Find myself back at my desk. Littered with debris collected over the last 13 days. Dilbert comic strips waiting to be pinned to the softboard, circled birthdays on single calender sheets, panels from other graphic novels, portfolios of bad photographers, freelance assignment bills, old job lists, unsigned vouchers, food bills, beer bottle caps, withered little flags now at half-mast. Every insignificant object has a story to tell. Everything reminds me of something. And that's just in front of me.
What about the wasted wreckage in my head? The fragments of a rainy week that kick started it all. The well-known smell of comfort. The tiny shreds of laughter still ringing in my ears. The tinkle of anklets. The crumpled denims I see each time I open the cupboard. The favourite band that I can't stand listening to now. The side of the bed that no one fights over anymore.
There are stories that are, at best stories. And then there are the ones that forcibly hold you down and pulverize you. Intangibles. Desaturated images that burn the eyes. Bringing you closer to a vacuum that you have been denying to recognize for the last 27 years.
And as the day unfurls with a soft light and a pending job list, all you think about is how to play along with the day so that you don't get hurt. So that your ego doesn't take a beating. So that you don't think about the six trinkets you didn't want to return. To not get disillusioned by the mediocrity that surrounds you. To cocoon yourself from the petty treacheries and betrayals. To quietly play the role of the goalkeeper. Or emulate the silent strength of the rickshaw puller found roaming in the streets of Calcutta.
It's the worst possible form of labour. Man pulling man. But if you look carefully beneath the grimy, sweat-stained skin. Beyond the weak, quivering knee-cap and debt-ridden eyes, you'll find that he's really pulling himself. With a sense of abstract urgency. And attached is a tiny hand bell that he uses to warn the world that he still exists.
Make way.
21 comments:
thats a telling note, neatly put. am not sure about the hand pulle rickshaws though...am unable to get quite what is so demeaning about them. remember this once when i was walking down kalighat - this rick puller stopped me and demanded the time. for some reason, i showed him my watch, to which he said he couldn't read the time and asked me to tell him what it was...
i love calcutta.
and whats that thing about the favourite band?
not demeaning just sad.
"burning with the slow and implacable fires of human desperation".
good post. identifiable.
we all knw its one of the worst forms of human labour .. but at the same time we forget.. that itz one of the ways that the migrant bihari population in kolkata support themselves... nice topic infact very nicely put ...I too enjoyed such rides when I was a kid ..
Stumbled here from Devil Mood's blog.
God--this was so moving.You write so well.But I guess you already know that.
F.
You mean you don't listen to Kastadyne any more? Bad man. Nice post, though...
dharmabum - the favourite band is some strains of music from the past. that has hence become unplayable.
meghna - thank you. though i wonder why you have stopped writing completely. it is i who has(ve) been swamped with work.
anindya - i know what you mean. so did i. but now it seems inhuman.
ps - thank you. i will stumble by yours as well :)
Phish, would you like to check out vipassana? As for the rickshaw pullers, I simply cannot understand how any human can actually sit down on that seat and have herself pulled along like that. I have pictures of fat trumped up women enjoying the ride while the poor man struggles through a flooded street. Your post is beautiful, sad and beautiful.
gaiza - what the f.? or something else:)
da producer - ah. it is not kastadyne that i am talking about. no, never.
smiling dolphin - i really would. but the work is hectic. and hardly get the time to get away. though i have taken to teaching of late. gives me a lot to look forward to. i am glad you liked the post tho'. keeps me going.
phish, i love your style. More please, more!
(and I came from devilmood's too)
you'll find that he's really pulling himself... yeah..you're absolutely right.
Lovely.
Haunted.
Gracefully resigned to your sadness.
Your words are little presents.
The F is obviously the obvious word, said in a nice way. cr=chupa rustom. Sorry - i know these arent standard - must have been lazy that day! :)
I seem to be bringing you a lot of "costumers" - ah if only ;)
I'm glad because your posts really deserve to be read by many. This one is excelent.
hey tagged you. mind?
To not get disillusioned by the mediocrity that surrounds you is painfully hard work...
chrispito - more will come, the work pressure at work is huge.
jarvarm - :)
videoxy - i am glad you feel that way. wish i could do this more often.
gaizabonts - thats path breaking stuff. lazy or not.
devilmood - thanks devilmood and apologies for not being regular.
dharmabum - umm. ok. but i am unsure of what to do next. help?
deepti -tell me about it. i struggle every day. right now too.
There is poetry in the rain -
and the tinkle of anklets -
and there is poetry in your heart.
ahem - can i send you my portfolio?
I am a terrible photog:) I would
fit right in:)
hugs
smiles
back pats:)
havent read anything in a long time...hit the blogwaters, mr phishfish.
miss you!
please post - :)
maddie and meraj - thank you for missing me. really. i dont know what else to say. in jaipur for four days and i didn't get one single call, not even from a telemarketer. felt good. felt weird.
Post a Comment