The Nothing

In 1989, NBC aired a show created by Larry and Jerry which was about nothing. By direct corollary, it thus transformed into a comment on everything. I write about nothing.

Aham

The Disclaimer: The construct of white and black are never clearly defined. If that statement seemed vague, be warned, we delve gravely into the fastidiously inane.

The Premise: In a time not too past, a debate about all black, white and grey waged in the smart phones of some of the people loved and admired the most in this personal reality.

The Story: There was, in a time of the heathen gods, a whore (comment on profession not character, with no distinct gender, addressed as W) who sat and counted the pillage. Through the evening’s rising fog, the familiar patter of horse shoes heard every night meant the local lord (species, gender and ethereal orientation unspecific) would ‘meet’ W. W looked forlorn, kicked, complained, screamed, shouted, kicked again, but as the carriage arrived, knocked heels and sauntered in for another night of fornication. As the carriage left, W sat again counting the pillage.

The Comment: The indifference of our species; the fraudulent government; the sinking nation; the rising prices; the form of feminism; the insensitive spouse and the expanding belly are all today’s tired Truth (alliteration to a cause). Look forlorn, kick, scream, shout, kick again and yet surprisingly no metamorphosis of the present to the Eden of ‘summom bonum’ miraculously occurs. We may thus suppose that irrespective of exertion mentioned, the Truth triumphantly survives.

The Prestige: Stop! If You cannot be the instrument to change, you are nothing more than that complaining whore waiting to get fucked again.

Avaam

The Disclaimer: A personal proclamation of an out of the closet Feminist. 

The Premise: In a time not too past, on a social networking site, a few painful narratives of women defiled debased and desecrated.

The Story: Here we invite to the narrative an individual we mentioned before, Aham. On hearing the hurt of a beloved, he had become belligerent. The decision was thus made to act. Aham would, with an able aid, abduct that offender (O) in the silent night and torture him till the shrieks shrouded that silence to its piercing demise. He would then lock eyes, smile and proceed to the ancient Haien punishment of rasestu. O would then be given water, food and the will to live after which Aham would realign to the Heian penalty of kyukei for barbarism. But only O would be dehumanized for his heinous crime. Only O. Not his family, or his lineage, or his village, or his country or humanity. Only O.

The Comment: Generalization of the color black requires darkness to be universal. Black exists but so does white. We have all seen that color too. Can we not then hold the individual responsible for ignorant disgusting conduct? Do we need to question his family, his lineage, his village, his country and humanity; all of which could have had no or every effect on that act?

The Prestige: I am Indian. I am a man. I have not and will never rape anyone. I exist too.

Vayam

The Disclaimer: The human species and condition more disappoints me than excites my being.  

The Premise: In a time not too past, while visiting a home for the socially less fortunate orphans, a child smiled because we wished her to mark the date of her coming to life; another someplace someone else asked if I would come back just to say hello.

The Story: Bengal famous thieves, Kena and Becha are on the run from The Law. Cornered between the bars of insanity and drowning, they leap into the unknown river that drags them downstream to a land unknown. Conscious now in this beautiful land, the two (Avaam) realize the innocence of the indigenous population who, though possess invaluable riches, seem oblivious of economy, religion and apathy. They decide to plunder and fly. During the act, the entire town gathers, not to persecute or punish but to marvel at their dexterity. Avaam then decides to forever be beyond that land of Hottomala.

The Comment: Too often now is being ‘nice’ questioned for ulterior motives; too often have we heard about the paucity of ‘time’. There is nothing more under rated today than a smile and time. That smiling girl and boy wished for nothing more though they had nothing else. Extrapolate to a larger picture and attainment of that utopian existence that will keep us beyond the land of Hottomala may not seem fleeting. Aham will contribute to Avaam’s metamorphosis to Vayam without fear of persecution. 

The Prestige: You, the individual, are the question and the answer for everything that everyone is looking for as an excuse for existence.

In my small opinion, smile, say ‘hello’, give him a hug, give her a kiss, send them a pointless message, and ask the same of the others without deifying or admonishing black and white. And for all that antagonize your present wait a little for the future and give them … your finger!  

Untitled

Have you ever seen a matchstick burn?

As you strike it, the binder revolts whispering “Is it that time already?”- A spark. The potassium chlorate tides over the ebbing gelatin resistance – A hiss. And then a flash – combustion. That belligerent diminutive flame raises its hood scorching everything in its path to naught.

It all turns to ash.

That is how matchsticks burn.

That is how everything burns.

The vessel is a mesh of wood placed on rails - a journey. The body is raised into the oven – a womb. The path is raised and you catch a glimpse of it all; The spark, The hiss, The combustion and that belligerent flame. In the end, it all turns to ash. My last memory.

My first memory. I am may be 10, wearing may be a black suit I borrowed from him. Early morning on a Saturday, my brother and I mock drive the white erstwhile ‘premier padmini’ to may be the Aavin milk booth. Memory reminds me of the suit, the tie that ends at my ankles, the brothers’ never ending conversations and the wait in the car rotating the steering wheel with all our might. I will all of that true. Irrespective of precision of that memory, the pseudo-mathematical brain convinces the heart - the first memory.

Twenty years later the same heart convinces the brain of ‘better places’ and ‘lesser pain’. It chooses to look at that characteristic smirk on his lips and the draining shadow off his once parched face. It listens to tales of his affliction and heeds ‘how much worse it could have been’. It smells the incense of 24 departed spirits as if waiting at baggage claim for that conveyor belt. It feels the cold forehead and feet and questions purpose. It circles around his prostrate form and is conscious of a second You chronicling everything outside your Self. It rummages through ash and bones for that one impermeable signature of his existence. It dawns on you. You walk away and don’t look back. "God Speed!"

‘God Speed’ was the words I learnt. Memory reminds me again of a time in the morning. I am raised to a chair to bring myself at eye level. I am tickled. I scream and laugh. “God Speed”, he would say and tickle me again.  A short recurring memory swings the gates open. The bike ride when we all fall down. The thrill of going to the pond for a swim. The cricket played at the Salt Lake house with 10 people indoors. The birthday dinner at Zaranj. The embarrassingly questionable picture on the ID card of the summer swimming classes I admittedly am proud of. The preparation for the numerous train journeys back from Calcutta with 'luchi' and 'mangsho'. The order of the last 12 stations from Kharagpur to Howrah. The evening snack that ranged from Campari chicken to local rolls.

It is evening now and the trials of the day make the eyes feel heavy. The remains are doused in the Ganga. The water is cold. Emptiness speaks about may be more responded messages or answered calls. Rationale is a guilty weapon. You smile when you hear your brother fed him. You smile when your brother says he gave him his last drink of water. You smile, when you know he did, when your brother sang to him the day before. You smile at the memory that will be this day. 

Memories have a deleterious mind of their own. It retains raised voices, stern admonishing, a slap, fear and more raised voices. It reminisces of years when time was without any of these memories. When presents were a bribe for love and you secretly admonished yourself for receiving what the bilateral brain perceived a right. It remembers trips to hospitals and medical reports that transformed him to a shadow of his past you refused to register. I will all of that false. Irrespective of precision of that memory, the pseudo-mathematical brain convinces the heart. It will be morning.

A morning next, his 2 year old grandson  hopped in, screaming at everything familiar. He stopped at the picture. He turned to us and asked ‘Granda?’. He turned back and said ‘Granda!’ He hopped around again screaming at everything familiar. His first memory? Every generation after us will know only that picture. His Last memory?

My Last memory. He wrote to me several times this last year. I never wrote anything for him, nothing these 30 years. Not one song. Not one play. Not one movie. I write back.

I forgive you and I ask for your forgiveness.

He would have wanted to know. I send him a friend request on facebook and I wait.

Pay Karma Forward

We settle down now to ordain another arbitrary point of reference, another arbitrary point of decimal and another arbitrary ostentatious progression of human’s eternal need to find order in everything that is environment. Rummaging through social media I look to the seconds that passed for past is still that arbitrary progression.

Of time understanding The Gita: Religion entertains though each doctrine of conviction passed the test of reason. The Gita marks the conversation between one individual (we shall call him Krishna, with a skewed sense of order but a marked sense of justice) and another (we shall call him Arjun, with a skewed sense of justice but a marked sense of order) that defines a palpable understanding of both justice and order anointed with definitive common sense we now call Karma. The Gita tweeted: “Apatra daan” is “adharma”. I re-tweeted but still need to learn.

Of time in The Book of Seconds: A younger me had once dwelled upon calling upon my First that was to be the prelude to The Second and The Third. Alas! The second end was quite as swift and a quarter less painful. St. Valentine made Pink the new black and if for some reason this entire paragraph made you scratch your head, it was a note to self.

Of a time celebrating the future through pictures: Little feet patter, little hands talk until those little lips learn how to articulate. Little sounds became legible and we spoke through pictures. His name then became Robert Paulsen.

Of time pursuing the official: Slow motion running, Business lounges and Portuguese kissing fests,all for charity. We wore suits and danced the Blackberry song with iPhones until the epiphany “There is more” and then the epitaph “There IS more”. “how you doin?” wink!

Of time for continued slow motion running: ‘I am jack’s funniest joke’, Tyler would say. SoI did run and run until my muscles burned and pumped battery acid; and then Iran some more. However, the ultra-slow-motion cameras gave me time in between commercials to grab that Gatorade and rehydrate. 

Of time appreciating Variables:The variable that cries, The variable that lies, The variable that pouts to The Variable that shouts, The variable that can run when The variable reaches for the gun, The variable that points to the sack to The variable that sends me that text back.

I see you. I know you. I thank you.

You have forever entertained

To some constants that made me smile and I shall rib on you, every un-walked mile.  

Of time spent half-spent: A friend found love. I smiled. A friend lost love. I smiled. A friend celebrated love. I smiled. “I have three friends?” said that surprised inner voice. I smiled.

Of time spent in the pursuit of happyness: As I settle down to another arbitrary cycle of man-made monstrosity I look around to see six smiling faces I love, some I want to see smile some more. I see home. I see ‘life’ that now has a whole new meaning.

I know some of it will not survive but all of it will live; in me.

Smile Mr World for all you have to do is ….

Rest Counter. 

Count: Arbitrary number 13. 

Wink!