Meeting Mr.D.

The morning weather, I remember, was particularly pleasant that day. I was walking down the side street, picking up lilies and lilacs from the shoreline of my fantasies, heading towards the City Hall for a public engagement when it happened. I tripped and fell. Face down.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Is that really you, Mr. D?” I hear a delicate feminine voice exclaim in my ears. “Is that really YOU?!” She repeats before I lift myself up from the ground with the dignity found in gentlemen of certain social standing after falling flat on their faces in public places.

“Oh My God! I must be dreaming!” The delicate voice coos again. I try to focus on the origin of the sound while brushing off dust and invisible particles of embarrassment from my clothes. Discreetly, of course. A knee-length black skirt comes into view followed by a black top without collar or sleeves. Two tiny eyes sparkle at me from a rather demure young face. I am reminded of a cat that has spotted a rodent on a hungry day.

 She gushes forth, bringing in an intoxicating aroma which I deem is how money smells when it transforms into little bottles of perfume. “Oh, but it IS you! I can’t believe this, Mr. D. I’m a big fan of your work.” My right palm is grabbed at, and finds itself tucked neatly between her two tiny hands. Tiny they might be but they sure were strong if one can judge such things simply by the vigorous shaking my right arm was being subjected to. I admire her pale green nail polish for a moment before the shaking gets more enthusiastic and breaks the spell. What was that she just said?

 ”A big fan?!” It is my time to exclaim.

 ”Oh, C’mon, Mr. D. I’ve seen your pictures! Hundreds of them. And I know it’s you. But if you are going to pretend it’s not you just to discourage this meeting I can understand. I’d be heartbroken though.” She’s still pumping my hand – with the kind of generous vitality ‘big fans’ display on bumping in to the object of their adoration on pleasant mornings. I like her face. It’s quite symmetrical and all. But her child-like enthusiasm and girlish charm fascinate me more. And, of course, the look in her eyes — Ah! The kind that makes toils of the worst sort seem worthwhile.

 ”I want you to know this.” Her quaint voice, trembling with ricocheting emotions reaches out again and beats against my ear drums while they are still buzzing from the headlong fall. “You are a genius, Mr. D. A genius! I have read all your books. Every one of them! “

 I remain silent. Not because I want to discourage her or dampen her enthusiasm. When your brain feels like it has been sandbagged out of its secure place and little bells are ceaselessly ringing in your ears and you have just found yourself in a horizontal position on the road while vertical is what decent folks must strive for, it isn’t quite right to expect instant or sane answers. Upstanding citizenry finds a surreptitious silence befalling their very beings on such occasions.

 ”Where are you off to, Mr. D? Would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? I mean, this is pure destiny. Or how could I have just bumped into you on a side street? Please, Mr. D. Spare five minutes for me. For destiny!”

 I figure sitting down is definitely a good idea. A coffee is sure to help me regain my composure and feel myself again. And five minutes is something I can definitely spare. “Of course, Miss…? Mrs.?” I fumble with grace.

 ”Oh, I’m so sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I’m so clumsy, Mr. D. It’s Miss. Miss Be.” Suddenly as if waking up from a trance she lets go of my hand, takes a step back leaving a civilized distance between us and offers me a shy smile. “If possible I’d like to get a picture taken with you. If you will allow me, that is.”

 I smile reassuringly at the thought of a chair and coffee. My body and soul badly need immediate life support like a patient suffering from serious malnutrition needs IV fluids. “Shall we go and get coffee then?” The question is more in the manner of a pleasantry for I am already leading her into a small cafeteria nearby.

 ”You are such a gentleman, Mr. D. Such a wonderful human being. Is it true what the newspapers say, Mr. D? About all those barbaric things they did to you while being a war prisoner? Did they really hang you by your thumbs? But, hell, what is more important. You fought for our country. Were you writing back then too? When you were a soldier? Will you show me the bullet wound on your legs? I mean, it’s OK if you don’t want to. I’m so sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m just so excited, Mr. D. To actually see you in flesh and blood.”

 ”Here we are, Miss. Be! It’s coffee time.” I hold the door open for her as we enter the cafeteria. I can sense her excitement breaking the usual banks of her feminine reserve and flooding the five minutes now before us like an avalanche. Between drinking coffee and her excitement, will I get time to regain composure, I wonder.

 We take our seats near the glass panel overlooking the street and ask for coffee. My legs are relieved as my body weight finds firm ground on my hind-side.

 ”How did it feel to spend six years in a Tibetan monastery, Mr. D? I mean, cut off from the rest of the world. Away from everything you have grown up with and have known? Family, friends… I can’t think of being away from my home for more than a week. Not even on a holiday, Mr. D. That was when you climbed Mount Everest, isn’t it? While in the monastery? Was it the war that made you choose to become a monk? All the blood and gore, killing and dying? Is that it? It is understandable, you know. War can really scar the human soul. Especially a sensitive soul like your’s. It is understandable.”

 The coffee arrives. I eye it longingly before succumbing to gentlemanly behavior and address my companion, “Well, Miss Be…” Before I can say any more a large, well-clad young man comes rushing through the cafeteria door, a searching glance running across the length and breadth of the place, and finds what it was looking for in the person sitting across me.

 ”Be!” The stranger exclaims and comes across to our table in short, swift strides. “There you are, my dear! I have been looking all over for you. You got me worried, you know.” The look of pure relief on his face changes to straying suspicion as his consciousness finally divines my physical presence at the table. “Who are YOU?” His voice changes from the gentle to the guttural in seconds. I sense the menace behind it but thankfully it is well harnessed for the time being. Or so I tell myself.

 ”This is Mr. D, Pi! Mr. D! The war veteran, a true patriot, a monk, the conqueror of Mount Everest, and the greatest writer in the world today!  Not to say, a perfect gentleman too!” She looks at me demurely. I gulp hard a generous dollop of saliva. The man Miss Be was referring to as Pi looks at me for a long moment, then looks at Miss Be. “Will you excuse us for a moment, my dear? I and Mr. D need to have a short talk. You stay right here and finish your coffee. I’ll be back to get you real quick. OK, honey?” She nods in affirmative, and then giggling a bit adds, “While at it you can ask for his autograph, Pi!” Pi motions me to follow him and walks towards the counter – that’s as far one can go from the table I was sitting at while still being inside the cafeteria.

 ”Who are you?” He asks facing me. He is taller than me, I notice, at least by a couple of inches. “Well, I’m…” I fumble again, this time without much grace. A rather big man towering over you with his hands on his hips – a particularly aggressive posture – is not a conducive sight for quick thinking in sedate souls.

 “Anyway it doesn’t matter. I am just glad I found Be.” He gives a quick sideways glance at the girl sipping coffee and a loving smile spreads over his rather non-genial face. “I am just so glad she is safe. You know, she is not quite right in her head. Persistent flights of fantasy, the doctor says. She imagines things, you know. We don’t let her out alone usually. But once in a while she gives us – me and my mom – the slip. I hope she wasn’t any trouble to you. Once again, thank you very much. Now I will take her home.” His voice is gentle again. I find great comfort in that.

 “Mmm… by the way, about Mr. D…” I bring myself to speak but Pi is already at the coffee table helping his sister up.

 ”How was it to walk on the Moon, Mr. D?! Did the President give you medal for that?” Miss Be asks as they pass me by the counter. Pi gently but firmly guides her out of the cafeteria. “Mr. D? Will you write to me sometime?” She stands at the door for a hesitant second then walks out with Pi into their private world. There is a faint trace of mockery in her voice. Or is it amusement? Or maybe I am just imagining things. I stand at the counter undecided between the untouched coffee and a compulsively growing thought – Where can I find Mr. D?

Knock On The Door

I hear a knock on my door. The door bell is broken. I haven’t fixed it. Why should I? I am not expecting anyone. Not anyone I can think of. Wait. Could it be? Is she coming back? She did leave in a huff. Could have changed her mind. Haste never is good, I used to tell her. She said I was just lazy. I guess she was partly right. But it evens out. If she was right half the time, she was wrong the other half. That’s how it all works out. Nobody is right all the time. Maybe she realizes it now. That kind of thing happens. When given enough time to think, people see their mistakes. And people do make mistakes. It is part of being human, isn’t it? That’s where the whole idea of second chances come in. That’s how we correct our mistakes. If  we want to, that is. Do we take them – the second chances? All of us? I don’t think so. But I have a higher level of faith in my girl than I have in humanity as a whole. She will take that second chance. The time to think. So maybe she thought a bit. Or maybe a lot. You can think a little or a lot in any given time. And she saw she shouldn’t have left in her typical ‘Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff till I blow your house in’ kind of way. So she felt remorse and has decided to mend fences. She wants to say she is sorry. That we shouldn’t have split. But then she is headstrong. She is the kind of girl who would want me to apologize even when she is the one at fault. You know that kind, don’t you? It has something to do with their ego. Or absolute lack of it. I remember reading something of that sort in one of those ‘Man, Woman, & Relationships’ book. Pretty pretentious that lot is. How they make suckers of the common man!

One thing is for sure. She ain’t getting off easy this time around. I am sick of these temper tantrums. It gets on your nerves after a point, you know. I mean, in the beginning it is cute and all. She throws a fit, walks out and you stand there thinking, ‘It’s OK. This is what they do. Take a deep breath and just go and get her back home. Buy her something she wants if that works.’ It’s once again the thrill of the chase for you and the rush of being chased for them. Lovers become a couple on their first date once again in that brief time span. Romantic, right? But after thirty odd encores it is no more fun or OK. Especially when you have run out of new entreaties and the money to buy ‘welcome-back-gifts.’ Maybe she sees what I see. That is why she is back. She isn’t stupid or anything. She understands and she knows. Clever little fox she is, I admit. I remember this one time when we were out for a proper dinner in one of those restaurants where even the waiters seem to dress better than you, and we couldn’t get a place to sit. So we stood there at the reception with a dozen other people; all of us pretending as if we were not really praying for the bastards inside to eat real quick so that we can get on with our dinners. Out of the blue my lady’s shapely knees seemed to give in and before I could say ‘What the Hell!’ she was on the plush carpeted floor making a bed out of it. A kind of civilized ‘ooh,’ ‘aah,’ and ‘Oh my God!’ rose from the assembled crowd in tandem and had turned into a restrained murmur as the restaurant manager walked in. Just as he kneels down beside her my lady opened her eyes and wiped her brow in a proper lady-like gesture.

“Are you all right, Madam?” The manager’s voice showed a respectful and appropriate concern. I wondered if that tone would ever cut ice when proposing a girl.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” says my lady as she gestures the manager to come closer to her. Then she whispers something into his ears. As I watch, the manager’s face seemed to reflect all the things his voice had just a moment ago. He looked at her for one more second before assisting her back on two legs. My lady smiles apologetically at the waiting crowd. The Manager escorts us to the dining room door. Another murmur rises from our dozen odd compatriots-in-misery but does not sound so civilized this time around.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen, please accept my deepest apologies but this lady here is pregnant and as you saw needs immediate attention. With your kind permission, allow me to take her inside and help her settle into a chair.” Having said that, he ushered us to a table from which he dexterously removed a small sign that read ‘Reserved.’ After he had asked my companion thrice if he could get her a doctor, an offer she firmly declined thrice, and left us promising to return with our dinner in five minutes or less, I turned to my lady and beamed. Clever little fox, this one, I said to myself, smiling broadly at the people around with genuine pride.

The knocking is a bit impatient on the door now. Haste makes waste and often is the root cause of worry, I’d always said to her. But love is not only blind but many a times I have found it to be deaf too. I could have been talking to a wall. She just goes ahead and does what she feels like doing at any given moment. ‘Be spontaneous,’ she’d say. Spontaneous, my foot! Who’s waiting impatiently outside the door knocking to make amends now, Ms. Spontaneous?! Hah! It would be a real pleasure to see her sorry-faced pride now. Wait. That knock somehow seems to lack the grace of a ladylike request for entry into someone’s house. It sounds more angry than apologetic. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s the landlord. Those people are animals, I say. Not an inch of humanity in the whole length and breadth of their bodies. Like ghosts they haunt you till they get their green. Or could it be the neighbor who always wants to know if I’m fine? Pesky fellow that one. Can’t stand him. He can literally chase you down a block or two just to check with you if you are fine. I mean, people with such over-enthusiastic concern about others are real pain-in-the-you-know-where. But it’s a bit early for him to be up and about. It could be… Mmm…Who could it be? I am not expecting anyone really… I mean, no one has come around in a while… The doorbell died a long time ago, you know… can’t think who it could be… I’m not expecting anyone… the doorbell, it hasn’t been fixed…

Is there a knock at my front door? I thought I heard something.

Living In Light

As a violent day slashes at the virulent night
a rumble sends shivers down the hung sky,
a nameless terror spreads with another sunrise
slow ceaseless pain awakens in troubled eyes,
the horizon looms in as a sorrow long denied,
all hearts human heavier than the clouds outside
tears of a million souls rain down with daylight
a neon blinks – welcome to paradise – and dies…

 

The Hung Jury

Faith, now present now not,
refuses knowledge of life;
Time, a frozen flower,
showing everything but
the visceral delight.
My birth mark - imagined pride,
ushers in night-less days
of prejudice, fading
into gray twilight.
Hope, a magic trick,
pulled out from heart’s
eternal hat of surprise,
conjured blindness accepted
as divine light.
Suicide is to choose
the morning glory
without waiting for the night.
Life’s just prolonging Death,
or Death just waiting Life
without pride.
I stab myself to feel alive,
I bleed into a fading smile
so you hardly recognize.
A numb refusal to die
no longer a reason
enough to live by;
Is this freedom or
just a prison sentence
without appeal or a retrial?

Death by Choice

As echoes rising on a silent night
I hear strange sounds of disquiet,
anomalies born from truth denied
vying for the courage of life.

They rise to break, and break to rise,
over and over again by my sides,
I no not how to reply, I keep quiet,
now a bridge under boots synchronized.

A headless army of emptiness amplified
denies my mind, fights by repeating lies,
blinding my sight in a show of might,
under a flag that screams, ‘dialog denied.’

These scarecrows of sound terrorize
the silent captives of my soul inside,
born to rule, now they drown and die
in these endless echoes in time.

The Curse

I search in the narrow lanes

of your heart, in the long days

we spent together and apart,

in half smiles and silent pain,

I search in vain, once again,

in the bounded alleyways,

that lead to my gate,

the four-poster bed in my house,

has not been slept in off-late,

my living room stands empty

the sun casts meaningless reflections

on the window panes

Echoes in absence seeking a frame,

they are calling my name.

The gilded nights,

the free-roaming fireflies,

translucent beauty

cascading moonlight

nature’s maiden treat

a tired mind’s hasty retreat,

they wait to be drunk

by a mortal’s thirsty eyes

but mine, wither desperately,

seeking me.

I look in her kohl-smudged eyes

after a wild night between the sheets

my dark passion unleashed,

death conquered and fear released

burning amber sparkles in heat

unfold stories of love, whispered

in her ears, nibbled on her naked skin,

I look again, closely, yet I don’t see me.

I sit by my mother’s side;

ask her to set me free,

Tell me who is this me

that I don’t ever see?

She stares at my sweaty face,

recognizing in the pain,

the fetus of a promise

that never was and never will be

a teardrop hang precariously

on her eyelids, life’s last waltz

before accepting defeat,

nothing to break their fall, just

hardened memories of pain to relive,

she chokes, maybe on her very first
dream, no longer to be seen.
“I am blind,” she says,
“and, my son, so will you be.”

The Night

Under a leaden mute sky black
I lie, sigh all night, stay awake
deaf to the world outside, I see
stars choking in fear for miles
the dark hides a sinister smile,
dips its tongue in a broken cry
paints me yet another perfect lie.
I’m blind tonight of seeking a sign
shunned from light, sinning in time
selling my faith as I stand in line
for a loaf of bread, bottle of wine.
My time’s up, I know, now am dying,
of a dry throat thirsty from lying.

In a hungry world a dog’s no friend
now I’m covered in animal’s blood.
I fight for neither wrong nor right
search yet find nothing but despise
shadows dance by my side for life
laughing, scared beneath, all the while
run I can but I can’t hide, I’m tired
there’s rest only when I finally die.

Peace is to stop, not try, won’t deny
slipping into a void, losing my mind
an overzealous pride paying its price
tears of blood dripping from my eyes.
From under a hundred graves bloom
my ancestors’ madness as my plume,
a gray moon cast its spell of gloom,
the shaman goes for his lurid tune.

Fear, an ominous wolf, howls in my head
another soul mutilated to the land of undead
Giving up is difficult, going on is madness
I see the devil’s minions come down to earth,
there are shiny long nails in their hands
and a tightening noose around my neck.

Do Me A Favor. Don’t Do One.

“I love you.” she says coyly.

“Really?” I ask cynically.

“No. Not really.” Her frankness is endearing.

“Then why do you say so?” Now words come to me effortlessly.

“I thought it’ll make you happy.” She muses without a trace of guilt.

“Even if you knew it is a lie you were speaking.” I try to understand.

“You didn’t have to know that, you see.” Oh… so it’s now my fault.

“But you don’t really love me.” I try to make a point.

“That’s OK with me.” She misses it.

“I mean, if you don’t love me and tell me you love me you are lying, isn’t it?” Oops… I realise I said that once already.

“If I lie and it makes you happy, what’s wrong with it?” Her logic is beyond me.

“You force me to live a lie, that’s what’s wrong with it.” How could she miss such a simple thing!

“That’s only when you know it, right?” Now she’s starting to drive me crazy.

“But you know, isn’t it? You know that I’m living a lie. Doing things believing I am being loved by you. Aren’t you making a fool of me?” The answer to her indifference to the concept of truth and lie  is as yet out of sight, I see.

“Isn’t it better to be a fool who’s happy than be wise but sad?” What? What does she mean!!!?

“You have no right to decide who I should be, lady. This is my life. And it should be my personal choice, isn’t it” I am no longer sure if she’s listening.

“Right! And you are one ungrateful bastard!” She stretches herself seductively on the king-size bed. My eyes take in her naked curves. They are pleasingly inviting.

I switch off the bad lamp. Running my hand over the smoothness of her skin, I remember it’s been two days since I left home – an important ‘business conference,’ that’s what I said. I make a mental note to call my wife first thing in the morning. Just an “I love you!” from me will make her day, I know. And, in situations such as this, avoid me the trouble of answering uncomfortable questions.

Me Against My Image

“Isn’t he so cute?”

It seems those were the first words I heard in this world. I don’t think I understood what it really meant but all the same instinctively gathered from the proud smile of my mother and the approving look on my aunt’s face that whatever it was did make them both happy and made them feel good about being around me. I was three then.

So I tried hard to do the exact same things that I did to evoke such a response in everyone around me. Over and over again. And in doing so, I was chained forever to the image the word ‘cute’ conjured up in my mind, without consciously knowing so.

Over the years, there are many more words that were generously used to describe me. Intelligent, kind, nice, sensitive, proud, charming… And without realising it, I got caught more and more in the web of words. I tried hard to live up to being the things people told me I am.

Then there were other words, words I have no particular affinity for, for they were usually used in tandem with body language that clearly meant disapproval. I have heard people talk about me as I was a single quality or trait distilled and crystallized in human form. Stubborn, irresponsible, impractical, lazy, indifferent… If once they offended, hurt and made me defensive, on discovering that I can use the very same words to behave exactly the way I want to, to excuse myself from acting out my valuelessness, I found strength in them. In fact, I realised once people speak ill of you, they have lost control of you. You see, no one can be hanged twice. In the cold contempt of the world lies the freedom of an individual. The more they love you, the less you are who you are.

So is life all about trying to maintain the image people have bestowed upon us? Mostly, yes. It is so. Ideally, it should not be.

My aunt recently was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is undergoing treatment and I am given to understand it is very expensive. Last week she bought a couch and kept telling everyone that it is rather very expensive. I asked her why and she said she didn’t want people to think that she was low on cash because of her treatment! The illogic of her thinking made me wonder if one way or the other do we all not behave similarly when it comes to our image?

We try hard, harder than anything else, to nourish our image like a mother would her child. Sometimes I like to question whether most mothers do what they do because they have to live up to the image of one. No one forgives a mother who does not fit the image that has been sold to us over the centuries. Mothers image: noble, self-sacrificing, unconditionally loving, understanding.

If we all ceased to exist for the world, the world that projects its own expectations, needs and desires on us, we may find true self. And it would be a frightening prospect for the majority.

Once, may years ago, I tried to live completely cut-off from the world around me. No one who knew me knew where I was so they couldn’t reach me. I didn’t make or receive calls. I never went out of my house where I live all by myself, didn’t invite anyone home. I didn’t read because what I usually read told me I’m intellectual, philosophical, profound. If I read something else just to prove myself wrong, I would still be fighting my image. I didn’t watch TV either. Cause the things I watched told me what I saw myself as. I denied myself every gesture that reassured me of having a self – an image. I did nothing but stand, sit, walk around, lie down, stand again, sit again, walk around again… in my apartment. Aimlessly.

By the end of third day, I felt I was dissolving into nothingness. I was turning from being someone into being something. The silence of my home was so loud inside of me now that I wanted to pick up a glass and fling it on the wall with such force that I could see and hear and feel it break into pieces before me. An act of violence towards an invisible enemy. Or desperation for acknowledgment of my being from an empty house. I stood with a glass in my hand for a long time, and realised before keeping it down that I could go along with what I wanted because I was ‘calm,’ ‘collected’ and ‘sane.’ Once again, words did me in. I fought against my image and lost.

That left me so terrified that I called a cab and went to a disco and placed myself among dozens of strangers drunkenly gazing at the nothingness before their eyes. I watched with lurid pleasure drunken, numb bodies go through broken movements of life they easily mistook for dance in their drunken stupor. I sat there and make stupid, meaningless conversation with people around me. I smiled, laughed, drank and spent two hours buying drinks for two girls I had no intention of going to bed with. I have often tried to understand why I did what I did that night with such fervent passion? Usually, I am detached and cold (more words that tell me who I am.). But that night, I wanted the world around me to acknowledge my existence. Though no one could see it, in spirit, I was begging to be seen and heard. It is frightening to walk through life when all you hear is your own footsteps echoing in the emptiness around you.

Even though, from time to time, I still experiment with disappearing from the world around me, I never have had another night like that in my entire life. And I am glad it is so.

What Is Life

What is Life but a lie
lived through others eyes,
a million reflections
with no true image to find.

Every borrowed thought
speaks of a soulless cage,
All prisoners, serving time
straddling on a lonely stage.

Depravity makes for
not love but listless lust.
Greed dictates the soul
that’s up for sale next.

Spreading veiled insanity
pity mistaken for humanity,
alive fear, that’s you and me
our time dies escaping reality.

Surrogate emotions on leash
our impotency reigns supreme,
hopes of supposed possibilities
only dreams drugging us to sleep.

Life’s just a barter deal
my soul for your acceptance of it,
sold wholesale every season
for you fawning all over me.