What's the point?

"What kind of story has no speech in it?” grumbled the old hag at the oak desk. Fifteen years in that room, and Minaxi had come to resemble the 18th century furniture. I was inclined to believe the rumor- mills that said she preferred to make out with the teak hat-stand rather than her younger-by-ten-years husband. "Couldn't blame her for being a grouch!" I mumbled while rushing out of the faux victorian building. She had probably heard; I ended up banging my head against the desk that peeked out of a corner in her lobby. "The old witch..."

We had started off on better terms; that decade seemed like a million years ago already. She used to be the best editor in town. I was then a star journalist who was well recognized on television. The wonder years began with two books on the geopolitical situation on the Subcontinent. "Had to take an exceptional writer to do justice to a topic that is beaten to death by the media." I would hear people whispering as Ami and I entered restaurants and shopping malls. Being a celebrity was a high. Even better was the ego massage one received on bad days at work. There would be very little that could go wrong.

Things did turn out otherwise. It started with a little ego-centricity "Karma be damned, I will write my own destiny! These people better recognize my worth as a thinker. I wouldn't give up this adulation for anything. After all, how often have the masses come across someone who can interpret such complex relationships in simple understandable language. One has to be a gifted writer to be able to do that, eh?"

Soon, the television stint was over. Writing masterpieces was the ultimate objective of life. "After all, it is the duty of a geniush to whrrrite and leave bebind dhish ghhrate knowledge." A bottle of single malt a day had this way of boosting self-esteem.

Three years and twenty manuscripts later, I had finally written what would be the masterpiece, the crowning glory of a career marked with works of brilliance in fits and bursts. Spits and bursts, rather. Ami was by now tired of the lazy dog that lounged all day on the couch she had bought ten years ago when they moved into this house. She liked order, and he was hardly bothered about anything, let alone the semblance of a notion called order. I mouthed another inane aphorism "Straight lines curve when viewed at a far enough distance." Ami grimaced.

She did not respond any more to my philosophical aphorisms. Truth be told, even I did not really figure what they were all about. They worked, though. We maintained a silence around the house for at least three hours after each of these silent arguments. She was yet to realize I loved the peace ringing in my head whenever she lost her temper and decided not to speak with me. It was soothing, especially after a decade of constant haranguing. We had been happily married until she landed a job as a television news producer. All through my time in the limelight, she patiently stood by the sidelines, waiting for her quality time with me.


Alcohol also has this fine way of leaving behind extremely warped versions of conversations stored in one's memory. She would recall strange events and promises made, while I simply could not. "Are you drunk all the time?"

Of course, not! I never drink while in the shower. It dilutes my drink.

Life was interesting. Then it really happened.

She fell in love with another man. That was half the truth though. The man she had fallen in love with was not the same anymore. Perhaps it made more sense to fall in love all over again rather than spending any more time and effort on my faded glory.

Clarity is my forte now; having rid of the awful habit by just getting the kidney replaced. They said I should appreciate the gift of life, and so I decided to do just that. No more drinking; the soft white crystals Anees supplied gave me enough vitality and clarity than alcohol ever had.

She threatened me quite often; but her ego simply would not let her walk away from her biggest mistake. So we went on for another couple of years pretending to be the best of pals while being quite incapable of hiding our mutual hatred at home.

I could hear Joseph maashe's voice boom out "A sinusoidal wave does not start in your forehead. It refers to a physical phenomena of a different kind! Ho ho ho!" Bumbling old fool. He had to be mentioned too. I had to remember to make a star of this fool too.

The fog of the silver crystals always brought together Ami, Minaxi and Joseph as one person. How I hated them! Each time I snorted, the fire raged from the nostrils to the gut. "This manuscript will take a few more years to complete. You might want to start reading the old thesaurus once again--your language skills are quite appalling now, Ron."

I would plan to kill each of them. The plot was lost, but I could still salvage the situation by using my superior investigative skills. "I'll start with a thriller and build in the deaths of these idiots. Each of them will be a star. A dead star." The rest was a haze--Ami and Minaxi were easy enough to deal with, while old Joseph had apparently met his maker a long time ago! I hung my head, repenting the delay in action.

It had to be extremely sincere regret...

"Thunk" went my head. "Three months of effort and all I get for the manuscript is a bang on the head!"

Three more steps and I could hear a few more voices ring out. Minaxi's was one of them. "Hold on, didn't you plan to butcher me using that hat-stand?" How does a dazed brain react to this idiocy? It was difficult to see. The haze remained, rendering each of these silhouttes sinister and threatening.

When I could open my eyes, there seemed to be a large crowd waiting. Almost scary to have three huge security personnel waiting to carry you off.

"Hey, I didn't..." There seemed to loud laughter and tittering from somewhere in the background. The lights seemed too bright. "This could not be the office of Rajaram Anglo-Indian Publishers." "Huh! What’s with you?” rang Ami's voice.

"Ouch, hell is awfully bright!" More laughter... “Just what is wrong with these idiots in hell?”

"Damn! Not again!"

It had taken longer than usual for me to wake up. I still hate dozing off at these award ceremonies; my head seems to be playing a million tricks each time.

What's Brewing?

She clearly hadn't expected me to carry the tray into the hall. Her dad looked suitably impressed. Now, any decent TamBram household prides itself on the ability to gently woo your senses with the wafting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. That my prospective FIL was impressed was completely beside the point. She seemed to have taken it badly. Her subsequent stuttering greeting was the equivalent of getting to Everest Base Camp.

I had always tried to achieve that petty goal through various cheap means--some genuinely trite (uberlukha, as the gang would say). The dream had finally come through!

Here was the pride of her 180-strong-and-still-growing family, the utterly self-assured and suave Anita. She was the shining proof of the success of a 2400-year old genetic experiment that had culminated in the birth of this near-perfect specimen. She possessed every attribute that her ancestors would have yearned for in a woman. The reverse-Electra complex slightly perplexed me at first. Soon, I had come to terms with the family's obsession for perfection. Each art had to be mastered; each science understood; each whim fulfilled! This was supposed to be the Thule Society's dream come true. She was truly the epitome of Tam Übermensch.

How then could their illustrious existence be called into question by this retard who had just dared serve what was arguably the best coffee they had savored in many years now? Only the coffee at Bhima's in Thirumalai was a notch above this one. The cooks at Annapurna would gladly give an arm and a leg for this heavenly aroma that was floating around the room.

Her intellect was insulted. This humiliation was horrible. She felt a shiver running down her body--the sweat was not a familiar reaction for someone as sure as herself. She hoped I would not notice.

There was no way I could have noticed. I was praying she wouldn't see the sweating palms and forehead. I kept savoring the moment of her ever-so-slight stutter. We had met only a month ago at the Arts Festival, where she was performing, and I was covering an event that seemed extremely arty-farty. It was a chore that had to be completed--a free-lancer does not have the luxury of choosing to ignore an event that would stay on Page 3 for a week at the very least. Her dance performance betrayed excellent skills and several global influences--the music seemed an electric Mozartian fusion with supporting musical reveries by Maheshwari Thailambal and the Bombay Thilakkal Sisters. Adding glamour to this show were the percussionists Bjørnstad twins, Peter Mashrek, the Iranian stringer, and Paul Altos, the pan-European composer and genius on the piano.

It was a magical moment. Not everyone gets to play Cupid for such an unlikely couple. She must have been in a trance when we spoke. The interview showed that. My eyes had nearly fallen out when she asked if I was interested in knowing more about her art and inspirations over a cup of coffee. I quipped "I doubt one cup would last us that long." She grinned; it seemed like my street-humor was finally working with someone. Lucky strike one!

I was a fool by any human standard. It was a wonder I'd survived this long in the profession. Foolish journalists are hardly suited to last beyond a decade without being caught out. I was still in the thick of things, caught in a mild maelstrom of sinking self-esteem and realization that a career as a journalist was perhaps not my true calling.

Wit had always been my savior. It also seemed to desert me in her company. I'd often rant under my breath, of course, "You pedestrian conversationalist, wake up! Can't you figure out something really nice to say now?" "Of course not, you blithering idiot. That would not interest even the mongrel that condescends to worship you."

I rationalized, "All geniuses have these voices running in their heads. My misfortune dictates that I have one with the IQ of a Gorgonzola Cheesehound." Yes, it is indeed difficult to match vanity to reality.

It wasn't easy being me in normal circumstances. She made it all the more impossible. Her icy calm would put Everest to shame. And even Everest had these stormy hours where one would be foolish to seek an introduction to the reasons.

It shouldn't have gone beyond the first date. Perhaps they hadn't bred good judgment into the bloodlines--she deigned to meet me once more. Her boastful attitude should've warned me, "You should taste my coffee. It is truly divine. People tell me the coffee makes my dance seem almost average. I don’t mind that even though I am one of the best performers in the world!"

The second date was followed by two more. I seemed to intrigue her. The complete lack of self-assurance seemed to be a potent weapon in my hands. Garfield would’ve been proud of my Odie imitation. The drooling was hardly matched by the eagerness with which I laid all my pride and self-respect to rest.

The meetings were interesting. Her place was an airy Mediterranean wannabe with large windows, done up with sheer curtains, more for effect than for utility, and expensive furniture to match her tastes. The hallway was decorated by several knickknacks, souvenirs of her trips across the globe. The bedrooms were a treat; although she made it amply clear I was there only to see how truly elegant homes looked like. The elaborate Javanese doorknocker was the ultimate symbol of her classy taste—the little bronze tongue sticking out suitably mocked my peasant sensibilities. Her passion for history and different cultures seemed to be all-consuming. Almost all our conversations ended up as lessons from a worldly-wise one to the incompetent student.

The conversations seemed to be initiated and completed by her. Her condescending manner was beginning to irk me. The coffee definitely tasted progressively bitter in the course of our conversations. For someone used to blabbering three sentences in one breath, the silence in my head was a novel experience. I soon resorted to inane tactics of subverting the conversation. “As if the Aryans ever existed! The first Tamil Sangam period predates them.” “The Ice-age civilizations would have survived only on meat, and therefore our racial claims to superiority based on vegetarianism are completely unfounded.” Bloopers of every variety were soon to disprove all my claims to possessing even an average intellect. At this rate, I would soon be a worthy chief for a chimp tribe on the Malayan peninsula.

It was during the course of one of these conversations that her father had discovered his daughter’s dirty little secret. He had dropped in on his way to Athens, one of the many pleasures that his business offered him. While I dreamt of pretty Mediterranean women with curly tresses and buxom figures, he offered extremely mind-numbing information on the culture and lifestyles on the different islands that formed part of Greece.

I wondered aloud if mainland Greece treats the islands in the manner in which we treat our Lakshadweep, Andaman & Nicobar islands. “Isn’t it surprising the Greeks have known about the Andamans since the second century BC, even if they knew it as the island of cannibals?” He seemed suitably happy with my geographical prowess. My extremely meager knowledge was being wonderfully supplemented by information from the Lonely Planet guide picked up last week from a hawker at Kings Circle.

Here, I digress though. The net result of our interaction was an extremely elated father, happy at the prospect of snaring someone who would keep Anita interested for more than the usual week or so. The interesting specimen was therefore to be displayed to her immediate family. She was off for another short tour of France and so the meeting was scheduled for early next month.

The fortnight passed with ease although each morning would give rise to another wave of panic and either suicidal or homicidal thoughts. My urbane parents would love this occasion though. I was their dirty secret too. All I could do well was make decent coffee. That seemed to be the bane of my existence.

Right now, the uppermost thought in my now-chimp-like brain was surviving the next ten minutes. The tension was palpable. I could still not figure out Anita’s strange tongue-tied behavior. She was completely out of place in my middle-class pad. It had none of the sophistication of either her place or my parents’ home. A diwan in the hall was the best I could manage on my meager earnings. The curtains had been excellent bedspreads in an earlier avatar. Both rooms were spilling over with ancient books, most of which I hardly understood, but read all the same. What was an under-employed journalist to do with his spare time other than read? Especially if the books come at the cost of a cup of tea. The kitchen though, was a disgrace even by my extremely slovenly standards. I hid the unwashed vessels under the sink and hoped the dhoop would disguise the smell of rotting food and spilt beer.

My parents were embarrassed with the apartment, but I had to be “honest” to Anita’s parents. They needed to see exactly what they had wanted their daughter to get into. They had to be dissuaded from making the most important decision of “my” life. I didn’t want to be hitched, especially to this patronizing person who would make life miserable. How could I even stay under the same roof as her? The house would serve as the best defense.
And It seemed to work like a charm. Both sets of parents soon decided to take a stroll in the large park, while Anita and I were left to our devices in the house. “Her first visit to the house, and this is already such a disaster. Simply wonderful!” My smile would betray the intentions, so I tried slinking away to the kitchen on the pretext of cleaning up the dishes. She called out behind me, “You never told me you could make such lovely coffee!” Her tone was now outright derogatory. She clearly wanted to set the record straight—she was the superior being between the two of us. I cringed, “You never asked me. I’m sorry the house is in such bad shape. It’s just that last night’s party at the Press Club went further than I anticipated. I had no time to clean up the place or buy new furnishings or crockery. Hey, but I served your parents coffee in the two cups that weren’t cracked. I can’t help it if they don’t match—the set sort of got destroyed five years ago while moving back from Chennai. I’m really sorry for this embarrassment. Really!”

Anita’s eyes had glazed over. She looked positively spaced out. She stormed out of the house. I could hear the door slam behind her back. Five minutes later, somebody knocked at the door; it sounded almost apologetic.

It wasn’t supposed to be. She was brusque: “I spoke with your parents. They’ve agreed to hold the marriage in April. You have two months to pack your stuff. Don’t forget the Coffee-Filter. No point getting married if you can’t make better coffee than me.”

The Story [Part 1]

The letter had lain on the desk for a week. There seemed no point in reading it. And anyways, I could still smell her around me. No point in reading the constant reminders of one’s failings.

I had anyways survived an extremely bad week at work. The boss was about to be laid off; the next man in seemed to be extremely hostile to my continuity--not just at work, but in the world in general! Worse, I had failed to deliver on time, for the second time in a week. Now, that was a first. It had hurt on Monday morning. I spoke with the CDE and decided the transparencies would not be ready by the next day. We had yet to begin ideating on the copy, much less start writing the copy. The hurt was slowly replaced with embarrassment as we hurtled from one failure to another. It was all falling into place—a dark alley that seemed to be running up my now-much-abused arse. And there was this throbbing headache to handle. The weekend was truly to be a refuge from stress.

But how would the stress go away when her clothes still lay strewn on the bed? The formidable rack of shoes had fallen over, spewing its contents all over the hallway. A few perfume bottles had cracked, evidently remnants of a struggle. The room smelt pleasant, almost as if she was around, hiding behind a couch waiting to spring a surprise. The smell was too much for my now-sensitive nose. Perhaps the cat was still around, and had soiled the bed. Surprising how her room repulsed me already!

We stayed in separate rooms, but she usually slept in my bed. We fought all our battles there--wondering how long before we would reach a point of no return. Her career was just shaping up, and the ego hassles from work would find their way back home. I had enough on my hands to think about where she was coming from! We usually began with the genial abuse and ended up slapping each other before hitting the bed to quench our animal passions. It was a strange love by all means.

She loved the strange melancholy nature of our pad. I loved the view of the river, even though the mosquitoes and the stench explained the low rent we had to pay. It had been rented from a pensioner safely lodged in a city 300 miles from here. As long as the rent checks reached him before the end of the month, he'd stay out of our business. She loved lighting those infernal scented candles on the long windowsills. We had lovely French windows that were never left open, lest the stench slinked in.

Even so, I wondered if her true fear was that her husband would someday see her lighting those beloved candles of hers at a stranger’s house. It was the typical precursor to a night full of passion, and short on sleep. They had been a happy couple.

I hated myself for triggering off the worst argument of their married life. She was barely an acquaintance then, an object of animal lust, who was to be leered at in the private sanctuary of one’s mind. I loved taking off her clothes while she walked past at the Gym. She had that figured out much before we spoke for the first time. It seemed to be the fuel for her vanity. As every beautiful woman figured, she hated being told she was pretty; or so she pretended. She desperately wanted every male on the floor to lust for her, to beseech her for a glance, perhaps even kill each other for a chance to sleep with her.

It was probably my harmlessness that helped her choose. Darwin could screw his nose and turn over in his grave for all I cared. We hit it off right-away. She pretended to be fascinated by my profession, “Copywriters are quite the romantic sorts, eh?” I had nothing to say, as usual. A silent mysterious smile was a nice weapon for the dumbstruck. It struck me as unusual that we had begun getting so intimate within a week of acknowledging each other’s existence. She was truly living in the fast lane.

It was then that she told me about her husband. Globe-trotting, versatile, gifted, much-venerated academic. In contrast, I seemed an oddball by all counts.

I was Darwin’s nightmare! Going by his theories, I would probably not sow as many oats as the average male of my species. Even that was a relief, going by the way my life was headed!

The Story [Part 2]

Note: The narrative changes here. This is another meandering turn to a storyline that I have no clue about. Kindly indulge me by ignoring the randomness of this. This is practice, after all! But hey, if you did fall asleep midway, I'd really love to know! (the.poets.mind@gmail.com)

"Coward!" He had it spelt out in fine cursive script on the walls. She was not around to see him cringe. One more look was required to make sense of the situation.

Sarita was furiously pacing down the corridor, waiting for him to make up his mind. Her husband was still in the ICU. The police had made three rounds since morning. The statement was yet to be recorded.

It would be simple. He had received threatening calls for a couple of weeks before the attack. He had not taken them seriously since they seemed too farfetched to believe--which Dubai-based don would take interest in an entrepreneur when there were so many more richer industrialists to farm? It seemed a stupid decision in hindsight. Hindsight was always meant to be this clear.

Meanwhile, Sarita walked up to the bathroom, and yelled, "Are you building a castle in there? What's keeping you?” He felt the bile rise up; another wave of fear took him by surprise. She was cold blooded! He muttered to himself, "Yes, of course. With all the bricks that I'm shitting, I might as well build a castle for us."

He was definitely not the finest specimen of his species. He had gotten by on the inane copy churned out for a doddering agency. People romanticized his profession, and by virtue of association, hailed him as a creative person. "Hardly true!” his closest friends smirked, in private. They valued his loyalty too much to hurt his feelings. His great luck with women riled them; they were lookers by all means. Ego was indeed a painful associate in friendships of convenience. His loyalty meant all resources at his disposal were open to them. It was a heartening thought to be able to call up one of his many friends in times of loneliness. None of them failed to oblige. That ego boost was good enough for them to indulge his histrionics. Anyone who could manage so many relationships was well worth the admiration.

They thought of Sarita as an oddball. She was well off in every sense--fine homes in three cities, enough inherited wealth to keep up with her spending, a husband who was considered near-genius by his associates and indeed most people who knew him. He had successfully transitioned from Academia to the world of commerce and within the short span of three years, established himself as an engineering services provider of merit. He was yet to hit the big time, but an IPO would cure that. His increasing stature in his field (of ceramic wizardry, of the kind that laymen did not understand) was leading to larger contracts to design astonishing contraptions--ceramic braking systems, of the kind used in Formula 1 cars, except made much cheaper through his design and manufacturing processes. Most global carmakers had an eye on him. He was a kind and forgiving man, a fact they realized when he offered jobs to the younger relatives of the friends of the traitor who had cuckolded him.

Why then would Sarita spend time with a suave hustler like Sikander? They kept their counsel and never questioned either Sarita or Sikander about their relationship.

Sikander meanwhile was still stuck in the bathroom. The outdoors seemed dark and uninviting even at high noon. The police would surely get him, for no fault of his. Or so he thought. He was right, she was too good for someone like him. The heave of relief he had heaved a month ago was not settling on his chest, heavier by the moment. How could he have got caught in this mess?

So the wheel of Karma had turned a full circle.

20mph

Seamus sat by the sill, waiting for the sparrows to flit past. Each evening, he saw the pair flying in tandem, twisting and turning in the air. They flirted in the air, filling up his life with happiness that had been missing for over a decade now.

A picture of his wife lay on a dusty desk, hidden partially by the numerous sheaves of paper pretending to be filled up with his notes. He loved flying. She hated it. Her fear of heights was strange, she preferred wheels to wings. Her love for exotic cars used to worry him. He wondered if she would forever depend on her father to fund this madness--the passion to hit the road with a vengeance, and keep the right foot plastered to the floor. Almost as if her life depended on it!

Seamus understood the passion for speed, but never comprehended the fear of getting off the ground. Personally, he preferred his staid Oldsmobile to the flashy ones she borrowed from her father and brothers. They indulged her too much!

Two decades of lusting for those magnificient machines culminated in five superbly fulfilling years as an ace pilot. Those were the happiest years. That was also the start of his relationship. They'd met at a railway station, where he had come to see off his mother, and she, to see off her brother A* who was slumming--having decided to travel to the far north to seek solitude. He used to love the railroads; after all, their family manufactured most of the steel that went into making these rails. A*'s was a passion this speed-happy couple never understood.

They were married within a week. He, in his aerial jousts of happiness at 800mph, and she in her perpetually wheelie-ing rounds of ecstacy, travelling at 120mph. They were destined to be the fastest couple in town!

She had never understood how he could come back so fresh from his sorties when every colleague of his would be bushed from the sheer effort of staying up there. His knees are made of steel, she'd say proudly to anyone who cared. Most people would add "So are his ears!", beyond her earshot, of course. She was impulsive, to the point of being dangerous. That Shelby Cobra sure wasn't a good idea. But there simply was no point in explaining that to her.

In hindsight, he thought, perhaps there was a need to have done that! Things had changed so much since the last night they spent together. He had just begun to appreciate the thrill in turning round a corner at 80 mph. Driving with the top down was just as enjoyable as doing a pirouette in the air!

He wondered if he should have allowed her to drive; after all, there wouldn't be any planes flying blind into you at a corner. "That's that", he thought. "No point living in the past." He looked at his feet, wondered how much more of his disability pension would need to be accumulated before he could get a snazzy electric wheelchair that could go at 20mph.

Her...

Over your grave, she had said!

An age had passed since the old familiar feeling of the staple-in-the-heart hit me where it hurt. I relived the day this morning. I saw her smile; random pictures, random people.

We had been holding hands; she was busy naming the kids (all eleven of them) while I tried redecorating the house with little artifacts that we would collect from our world trips. We were just about getting to the seating area, and fighting over the ornate baithak that I loved, but which she hated. She wrenched her hand away from mine; the coffee felt warm running down my bare thighs. The birds were unusually loud. The newspaper seemed to be in greyscale today.

Yes, the Jhoola was an unnecessary expense, so too was the farmhouse. We could afford it though; She was after all, the head honcho of a successful practice for a large MNC. She was unwilling to let me work--I was supposed to write! Fame and glory would be at our doorsteps, waiting to be let in, and be asked to sit on the large Italian couch that she preferred over the Sankheda Baithak that my native senses reveled in.

We had barely spent five minutes in each others arms when the memory arrived. I yelled her name out, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. The breaths were coming in short bursts. I had forgotten this was not meant to be.

I woke up with a start.

It still takes me a few moments each morning to realize the woman I wake up next to--the person who I owe my life to, the lady who's changed the gloom to glorious dawn, my closest friend and confidante--is not "her".

She was sound asleep. Her child-like beatific smile curved into a slight smirk.

Wait a Sec!

Skin against skin, friction turns to passion. Our yet-mellow fires burn brighter, flickering candles in a dark sultry night. The curve of your body melts into mine.

Arm on arm, limb on limb, the fire rages. What began as a finger-pointing exercise ends in ecstacy, a little sortie into the realms of the G-spot. A few jabs and moans later, your tears still scare me. Less stiff than before, I realize the pills and rubber are choices I need to make, not you. The pain flows into the pleasure, a moment, a wave, a little vision of heaven, and an invoking of the powers above follow.

A nascent dawn rages; my mild throbbing rests against the small of your back, that little curl-up that exposes you -- my child-woman ice-maiden. I see my arm float on your alabaster skin; wandering, teen-like on territories previously chartered but never enjoyed--this much. You moan, still asleep. Heartily too! Red ears follow, little nibbles of audio symmetry. Little bites of porcelain fill an eager mouth with pleasure, and my ears with your charge to ecstacy. A little push and sigh later, we drift apart, a river parting with the mountain where it pranced until it found release. I wonder: Will we ever see tomorrow in the same light, again.

Bees Takke [20 percent]

He had carried the mighty weight thus far. His mechanical arms laid it down on the pockmarked road; his was the job of smoothing potholes.

"Smooth as a mirror, a job well done!" said his conscience.
He looked back. The JCB had badly scarred the road behind him.

“A job well done”, said the contractor.