Super-Oxymoron

What if the human organs were held together by a piece of loose wire and it had to run the 400m in the Olympics? That’s how the bus sounded. Nothing seemed to be in place. Every organ, bone and skin of the bus seemed to be vibrating.

She didn’t pay any attention to it. She was used to it – albeit a long time ago. She was coming home. A pearl of a tear began a journey down her cheek. She wasn’t in love and it took her four years to realize what she had always known. She wondered, as her slender finger flicked the tear away to nothingness, why did I not know? What did I miss? It’s his work for him. I dont count!

I just lost four years of my life. An investment. She just decided that she didn’t love me?

It isn’t an investment – how can everything be about money. Am I like a scrip or a debenture? He expects returns – and then what? He dumps the share? The bus groaned its way uphill. These coastal roads don’t spare anyone. Not even the mighty bus.

How can she get worked up on a word? What is so wrong with ‘investment’? What? She thought that she was a debenture or a share? Years ago he had an argument with his colleagues. He was outnumbered – but his argument wasn’t. “If you’d make the same investment in your relationships as you would in your work – none of you would be single. You work as if there is no tomorrow – but you expect your love to live in the hope of a tomorrow that even you know – won’t be.” He heard all the hollow arguments of how work and love were two different things. He asked them back – if the work and love belonged to the same person? Why the inconsistency in the character?

I am just an investment.

The beautiful bright curtains suddenly seemed dull and lifeless. I pay for my consistency. As a person, and for my choice of words. She didn’t understand – there are some investments you never encash. Some investments – you only cherish.

I am just an investment.

Even brokers have sentiments. Sometimes they hold on to an investment just for sentimental reasons. He nearly laughed. He thought of Nick Leeson and the Barings Bank. He looked down and saw the head of his polished shoes. No clear reflection there – yet an image – as if formed by a group of convex and concave mirrors. That’s me, he thought – totally weird. A few drops of Jacob’s Creek Chardonnay on his suit challenged him to come out of his stupor. He nearly said out loud – don’t even begin. An expressive man is an oxymoron. An expressive stockbroker is a super-oxymoron. Is there something like that?

She still couldn’t come to terms with it. I am just an investment for him.

—————-

Note: Originally appeared in Gaizabonts on May 31, 2006

Traffic

The late morning traffic is its usual self. All big vehicles try and get as close as they can to the traffic signal, something that guarantees them quick passage. Smaller vehicles squeeze in between the big ones, and the smallest ones fill up the tiniest of places, with total disregard for a sense of personal space and the law.

The new cars, I like them. They don’t have fumes coming out of them that are so black and sticky. But then, they are pretty snobbish too. They don’t buy my stuff. I think they think it is beneath them to buy from people like me — they prefer the big stores like the ones we saw last Sunday when Guna and I went to Malad. They have large glass walls from where you can see what’s inside. We saw it from the street, the guys in the blue uniform didn’t allow us near the store.

Raka told me this is the time to sell flags. He is right, many people buy these flags. There is one more day in the year they do this, I don’t remember when. I like these two days before this flag day. I am able to make more money. I usually go for the cars which have children, if they are about my age, much better; they usually buy these small flags and put them on the car’s dashboard.

I wish they would buy flags all year long. I could buy that book with all that money.

Anti-empathy

The three year old was creating a ruckus in the hotel’s dining hall. People around were being disturbed, yet politely ignored the din.

He became sarcastic about the event and started waving his hands in teh air as if he was listening to classical music, oblivious to the mother of the wailing child watching him.

The mother picked up the child and walked out towards the garden. On her way out, she couldn’t contain herself, and asked him, “You find this funny, do you?”

He looked at her, wide-eyed, and after the briefest pause, said, “Of course! Do I look like the one frustrated taking care of a wailing child?”

“I pity you,” she said and stormed out to the garden, angry and hurt, patting the crying child harsher than she should.

He couldn’t help himself and started laughing.

Glass Tiles

He laid back on the sofa at the Yard. Sprawled. He surprised himself with his bohemianism. His smile was private – no one could see it.

He should get up now, she would be here soon with their order.

The green bulb.

Hanging on the brick wall. What would be the phrase to explain how the bricks were laid? Anyone would understand if he said, “brick wall”. But, for someone who had never seen a brick wall? They were deferred-aligned. So, someone may not have seen a brick-wall – but they sure would have to possess a strong vocabulary.

The green bulb.

Crompton. 240V. Made in Europe, it said. Europe wasn’t even a country. Is this the new expression of continental identity? Europe as a single whole geographical location? A single conscious identity defined by a glass-enclosed filament?

Up, above the S-shaped snake holder of the bulb, was a binary pattern of small translucent glass tiles of the footpath that he sat below. People above walked on the glass tiles – he was in the basement below the footpath. He imagined the absence of the glass tiles. No one would walk on anything that is absent; they would carefully choose to tread on the opaque brick and stone tiles. No one keeps a foot on something unknown. They always feel they will fall down. He laughed a hearty private laugh that no one heard. Down below in the basement where he sprawled happily was a better place than the pavement where the presence of the glass tiles kept shivering people walking the same way – the way they have done for years.

The Floor-to-Ceiling Mirror

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn left into Guilford Street from Lansdowne Terrace.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to young for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Guilford Street, I saw him, an unlit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. He gestured for a light. I took the cigarette to my left hand – he thought I was offering the cigarette to him to light up his. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. I put my right hand in my jacket pocket and lit his cigarette with my Zippo. He thanked me with a short nod of his head; I acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned left onto Guilford Street.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

*

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn right into Lansdowne Terrace from Guilford Street.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to old for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Lansdowne Terrace, I saw him, a lit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. I gestured for a light. He took the cigarette to his left hand – I thought he was offering the cigarette to me to light up mine. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket and lit my cigarette with his Zippo. I thanked him with a short nod of my head; he acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned right onto Lansdowne Terrace.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

Her Pain

She was in pain.

The intense throbbing continued in spite of the medication and the prolonged and painful therapy she had undergone for over a year now. She adjusted her pillows to help support her broad shoulders. Her grandchildren burst into a simultaneous cackle of loud laughter and her pain was forgotten for a while. She smiled at them, participating, not knowing what the joke was. They didn’t need to feel her pain. It was enough that she felt it.

She joined in the revelry and the fun and teasing moved from one cousin to another. All her grandchildren were there – from eager five-year olds to twenty-three-year old near adults. And a joke was a joke whether or not the five year old understood the nuances of the eighteen-year old’s word-play. Laughter, just good old laughter had such power to communicate. Laughter and love bound people well.

Each time she laughed she had a shooting pain in her chest. Her eyes swelled with tears, she had no idea if it was because of the pain. The younger ones rallied around her, hugged her tight every once in a while, as if to remind her of the pain. She didn’t shrug off a single hug.

As she was lying down watching the revelry, she wondered if this was the best time to let go.

Would I carry this image of my family where I’d go? Would I be able to show this image to him? Am I being greedy for happiness, prolonging a weak and painful life for pleasure? Then again, what was the real pain. Was it just the strain across her left breast or the pain of not being able to see and play with more of her great-grandchildren.

The eldest came near her, and quietly asked, “Is it paining again?”

“No”, she smiled back, lovingly ruffling his hair, “I am fine.”

Missing Dave

It would have been so nice if he was here today, now in fact. He would have been able to get the attention of that distracted taxi driver. Dave, may he be in peace wherever he is, had a way with his voice. And his arms. He just commanded attention.

It has been, what, eleven years now?

What’s with the taxis, where have they all gone – you’d think they would be out here on a Saturday evening – with all these young kids wanting to go to parties and all. Perhaps they prefer the longer routes. Bless Dave, at least I can still afford a taxi – if I get one, that is.

There, another one goes without noticing me. I wish I had half the strength of Dave’s voice. Maybe the taxi driver would hear me then. This feeble arm in this pastel sleeve hardly stands out in this riot of a colour that this town has become.

Seems it is going to be a while, I’d rather let the bags down. Ahh – it has begun to pain, this left arm of mine. I hope it’s just the bags. I doubt if I can afford any more medicines for a new ailment now.

It’s getting late already, I still need to cook, I think I will sleep early today. Jane is coming tomorrow – it would be lovely to see the kids tomorrow.

Hey!

They don’t notice me any more. No one does, really, why single out the taxis? I am fading into the past, I suppose. Look at all these busybodies – going fast and forward.

Ah, well, I guess I’d rather take the bus after all. I’ll save the money, maybe get some apples and bake an apple pie. Dave used to call me the apple of his pie. How, I miss you, dear.

This young man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Look at him, reminds me of our summer evenings a while ago. Just sitting there in the sun.

He is a writer perhaps. Does he write about old people, I wonder?

Story-writing

The clackity-clack of his keyboard continued unabated. The clacking seemed to bounce off the hard walls and echo back in what he wrote. The distant dying laughter of the last party animal didn’t quite bother him, though he sensed the mood of a party unwilling to die. Not much made sense around him – the darkness was enveloping him, shrouding everything that he saw, in nothingness, even though the two sixty-watt bulbs stoically stood their ground. He wasn’t looking at the words, they hardly meant anything – he knew that already – no reason to use the backspace key – no reason to use better words – no reason to make anything sound poetic. He realised he wasn’t sitting very comfortably in his chair, yet not one of the alive muscle in his body made the slightest attempt to correct what they would have to suffer in a few minutes. He wondered if his mind or his soul or his spirit had left his body and there remained only an obedient machine, as if run by inertia, powered by burning itself, feeding the power back, continuing a cycle. Where was that moment when some action would change the course of what was going on? What was the trigger that this incessant typing would stop and wonder how to make meaning? Why was there no reason anymore in any action that occurred? The author, the subject and the environment seemed all to be twirling into a single mass of bone, flesh and entrails. There was nothing to be differentiated nothing left to identify any one element to know what its purpose was.

He paused now, looked up at the screen. He looked for long at what he had written.

He saw his face in the mirror-like screen; he stared hard and finally moved his mouse to get rid off the screen saver.

Look Out

She was looking out of the window.

The bus stopped in the late afternoon traffic. It was still trembling slightly because the driver hadn’t shut the engines in the hope that the cars would move soon. The cars were carrying happy children back home from school.

The bus was also carrying children back home.

She looked at the car going the other way. Like her bus, it was also stuck in traffic. Her eyes were transfixed. The mother, looking all glorious in her pearls was lovingly holding her daughter, smiling and making a happy picture in that black car that must have cost a lot. For the entire while that the bus and the car were standing, facing opposite directions she didn’t take her eyes off the mother and the daughter sitting and talking happily in that costly black car.

Then the bus and the car began to move slowly – in their own direction. She saw off the car with her gaze – right until the car couldn’t be seen any more.

It was her stop next. The bus stopped, this time out of choice than compulsion, and the doors opened for her.