booked an appointment with the adoption agency.

Now, I really can’t stop the spinning. I can just feel the earth just tumbling into its own centre and nearing the heat of the sun. I just can hear all the dead people waking up and trying to warn me. When I did my Yoga this morning, I had a vision of a Mandarin baby with a red bandana and a gun telling me to run away before it got me. I know its here doc, I know everything’s gonna fall apart and I can’t sleep anymore. So I need some pills to stop the pain in my chest and the spinning and help me sleep some…’coz you know…all I wanna do is sleep. If I just go to sleep, I’ll be alright.

Looking back at life...

I must have been knocked out for quite a while, how long I don’t know. I can only recollect fragments of the incident, the last of which was the white dust of the fire extinguisher in my eyes. I am less than twenty minutes away from being returned to earth. The pain is gone. What is left of me now is the scorched residue of what I used to be in my days of glory. Well, I always thought I would die old, brittle and useless, left alone in the most abandoned corner of humanity. But fate had for me, a more remarkable departure in store.

Eighteen minutes left, and I still haven’t the faintest idea of how I got here. It’s bright and sunny, a vast dry space stretches out around me.

Fourteen and a half minutes left. It is coming back to me now. I remember waking up late, stopping by the gas station for a grub, and then heading straight to the Park Hotel where I was supposed to pick up the Indian Cricket Team at 7:30. Needless to say, it was a big day. The streets were clear; clusters of street dwellers buzzed around small television screens in shops to watch the semi finals between India and Sri Lanka.

The stadium was packed beyond capacity by the time we reached Eden Gardens. Among the scattered groups of people scouting desperately for someone to sell them a ticket in black, the street hawkers selling anything from from Bhel Puris to Rolex watches.

We cut through the press, and the enthusiasts (who sometimes threw stones at us if we didn’t stop to wave or shake hands on our way in) as fast as we could to get inside the pavilion. In truth, my sheer fascination with the game is not the game itself, but about how the whole city transforms itself in anticipation of it. The dynamics of routine come to a standstill, to the point where even the invisible hands of Adam Smith fail to keep the wheels of economics turning. Cricket is a celebration of faith and adulation, beyond anything we would ever see in Kolkata for a religious cause. Cricket becomes the religion of the city.

Nine minutes left. I was born and brought up in a small town in Germany known only for the large Volvo factories that employ more than half the townsmen. I can still remember the day I arrived at Kolkata. The east was almost incomprehensible in terms of my western upbringing; the shades of humanity stretched a much wider spectrum, than I had ever experienced before. What fascinated me most though, was how the rich and the poor conveniently accepted their place in the society without remorse or protest. There were the shiny new malls selling thousand rupee lingerie. Next to it in the slums, the kids played soccer with cheap ping-pong balls because a bigger ball was out of their parents’ affordable reach. In, the evening, when imported cars would line up on the road outside, the kids, in empty stomachs, would wait eagerly for their fathers to return with the rice, bravely combating persistent attacks from swarms of neighbourhood mosquitoes.

In spite of my superior European look, haughty mannerisms inherited from my high class lineage, the city had accepted me as I am. The humility this place has inculcated in me in the last seventeen years is beyond anything I had ever imagined myself capable of.

Five minutes left. I have no family, no friends. Will I be remembered when I’m gone?

Four and half minutes left, and I suddenly hear the roar of the mob waiting outside. I am back to the match last night. I was relaxing under the player’s lounge, when I heard my driver yell to the crew that we have to vacate immediately. India had played a despicable innings, and the upset crowd had broken out into a riot. The match was abandoned when the crowd had started throwing whatever they could find at the players on the ground. A group of young men had stepped outside smashing cars and vandalizing the stadium to express their rage towards the Indian Cricket team for letting their hopes down. I suppose they had their reasons; after all, some had skipped meals, some worked extra shifts, and some sold their possessions, to buy a ticket to the game that would take India to the 1996 World Cup Finals!

By the time I heard the warning, it was a tad too late for me to chart out my escape. The mob which had grown substantially in size by the time it had reached our doorsteps was knocking down the fence to where I was standing. I was dragged out to the road, my resistance useless against their momentum. For a moment, it seemed like the rage had nothing to do with India’s loss at all. It was an eruption of the pent up frustration that had accumulated over years of repression and destitution. Then came the blows and sharp streaks of pain shot up from every corner of my body. And before I could gather back my senses, I was on fire.

Thirty seconds left. I see the giant iron pile rising slowly in front of me. Soon I will become a large block of metal stacked upon blocks that used to be Tata trucks or Ashok Leyland public buses. A rusty crank, and I hear the hiss of the pile let loose above me. I take a deep breath and embrace my glittering badge - Volvo LuxuryBus LS, my identity, my emblem of pride.

The Match

They were warmed up now – the anticipation of battle was in their eyes. In their tense movements. In their terse exchanges. They had met many times before. They would meet many times again. Each occasion had the same elements – the thrill of competition, the shiver of excitement. Each occasion had its unique flavour. The thrill of competition, the shiver of excitement. The raucous audience settled down. This was what they had come to see.

The match began. Two athletes seeking victory. Same game, same aim, different methods. One tall and angular; moving with a breathtaking economy of movement. He was playing out a silent symphony – moving on tiptoes, seemingly out of position on every point and yet perfectly poised when the ball arrived. And then the hand moved like a whiplash! The ball was speeding towards the racket and now it was travelling away with greater ferocity. The angle was perfect; the ball hit where it was meant to hit, pitched once and was on its way down again. Sure winner. No one was going to reach that.

It was scooped inches off the floor by the other. And then he was here, there – everywhere. Unlike his opponent, he seemed to fill up all space. And the noise! A waterfall in monsoon. A concrete monolith crumbling to earth. Every movement was an indulgence – every stroke played with wantonness. Lust. Excess. The sheer joy of unfettered power. A gun replaced by a racket. An imperfect body moving in perfect synchrony. He was competing with his opponent and he was competing with himself. He was equal to both.

And now the ball was bouncing around as if in a giant pinball machine. Explosive hits mixed with soft twangs as each point became a love-hate relationship between wall and ball. A whisper of movement alternated with a clamour. The audience watched stunned, wide eyed. Each stretch, each dive, each sprint was applauded with absolute silence.

The match continued well past the energy levels of both players. And yet they would not give up. The quality waned a little. The effort did not. More errors were made. The ball seemed to have developed a mind of its own – hitting the frame of the racket more often than the centre. Mini puddles of sweat formed on the floor. The match seemed like it would never end; just before it did. A tired swing, an uneven bounce. Two points. It was over.

The players stepped out of court, pouring sweat. The audience gushed its admiration. They sat down; unspeaking, unmoving for the next five minutes. Then one turned to the other:

“Think we’ll make varsity?”

“Nah – not good enough”.

“Yeah. I guess. Dinner?”

“Sure”

He turned to the audience.

“You guys hungry?”

“Yeah”

“So pizza for six then?”

Its time for action

Sorry for the long leave. I was busy waking up to graduation and associated realizations.

Please welcome aniRUDHAR ( pronounced 'rooder' by the white people), to our midst.
He seems to be the only one who ventured to broach the previous topic " a gay person coming out in a straight world". Or was it the other way around. Anyways, it goes.

This weeks topic is going to be light, considering the slight hiatus.

" My home town and what I love about it"

Love,
Aparna

The Adventures of Ani and Anna: Part II

Monday

5.00 PM Read up trivia on Anna’s favouritestestest band in the whole wide world, Mötörђëäď. They seem like a cool gig. Mötörђëäď vs. Boyzone-in-their-prime. Now that would be some contest. I didn’t tell anna I did the reading up. Will save it up for a special occasion. He will be sooo impressed!!!

5.05 PM Couldn’t control my excitement any longer, and confessed to anna how I had become a Mötörђëäď fAnAtIc, just like him!!! “Stick to your Cockzone and your Backstreet Cocks, and you’ll be fine, cockboy.” Our playful, oh-so-affectionate yet über-masculine needling has soared to new heights these days!

Tuesday

8.00 PM Warmed anna’s seat in the living room before the big game. When he smacked me on the head with an affectionate “Outta my fuckin’ seat, cockboy”, I knew it was just guy-speak for “You’re one of my mates now; it would mean a lot to me if you watched the big game with me, bro.” This guy-speak thingy is sooo manly!

9.00 PM Sat by anna’s side and pretended to be interested as he watched the big game. This Cristiano Ronaldo chappie has such nice legs.

11.00 PM Made mental note to stop making mental notes.

Wednesday

6.00 PM Anna’s arrival home is a full three hours away :(. Reminded myself of Dr. Phil’s sermon on patience being a virtue.

7.00 PM 2 hours…getting angsty.

7.01 PM Screwed Dr. Phil and his quack-advice. Put Annie Lennox’s Waiting in Vain on and sulked around.

8.00 PM Abruptly hit by brainwave. Went over to the department store to buy a can of Tiger beer and a testicle-scratcher. Lusting attendant gave me ‘the look’ reserved for manly men like anna and me. No wonder she-men like Kaka are still virgins.

8.15 PM Poured the horsepiss out of the beer can and filled it to the brim with delicious gingerade. Took up my position in the living room with the remote, the beer can and the scratcher within reach. The trap is set.

9.00 PM Heard the door knob turning, and swiftly switched the channel to ESPN. As anna walked in, I vigorously scratch my balls with the scratcher and chugged my ‘beer’ (hehe) as I pretended to be absorbed in the sports-crapola on the tele. Although Anna barely looked up from his magazine (May edition of Sports, Cars and Naked Chicks, if you must know), I could tell he was keenly observing me from the corner of his manly eye.

9.30 PM Felt bad about how I behaved earlier. Worried if my clever ruse might make anna think I have become manlier than him. Made mental post-it (hehe, I cheated) to reassure anna later that his Y-chromosome is the bestest Y-Chromosome in the whole, wide world.

Thursday

9.00 PM Anna and Kaka have gone out drinking without inviting me, for the fourth week in succession. Wonder if tonight’s the night anna is going to break the news to Kaka that he’s found a new bestest friend and that he doesn’t fancy his company anymore.

2.00 AM Anna came in a while ago, accompanied by some Fugly French Bitch. I know anna would have much rather guy-bonded with me, but fugly bitch insisted on dragging him up the stairs to his room, all the way playing tonsil-tennis in his manly mouth.

2.15 AM I’m not thinking of what anna and fugly bitch might be doing in his room. And I don’t care.

5.15 AM I’m still not thinking of what anna and fugly bitch might be doing in his room. And I still don’t care. I don’t feel threatened by fugly bitch. Not one bit.

Friday

11.00 PM Left for Clarke Quay to look for white people.

11.45 PM Tried to bring bottled water, free healthcare and indie music into a conversation with a couple of Swedish blokes. They didn’t seem to care. The chap who writes stuffwhitepeoplelike is a liar.

2.30 AM The white people around here are sooo not friendly to me. Heading home. :(

Saturday

11.00 PM Left for Clarke Quay to look for white people.

11.30 PM Recognized fugly bitch from a distance sitting at a bar with 3 of her (equally fugly) girlfriends. She seemed to recognize me too. There was a lot of pointing and sniggering in my direction. My face reddened at the recollection of how anna had introduced me to fugly bitch the time I accidentally-on-purpose bumped into them at the mall: “The cocksucker who splits rent.”

11.32 PM Wept my heart out into the Singapore river. Those mean, fugly girls have no idea how much teasing can hurt.

11.45 PM All cried out now. Came to the realization that I actually PITY fugly bitch. She simply has nooo inkling that the ‘bros b4 hoes’ philosophy-of-living was invented by my anna. If only the poor woman knew that if I had, say, a pedicure-emergency, my anna would drop her like a lead balloon and be by my side like *that*.

2.30 AM The white people around here are sooo not friendly to me. Heading home. :(

Sunday

7.00 PM Hasn’t been an altogether memorable week. Feeling kind of depressed. Nip/tuck reruns aren’t working their usual magic. :(

8.00 PM Made impulse decision to start growing my facial hair. Although I know that I can’t hope to cultivate in a million years the sort of flowing man-beard my anna can sprout in a day. :(

The Adventures of Ani and Anna: Part I

Hi there. My name’s Ani. I am a 23 year old, heterosexual Tamil boy living in Singapore, and my favourite food is rice. Curd rice. I’m kind of in between jobs right now, so I spend most of my time at home musing and brooding. Anyway, I haven’t really been in touch with my feelings for a while, so I thought I would publish my journal here on blogger.

About me: I just moved into a quaint little home in a picturesque corner of western Singapore with a couple of seniors of mine from university. One of them is the greatest, masculinest man to roam the planet. His name is Khasali, but I call him Anna (tamil for ‘elder brother’) as a mark of my deep, platonic respect for him. The other is an ugly, two-timing bastard named Kaka. All he does is suck up to anna. He isn’t a true best friend of anna’s the way I am.

Off we go then. Be prepared for candid revelations, sheeple!!

Monday

7.00 PM. Anna left home, giving me specific instructions to stay home all evening and watch over things. I’m so proud that he trusts me enough now to give me important assignments!

8.30 PM Bored of Nip/Tuck reruns. Went over to Holland V looking for white people, and guess what? Anna and Kaka were at a table, drinking together! Naturally, I pulled up a chair. Although anna feigned a look of disgust on his face, I knew he was secretly glad I could join in the male-bonding session!!

8.45 PM Proud of how sober I was despite having had a wholeeee shandy! Confessed to anna how he was like my Dr. Cox, who told me to “shut the fuck up, you twat” and that he didn’t care abut my ‘penis-doctor’. I’m becoming such a masculine man these days, drinking beer with the guys and what not! This feels just like girls’ night out, except that it’s, like, guys’ night out! Made mental note to blog about the mythical guy-high.

9.00 PM Took pee-pee break. When I came back to the table, anna and his annoying sidekick had disappeared. Anna’s boyish hide-and-seek-come-and-find-me pranks are sooo endearing!!

9.35 PM Couldn’t find anna anywhere. Heading home. Hope he doesn’t miss me too much. :(

Tuesday

9.00 PM Heard Kaka and anna playing a game of Playstation downstairs. There was laughing and cheering. Anna seemed to be enjoying himself. Went down and joined in the laughter, but anna didn’t seem to care. :(

11.00 PM Updated my Facebook status to ‘Ani may have just found his platonic rival!!!’

and marvelled at the attention-grabbing qualities of multiple exclamation marks. Shuddered at the memories of a Facebook that only accepted ‘is’ status messages. My, has civilization come a long way or what!

11.30 PM Spent the last half an hour refreshing my twitter to see if someone’s status linked to their moblog post about how witty my Facebook status was. No such luck. :(

Wednesday

8.30 PM Spent the day eagerly awaiting Anna’s return from work.

9.00 PM When the moment arrived, I looked away and ever-so-nonchalantly asked him if he was ‘up for a game, mate’. I’m getting so good at man-speak these days. “Fuck off you cunt, I don’t play with dipshits”. I love anna’s one-liners, and how he does his I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you act when in reality, he sooo does. We all know it’s just part of the whole masculine charade; he’s going to ‘change his mind’ in, like, five minutes.

9.10 PM Appears as though anna was serious about not wanting to play with me. I’m going upstairs to brood.

9.15 PM Can hear anna playing with Kaka downstairs. Strange. Maybe anna is saving up his attention for me for one of our male-bonding sessions, like the time he came into my room, mumbled something about me being a ‘cocksucker’, and clobbered me with a cricket bat for playing Beyonce!! Anyway, we all know who anna’s bestest friend on the planet is, so there. :P

Thursday

9.00 AM Have to go to the immigration office in a while to get a visa. Those red-tape nitwits need me to find a guarantor for my stay. Guess who I’m going to ask? ;)

He must be sleeping, but everyone knows that bestest-buddies-in-the-universe don’t have to knock before entering each others’ rooms. :)

9.05 AM Will post update on how things went inside anna’s room after tending to my broken jaw.

10.00 AM Ok, here’s how it went. After expressing playful ‘violent rage’ at being awakened from his manly sleep, anna promised to do it if it meant that ‘I would get the fuck out of the room.’ So I made him sign the form, and in the column for ‘relationship with applicant’, he filled in ‘Friend’!!!!!! Left the room with a tear in my eye. And not because of the jaw.

6.00 PM Finished updating my blog about how much it meant to me that anna had chosen an important government establishment as the forum for formalizing our union of camaraderie. Tried to update my Facebook relationship status. Damn thing won’t accept ‘In a friendship with.’ Cried myself to sleep.

Friday

6.00 PM Kaka made offhand disparaging remark about anna. Defended anna’s honour, and made mental note to be mean to him for a few days. Twat.

7.00 PM Microblogged about how much I love mental notes. :)

11.00 PM Left for Clarke Quay to look for white people.

2.30 AM The white people around here are sooo not friendly to me. Heading home. :(

Saturday

4.00 PM Finished up season 3 of Desperate Housewives. Was just thinking how AWESOME it would be if I could find a gorgeous girl called Anna to go out with, just so that I could dump her in the name of ‘bros b4 hoes, annas b4 Annas.’!!

4.05 PM Shared my feelings with anna. He didn’t seem impressed either by my clever wordplay or by my sentiment. I bet that nincompoop Kaka been poisoning his mind against me.

11.00 PM Left for Clarke Quay to look for white people.

2.30 AM The white people around here are sooo not friendly to me. Heading home. :(

3.00 AM The microblogosphere doesn’t like my punning skills either. This SUCKS. People SUCK. :(

Sunday

3.00 PM Caught Anna laughing at Chris Crocker’s Leave Britney Alone video. LOL. It’s sooo awesome how we both share the same sense of humour. Everyone knows Britney is sooo last-season. Made mental note to invite anna over to my room the next time I download sound-bytes from Jus Timberlake’s new album! ;)

Shorty's story

So there was this kid right. Kinda small for his age, so naturally we used to call him Shorty. His brother and mine used to hang back in the day. So it come only natural that this young ‘un come sling it with me and my crew when we hit high school. Now Shorty used to get all kinds of teasing directed his way, on account of his small stature and the fact he looked like a sledgehammer done a good number on his face. Word is, Shorty’s mom’s had a boyfriend once who went at him once when he was high on tha product. Shorty don’t ever talk about it, and us kids being raised on the street, don’t ever ask. Compassion don’t come easy on the corner. Here it’s every nigga for hisself and you looking for shit if you start showing a soft spot for the weak ones.

None of us liked Shorty much at first. That nigga was weak. In fact, my crew and I done gave him a hard time every time he tried to work himself into our outfit. We stole his lunch damn near every day and made him do every oddjob we could find. Coolio and DJ used him as lookout while they went ‘bout their dirty business in the ‘hood and even Prez, who only fronted like he was mean, never missed an opportunity to take a swipe at him.But Shorty never once complained. He just stood there and took it and looked at us with his sad,doleful, puppy dog eyes. Fellas used to joke bout how he was a Timex.He’d take a licking and keep on ticking. That boy had heart, I’ll tell ya. There was the time that Mean Pete and his boys killed Shorty’s li’l rabbit. No provocation, they just did it to watch a live thing die. And they took their time about it too. When Shorty found Bunnie, she had all these little cuts and burns on her, like they’d tortured her. Real concentration camp shit. Shorty took it real calm. And we all knew he loved that rabbit like it was family or sum’n. When DT found out, he was furious. Now Shorty is a weak-ass nigga. In tha hood, that’s recipe enough for inviting brothas to start banging you up. But he our weak-ass nigga. If anyone should be leaning on him, it should be us. Aint no call for Mean Pete to go all Josef Mengle on his rabbit when we got the market cornered on that shit. So DJ and Coolio and I sneaked up to Mean Pete’s crib while his moms was out and set fire to that mothafucka. I remember we stood and watched that house burn for a good fifteen minutes. Nobody saying nothing, just standing there watching. And after a while, it starts to rain and the fire kinda gets doused, but the house is gutted by now, so it’s all good. When we walk away in the rain like homecoming heroes from a war, there’s just a ghost of a smile playing on Shorty’s lips. DT and I slap him across the back. The nigga’s an initiate now. Welcome to the club Shorty. We got your back.

Mean Pete had mad enemies and rivals in the coke slinging business, so blame was naturally attributed to other quarters. My crew and I lived to see more daylight. School dragged on. DJ and Coolio never did attend, joining the street crews working the corners, selling drugs to all takers. They had uncles high up in the drug trade, who wanted them to get a real grounding in the workings of the family business. From the ground up. So school wasn’t no option. Prez was into all that black pride bullshit and he had a way with words. Damn, that nigga had words on him that would make a thesaurus proud. Aint none of us could see it coming, but prez was headed for the bar. A nigga lawyer, like Johnny Cochran. That boy sure made us proud. As for me, I grew out of the stupid machoism, got my inflated head out my tight ass and realized that if I kept on the way I did, I’d be dead or counting down jail time in five years flat. So I cleaned up my act and got out the game. For good. I didn’t see myself working for the man and I wasn’t gonna lay down and take orders from nobody at no McDonalds. So I borrowed some dough off DJ and Coolio and started me up a gym. It was slow going at first, but with a good marketing angle and some hard work, word got round and I got me a regular procession of niggas comin to lift weights. Shit, I become a regular citizen. I even paid taxes, a far cry from those crazy days when we used to sling rocks at windows, graffiti the walls with cuss words and rob old women of their pension money.

As for Shorty, I’d have liked to say be buried his nose in this books and found out he had a real aptitude for math and become a scientist or some such shit. But real life don’t play that way man. Shorty remained a stupid nigga and when school was over, he found himself inadequately equipped to deal. He started a nine-to-five at the local department store, but Shorty was so unlucky his store got robbed thrice in the first two weeks. Shorty was accused of partnering with the thieves and fired. He then bounced around some, doing oddjobs on the street for grub and room. My old crew would help him whenever he came round, giving him dough or some work. But Shorty invariably fucked up what jobs we gave him and managed to lose or spend his money so fast you’d think he was one of them Hilton sisters. We grew tired of him mooching off us and all of us told him at some point, to fuck off. Shorty took it quietly. He didn’t come by for a month after I kicked him out. But one winter morning, he was back again on the steps of my porch asking for money to get high. In a month’s time, he’d become an addict. Slim Charles’ crew had given him a job as lookout and convinced him to accept product instead of cash. Before you knew it, Shorty was a dope fiend with a dangerous and expensive addiction he could not afford. I told him in no uncertain terms what a fuck-up he was and kicked him the fuck off my property. Looking back, I might have been a little harsh on the kid, but whatever man.Tough love. You start pitying a nigga who’s an addict, he gon start exploiting that pity. Later I learned that DJ and Coolio had more or less done the same to him. Prez, being the sentimental sap he is gave him some dough and Shorty kept going back to him once in a while. Prez always was the soft one. That was the last I seen of Shorty. Word around town said he became Slim Charles’ bitch, doing all kinds of dirty work for him; sexual favors, burying the dead, all kinds of nasty shit. Shorty didn’t have a crew no more, so he took it lying down. Boy was a natural pushover,so aint nothing no-one could do. Man that don’t respect his own self can’t expect no respect. Still and all, I guess we shoulda done something. But DJ and Coolio were busy climbing the drug hierarchy and I was busy with my gym. Prez gave him dough and between the four of us, we rationalized and made excuses so we could sleep at night. Prez once told us over some drinks that inaction equals complicity. That means standing by and watching injustice is as good as doing bad shit yourself. And if that were true, then us lot were guiltier than sin. But the years rolled by and when word bout Shorty’s latest misadventure occasionally got to us, we’d sigh and toast our next drink to him and get on with our lives.

So when we heard what finally happened to Shorty, it hit us hard yo. I mean, we had given up on the boy and all, but still, he used to be one of us back in the day. And when I heard bout the manner of his exit from public life, I coulda just about crawled up and died. Turned out Shorty’d turned to gay prostitution to finance his habit. His customer that day liked to play dirty. Police officials deduced he beat Shorty real good and even brought a gun into the game to get his rocks off. They figured this out from accounts of the hookers in the adjoining room. At some point Shorty snapped. He snatched the gun and shot the guy twice, once in the crotch and once in the chest. Shorty then goes back to his old haunts down at the drug corner and shoots up Slim Charles and the rest of his gang. He’s got seven niggas chalked up and one in critical and all of them sure had it coming. That’s the last anyone’s ever seen of Shorty. It might be he hightailed it to the coast and got on one of them ships headed for Europe. But knowing Shorty he most likely dragged himself to a deserted corner and put one in his own head. Its been a week and counting. No body found yet. Slim Charles’ corner got re-equipped with a new crew today. They rolling out product at discount prices in honor of the dead.
That’s how they do in this town. Life goes on yo.