Concubine

Cacophonous overtures.

Glib whispers.

Puerile affection.

Drifting impulse.

Blunt dagger springs impromptu.

Stealthy flourish of hopelessness.

Oozing out with eventful failures.

Memories hardly a remnant.

The Moment Story

Once Upon A Time:

The constellations seemed to smirk at each other. Each one trying to belittle the other one with its pattern. Such was the pattern in their behaviour.

It was midnight and it was the exact same beach. Same pattern. Ann sat there by the shore taking a final look at the stars. They were there at the exact same place as envisioned. Same pattern. And mocking each other. "It does work", she thought.

A tear made a quick appearance on her sand swept turquoise eyes. The heart felt the deep murmur. Hesitation. But she could not let this moment go. She had earned the moment.

With a lot of conviction, she finally turned her neck and looked behind. The corner of the iris felt the presence of a very familiar figure. Her father. He was right there. Pitching up the tent in the white sand. In the Maui sand. At the best beach she had ever known.

It was the moment. With the only man she had ever loved.

She mustered the courage to get up and ran up to the same man with a 12 year old gait.

A Long Time Before Once Upon A Time:

Ann ran to her father and tugged his leg. There was an unknown fear in her eyes.

"What happened to my princess?"

Multitude of tears billowed down the cheeks. He sensed something wrong. She had never cried before. Ever. Confusion enveloped him. But he knew why. In an impulse, he lifted her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

That feeling, that warmth calmed Ann. A few sniffs. It was calm at the beach. They were there alone. At the best beach in the world on a wonderful moonlit night with clear skies.

"You okay, my darling"

"Why did God take away Mommy, Papa?", she whispered still in his arms.

He hesitated. A spasmodic spasm. He patted Ann gently on her back.

"Papa, will you ever leave me?"

He hugged her. He kissed her. He whispered back.

"Never, my child. Never."

That feeling, that warmth.

Indeed, it was a great moment. The best for Ann.

A Few Moments After Once Upon A Time:

Ann ran up to her father and tugged his leg. There was some unknown happiness in her eyes.

"What happened to my princess?"

"Papa, I just want to say that I love you a lot"

An angelic smile beamed on his face. In an impulse, he lifted her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

"Now my 12 year old has grown a lot. Has she been watching a lot of Hollywood?", he retorted back at her playfully, still in his arms.

"Papa, you are the greatest person I have ever known. I waited for this moment all my life, this very moment to tell you this - that I love you a lot."

He found all this a bit bewildering. Confusion earmarked the wrinkles on his face.

"Woah woah woah! What is my little child saying? Are you ok, darling? Is everything alright? Tell Papa what is happening?"

"I do not have much time, Papa. All I need is a tight hug", she whispered.

With that she lunged deeper into his arms and cried.

A Few Seconds Before Once Upon A Time:

The entire world is watching. A loudspeaker blurting.

"The countdown is about to begin. Our winner, the 87 year old Ann MacMahon has just entered the chamber. And is about to embark on her 5 minute journey. We wish her luck."

"5...4...3...2...1..."

The Melanin Story

She counted the tower of small change. One final time. Every bit, trying to make sure, her handful of math knowledge using the fingers doesn't go wrong. Her lips mumbling all the while to serve as an accomplice. Cuteness prevailed. Finally came the last trinket adding the long awaiting smile on her gleaming face. She had saved enough to procure the magical potion. Gathering all in a small handkerchief, the 10 year old ran out of the tarpaulin shack. Muddy puddles aside and a jump over the sewage drain later, she was on her way to happiness. A few huffs. A few puffs. There she stood, in front of the general provision store. She recollected the moment she saw the ad on that rickety TV. The round faced owner returned a suspicious glance at a dark child in tattered clothes holding a funny round piece of cloth. 'What?', he thundered. She bravely marched ahead and handed the pouch of change. 'One Fair and Lovely, please.'

At the same time, Jason and Philip felt the tyres below them hit the tarmac. They were in Mumbai, the Slumdog city. A city they had heard so much about - very much like home, New York. For Jason, this was a big moment. Two months of internship and he was already flying with his superhuman boss to new places to handle new clients. His hard work was surely paying off, but his admiration and respect for Philip had been growing consistently; so much so that he considered Philip to be his mentor and a father-figure. Philip adjusted his suit and tie. Extracted his LV briefcase from the cabin. A few moments and they find themself at the immigration security counter. A simple smile at Jason and an intense security check for Philip later, they arrive out of the terminal, in the grimy heat. Suddenly came a huge barrage of men rushing towards them. Taximen. Tuk-tukmen. Or automen as they refer locally. All after them. No, wait. After Jason, who was shrugging them off. The show has just begun for the black Philip.

The duo reach Film City soon. John Abraham was shooting for an ad film there. Get two tones lighter and be confident. Get Garnier. A cool crore for just a few hours of work. Later that night, he thanked his racist stars that he was born gora. He also thanks all the bigoted Indians for their obsession for 'Fair and Handsome'.

Next to the 'Fair and Handsome' ad in today's Times reads an interesting article. The Indian community in Sydney labels the Australian people as inherently racist. Street protests are earmarked for the day. Reports suggest that this has been triggered after a series of muggings and robberies (3 in all) which featured Indians as victims. However, the police have confirmed that they have no concrete evidence that race was a factor in those incidents.

Leaving aside the newspaper, the mother expectantly waited for her son. The time read 7pm and 'they' should be here soon. The able son and his to-be bride. The bride that she had never seen. An MBA from IIM and working in a top notch MNC with a seven figure pay. Now why would this woman say to the same able-bodied son an hour after: 'Beta, but she is not sundar, she is kali...'

A commercial in the middle of the 7pm show: Two men, one with light skin and the other with dark skin stand on a balcony overlooking a neighbourhood. The dark skinned guy turns to his friend and says, 'I am unlucky because of my face'. His light skinned friend replies, 'No, because of your color. Take this'. He hands a whitening cream. Soon, the darker skinned actor is shown several shades lighter and he gets the girl he always wanted.

Maybe, you are watching that commercial and are about to begin a game of chess. So why not start with a black move?

Sunday Diary

The snooze hit me. Sunlight should generally percolate in. But being Bangalore, there is a reasonably good wager between the sky gods that no one comes remotely close to guessing the climate. Ablutions and musings apart, what else was left to do. Garam chai, TOI, boiled eggs, raagas and feeding the fishes.

Carl Fredricksen wanted to hate that morning. The retirement home agents had rang the doorbell and were carrying that obnoxious 64 watt smile. And what a mockery he made of them. The house was afloat in mid-air in no time and he was off to fulfil the dream - Carl's and Ellie's. A home right near Paradise Falls in South America at the top of the precipice. The journey had just begun and the thousand balloons bloated away towards the cumulus clouds.

Ahha...UP seems fun. I was very sure of procuring that tabooed single ticket. Thanks to my ever dependent bike, I reached Inox the moment the kids were getting accustomed to the dark hall. C'mon Pixar: hold me, thrill me, kiss me and yes kill me.

Russell - the wilderness explorer, Kevin - the bird and Doug - the dog, tag teamed to beat Muntz, the haughty explorer.

Smile. Pixar never ceases to astonish.

When Kafka Tamura woke up, hazy lights passed by the window. He was still a few hours away from Takamashi station. Yes, he was the strongest 15 year old in the world. But the future was uncertain. Nay, he was strong. The bus entered a bylane by the highway and announced a 20 minute break. An hour still left. And that is when he met Sakura, the petite lady.

Ummm...now what? Ummm...fortunately, the backpack contained Murakami's 'Kafka on the Shore'. Ummm.... Jayanagar 4th block CCD. Empty. Outside. By the ledge. Cloudy skies. Tree lined avenue. Hmmm.

Nakata was dumb. He was talking to Mr. Otsuka, the black cat. The cat seemed pretty annoyed that a human could converse in its language. But that was the only special skill Nakata had. After the childhood accident, he had mutated from an fairly intelligent kid to the dumbest 'thing' around. He could never spell, read or write after that and was surviving on the 'sub city' from the Governor. Now, he was old. Today, he was looking for Gomu, a lost cat. Mr. Otsuka had never seen Gomu, but wished Mr. Nakata the best.

I sipped the warm delicate frothy cappuccino (yes, I just used 3 adjectives here). The flavor of the those drenched coffee plantations levitated in my head. Looked around. A bittersweet couple resolving their issues. A couple on their second date (no way it was their first). The coffee felt let's say, misty. Group of teenie-weenie friends who am sure watched Friends all day. The sandwich came. A guitarist and his sycophant friend who went gaga over his unskilled skills. Enough. Back to the book.

I was blogging after a long time. Maybe this is a book on my life. Maybe, there is strength to be gained from the wandering aimless life, I am managing to live. Maybe, every moment of this day is captured somehow in the dark wee hours of the night. This time - by me.

I biked home. As I pedalled back, I was thinking of the pressure cooker I had just bought. Hopefully that will enlighten me and take me back to the good ol' culinary days. 'Into Thin Air' for 50 bucks was another great deal. The mind kept wandering. A thought crossed my digressing mind. Why not blog the day's events? Sometime in the wee hours...by me.

Balance

The 45 Minute Story

I boarded the bus. It was a Volvo this time. Whatever comes first has been my motto; the regular rag-tag diesel munching bus or the smart sleek red cold one, it doesn't matter. Time and destination is the essence. (Albeit, there are times when the journey matters more than the destination; but in Bangalore, it is healthy to give up that ideal.)

The transporter welcomed me. With indignation. Without a seat. It was fine for me. All I needed was a fine cozy corner to spend the next 45 minutes standing. How accomodating could the corner I found be, with the cold air blowing right above me. I glanced at the dial on my cellphone. 9.30 am. Soft but a determined sunlight bursting through the glass onto me, where it died a frozen death. Reconstructing the final moments of its demise philosophically took me a minute to decipher. 44 minutes remaining. I should have carried a book, I thought.

I surveyed the people around me. A genial gentleman stood right next to me, balancing via the top handle. Had an extremely ill-fitting dress sense though. Now don't get me wrong. But I'd never wear a Hawaiian-beachwear-blue shirt to go along with teal trousers. In such a eclectic dress, I'd also rather not wear light brown 800 bucks worth sneakers (well, disregard the price, not the sneakers though). To top it off, would I carry a leather suitcase, which had the hallmark of a top notch brand (Can't reveal the brand as I am not brand conscious)? 

Ticket please, a square jaw mumbled from somewhere. Turning around, a square jaw-faced guy who also had a square face gave an appealing look. Or was it impatient? Difficult to guess, but I think it was more the latter - the way he eyed me suggested that. The conductor who is supposed to be conducting is indeed conducting - impatiently. Majestic, I said. As I reached out for the wallet, a strange question mark took over my brain cells (the Riddler types!). Was the term "conductor" defined for the bus waala type or for the musical symphony? Not that I care. But I wanted an answer. Now. Etymology gave me hope. Latin gave me hope.

Meanwhile, the appealing dude continued to get irritated by me and before he could lambast me, I gave him the perfect change he always aspires for. And boy, how thrilled he was. That cherubic smile reflected that (ok, cherubic is for kids - but he gave a kid-getting-a-lollypop look, so!). I was the ideal passenger. Yay!

And then a bigger yay. Or maybe a gasp. As she boarded the bus. A breath of fresh air. Scented by the glory of Ponds and a dash of uhhh - which perfume could that be - frankly, I dunno - not good at perfumes you see. The thin kohl, the absolutely straight pitch-black shimmering hair, the rustle of the green bangles, the art laden droops from the ear... (some 10 other things, which cannot be revealed for lack of space)... yada yada yada. She found the immediate corner next to mine. Yay! She surely saw me...maybe from the corner of her eye. Ohh, she also was...yada yada yada. I maybe swooning right now to everyone's embarassment, but she really was...yada yada yada. The next moment, she broke my heart. Out came her cellphone, the glimpse of which bought a lissome smile on her face. Eagerly, pressing the answer button, she started eyeing the non-existent horizon dreamily. That was it. I was always late.

Thank the Volvo god, that a wail hailed the end of this ignominy. There she was. A two year old, who understood me so well and had to feel hungry right then. Enveloped in pink, she was the cutest thing ever. To tell you something as a matter of fact, babies have this wonderful social sense of getting the maximum attention. Either they should just smile at every possible grown-up or wail the loudest in a radius of 20 meters. Whatever they choose, sympathy is garnered. Food is gathered from all directions - cake pieces, biscuits etc. Smiles are handed for free. That way, I was able to see the different side of all the mostly sad morose faces who basically were as bored as me - or were as bitchy as me. (Am I really bitching? I thought I am just describing life the JD Salinger way).

The wail continued. The genial gentleman was actually too nice, smiling uninterruptedly at the baby - my apologies to him, probably he is some hot-shot fashionista deciding to travel than being chauffered. The conductor kept conducting in his cherubic manner. The...the...the girl was still dreaming...with the phone to her ear.

I looked at the dial. Still 30 minutes to go. I turned a lil bit and moved my attention the other side.

Who's next?

Prison

It moves with blistering speed. Sting. The joviality cannot last long. Whack. It has been splattered. Death.

The night is calm. Blood oozes out. Won't make matters worse.

Outside, a mongrel howls. The eternal cacophony had died down, but could never be silenced. The hernia will continue within. Lowest common denominator pain.

The eyes can continue to waffle around. Nothing would act as a soporific.

The thin luminescence is thin enough. The chains are too strong though. A light strand of the foul odor enters the lungs and tries to choke the senses. Rather it was already too desensitizing.

Claustrophobic.

4x7. That's all the space humanity needs. To suffer. To repent. To be brutal. To kill.