half-past

No, it was of no use - I had not changed, and never would.
There was a soft spot in my nature, a strain of weakness, a
sensitivity that would never harden. All that I longed, and
had striven, to be - cool and stoical, detached and aloof, a
true Spartan - was beyond me. Marked ineradicably by my
singular childhood, by an upbringing in which too many women
had participated, I was, and always would be, the victim of
every sentient mood, the unwilling slave of my own emotions.

The last few lines of A Song of Sixpence by AJ Cronin, my most favourite writer in the whole world. Possibly because of these lines itself. It rains today. And I sit here trying very hard to shrug it all off and slowly, calmly collect the scattered pieces.

flush

What if, we forget the baggage.
Forget the floods.
Forget the stairs.
Forget the silent accusations. And the loud ones.
Forget the open window that used to let the rain in.
Forget the half-complaints. And the insecurities.
Forget the loud, echoing laughter, every 21 seconds.
Forget the lamp with the face on it.
Forget the trembling hands that ruined that shot.
Forget the millions of shared cigarettes.
Forget being pressurised.
Forget the mobile ring tones.
Forget the first conversation.
Forget micro-emotions.
Forget the bad hair days. Or the 35 minute morning regime that follows.
Forget the lyrics.
Forget the nicknames.
Forget the cooking.
Forget the anklets.
Forget the still, half-read Marquez.
Forget the carefully maintained soft board.
Forget the tear stained afternoon after Cinema Paradiso.
Forget the first photograph in Goa.
Forget the shouting eyes.
Forget what people said.
Forget the badly made ginger tea.
Forget the muted whispers over a long distance call.
Forget Bill Watterson.
Forget the t-shirt.
Forget the lies. Forget the truth.
Forget contentment.
Forget the marathon with bare feet.
Forget the unanswered mails.
Forget the jokes. Or the faces that came with it.
Forget existentialism.
Forget the red and black raincoat.
Forget the love. Forget the blind hate.
Forget the first time. Forget the last time.

What if we forget everything. And meet for a cup of coffee.

a little chicken, a little courage

I had a conversation. After a thousand odd years. It lasted six hours. And will probably remain and fossilise in my head for another thousand. Provided I am mummified of course. To excited future excavators, relax. There are no curses for defiling my tomb. Just be a little careful of my spine. I have one. Unlike most in my era.

I return to the conversation. I still remain excited and stimulated even after 48 hours have passed. That can be attributed to the fact that I remain an asocial being. Seldom going beyond my call of duty to entertain or be entertained. I have realised (with much disappointment) that I don't really need people around me. I am a tremendous socialiser, I agree. A great hit amongst goats of all ages. And yet, in the last year I have infrequently found myself alone in bars and pubs, quietly drinking the evening away. I drink fast. I tip heavy. And I leave without a fuss.

Besides most of my conversation at work is the same. The same words, the same contexts, the same frustrations, the same stock images, the same scripts, the same headlines, different clients. Hence, a real conversation with a real person is like a big deal, really. Add to that, the fact that the person in question, is a petite, attractive woman with the most revealing eyes in the world and you are like the cat. With that bird inside of you.

We spoke a lot. Mostly religion. The politicised nature of religious hierarchy. Of Christ. Of Buddha. Of Allah. Of Rama. Of history. Of science. The evolution of man through a series of happy co-incidences. Of karma. And, lastly us. A passionate (and often, heated) exchange of two lonely people caught with each other, out of a selfish need to be heard. To be with someone. If only for a few hours, before reclining to our respective shells. Where we sleepwalk the rest of the week in. With rude words thrown in for good measure.

And we are stubborn. Both of us. In our rights and wrongs. But there's a marked respect. And in another world and time could possibly have been lovers. Some of what she said was pretty preposterous though. And I wouldn't subscribe to them even if God told me to. Though she is way closer to Him than I am.

I had prepared some chicken. And when most people were being attacked by mutants or cost accountants (or both) in their sixteenth nightmare, we finally got down to eating it. She loved the chicken, she said.

The conversation continued. Unhindered. Through the chomp and clink of dinner.

And yet this is not about the conversation. In our little lives we have played out many wars. The debris lies there still. Motionless and scattered in unnamed ghost towns of the soul. Though we may not be prepared yet to sweep them clean, both of us still reached out to each other. With affection (though she claims to be unaffected by it). With trust. With longing. With desire. And though somewhere I am sad that she wasn't really mine on this ocassion, I know that one evening she will be. And I hope she returns. Not just once. But again and again.

Because with time, we will move on. To other people. To love. To family. To dependency. To routine. But I don't think I will ever be able to forget the soft request that melted my heart the first time.

And those eyes.

Cartoon: Off the Mark by Mark Parisi. But you already know him, don't you?

the last bout

In 15 days time, the year will melt. That's when you will probably be doing something stupid, romantic, nostalgic or pathetic. With or without your loved ones. In a new place or some stranger's log cabin that you will never go back to. If you are lucky you will get stoned, attacked by lesbians and win a lottery the next day. And will also have a fantastic new year's story to share with nervous colleagues in hushed voices.

I remember my post from a year back. Almost exactly at this time. I was busy trying to wrap up work and make arrangements for our trip to Goa. And it was good. Or so I thought. Too pre-occupied with feeling good to smell the first fumes of discontent. Too consumed with gratitude to hear the noises she was making. I often wonder how it was for her. I haven't really asked her. Did she start hating me then? Was she merely tolerating me? Was she listening? I don't know. It's time I stopped caring. At least, that's what everyone seems to be saying.

Thus started the year. And it feels like a thousand days since. A thousand days, memorised and logged with a detailed, accurate account of events. That I really don't want to relive. But not forget either. I owe myself that much. I have spent a lot this year. On booze. On unnecessary stuff that rots in my frig. On gadgets. On trying to create memories. On people that I thought would stay on a little longer. On freshly washed linen. Things that have managed to keep me distracted. One minute at a time.

It's Sunday. And I am at work. Working on yet another fashion campaign that's going rapidly downhill. Waiting for the last fortnight of the year to drain out. The year has been mostly terrible. Though I haven't bitten a dog. Or been to jail (not once this year, honest), I have been found wanting in most situations. Exposed and without an answer. So I let up my guard. And fight myself with a helpless, involuntary sense of humour.

Some days I am Woody Allen.

Cartoon by Paul Soderholm.
Courtesy www.gnurf.net. Check him out. He's awesome. Really.