About Steven... and me

Sun-proofing, that is one great invention that humanity has to be thankful for. All the world is just a blue-hued blur as you speed past the tanned bare-backs bearing the brunt of the mid-day sun. You do not see the sweat, the tears nor the million hued dreams that fly in the swirling dust outside. Your world is cool, comfortable and cosy. Just as you step out of the air-conditioned car, attendants rush to your aid with umbrellas and a mint-cooler awaits you in the parlour. Life is the same for you, lad born in the lap of Luxury, wherever you are. In some countries you are a majority but in lesser privileged ones, you are a towering minority, the few ravenous mouths that eat up the major chunk of the pie available to hungry millions. I spot you in over-priced malls buying up solitaires the size of a nut, you grin at me from the cover pages of magazines – news-makers you are, you are all around us, but I feel your presence most profoundly in the tears that spring from scarcity, those that flood the huge ridge of inequality you have created. You are our pride and our sorrow. I can pick you out from the teeming many, by the sheen of your dress and the glow of your skin. (both of which have had a price to pay) I pick you out Steven, for this is all about you.

Steven never knew that I was following him, nor did his better(worse)-half. If they had known, they would not have went about spilling oil to their bed chamber just when I had a match lit. It was not the cobblestones in their path nor the walls, that surrounded them as they went about with their dark deeds, which betrayed them; it was their careless mouths which led them to their doom, I just made your voice resound in the streets. He was the fodder that my curiosity fed on. How could someone with a brain the size of a pea earn millions every single day when thousands toil for him in his huge establishments, earning hardly 50 bucks a day? I had to find out. My eyes followed him as he met the bureaucrats in star hotels, as he trudged his way back home; I watched with amusement as his obese wife and overfed children fawned on him with all the love in the world only to curse him behind his back the very next second. His dark deeds made my unblinking eyes clamp shut. Steven made his castles from thousand rupee notes that have a black smudge on them. He was a master at work, snatching every grain of food from the mouths of the hungry millions, stuffing them in his granaries and selling it at prices that even he could not afford to pay. Steven dealt in your hunger and mine; he was the reason for the thousands who die of hunger, for the children who suffer from malnutrition and for the sickle-bearing hands that disappear into oblivion every single day.

As we watched him trample on us to his throne, a mother cried out, “The all-seeing eye is watching, you can't trick Him”. The flood of misfortunes I showered on him began as a tiny trickle; I overheard one of Steven’s confidential chats with a bigwig in the cabinet and I could not resist spilling the beans to all who would listen. The whole nation woke up to his grinning face in the newspapers, to his raspy voice in televisions and radios, I made him a notorious celebrity. In the days that followed a pack of hounds hunted him down and, with a little help from my part, tore away the mask covering his ugly face and made him stand nude in the view of the whole country. Within days Steven’s repute lay in the dust, his castles were razed to the ground. He stood, burning in the nation's ire, wishing me a dire end. I became an obsession for him. He would not speak without searching the surroundings for me, though he never really knew me. Maybe, he hoped that my appearance would give some cue to him, maybe he hoped that I would leap from behind a bush and proclaim that I am the reason for his doom. I was one among the many pairs of hungry eyes that were around him, but he never knew which. All the while I laughed.

Steven smiled, yes, a smile of contention. It was then that realisation sunk in that I am addicted to his tears and that I cannot live without it. That was a shady smile too, I could not help noticing the red rose in the background. So what do I do? The next day morning, mothers all over the nation took care to see that their children did not see the newspaper or television. But for old granddads and grannies, it was a hot topic for their evening discussions. Infidelity is a far greater crime than murder, if not it is undoubtedly the most sensational. You can never say that I never did him a favour; bags packed, his wife and children stood at the doorway and sped away in the only car that he had taking with them what remained of his fortune. His fury found its target in a wine bottle which lay in pieces on the leopard skin carpet in the living room; alas, it could neither quench my thirst for his destruction nor could it douse his hatred for me. As Steven went out on his evening walk people spat on his face, women pointed at him and giggled, his friends acted as though he was just another face in the crowd, he could have asked me then to stop, but he did not, he just cursed me.

Sleep is the greatest luxury, poor Steven, he realised that too late. In the dark he saw my hands groping for him. He heard my voice proclaim all that he never wanted to be known. He felt my gaze wherever he went, he took care not to leave any footprints as he trudged his way to the place that would witness his final showdown. It was somewhere in the romantic mountains, I saw him with a spade digging on and on panting and chanting curses at me. He slowly unearthed a wooden crate which contained a small fortune. Whistle-blower, I proved worthy of that name! As he gloated over this fortune and the possibility of an escape to a better future that it seemed to offer, a siren rang somewhere in the distance and a group of khaki clad police officers appeared on the scene. His face was a picture of enraged helplessness if there is such a condition. The officers dig a bit further and found similar crates and cartons of hidden fortune. Steven is just one thread that has been successfully taken out from a tangled mess of dirty threads. There are many more to come and they might not be so easy to untangle. But I will never stop trying nor prying.

Stevens in our country, this is my voice you hear. Some of your lives may have been touched by me and the others, I might be a recurring nightmare for you. In any case I am as familiar to you as your own self. I am no divine providence who keeps watch over you, no god. I have only one religion: truth and I preach it in every breath of mine. Wrong-doers you are and I will make you suffer. Do not search for me. You will never find me, for your sight is jaundiced by the lustre of gold. You will see me only when you have something known as compassion. You will see me only when you learn to see the millions who toil for you, to provide you the creature comforts you take for granted. I am always with you, though I never stand by your side. You never noticed me, I was by your bedside, on your table, on some mantelpiece, somewhere, I am just an hourglass.

An Eternity of Waiting

She waited by the ocean. In the distant horizon she could see the familiar sails of the boat. ‘Don’t your eyes ever get tired of waiting and watching?’ Boy asks. She doesn’t have any answer; her eyes are still hooked to that same distant point. Boy mumbled something that she could not make out. She knew that everybody thought her to be out of her senses. Nobody saw the ship with its fluttering white sails. ‘One day they will come’, she would say over and over again, every now and then to any person who paused to listen or sometimes even to nothingness, to the passing air.

Rain poured; incessant, dispiriting rain, drenching all those who ventured out devoid of black umbrellas and bleak raincoats. It did not spare those who stayed inside, within the safety of their cosy houses.  It lashed at the window panes, it poured in through cracks, holes, ventilators. The rain spared no one. She still stood there, rooted like a marble statue of the virgin goddess. Rain did not blur her vision, something else did. The rain was not bitter for her, it was salty.

It was by the maple that she always stood, house of squirrels, giver of shade, a grandfather figure to all. The green slowly became a slight orange, then a bit darker, darker. Soon it was a flame of color. The trees looked as if they were on fire. Slowly, one by one at first, then in torrents they began to fall. On that one solitary branch a single leaf still stood, braving all the odds. The songbird perched on the branch and the lonely leaf went down to join the others. For many, hope went down with that last leaf. But there was something green that never drooped nor fell; it was she who still stood waiting, her eyes on the horizon.

The branches of the maple became heavy again. It wasn’t full of green, it was white. Snowflakes adorned the window panes, blazing fires burned in the hearth of each house. Families huddled together, dressed in woolens, near the fire to keep away the cold. Many dreams were buried under the snow and the sleet. The morning next, someone strew salt on the sidewalks and shoveled it all away, the dreams and the snow. Eyes glazed, lips blue, limbs numb, she stood there next to the snowman the children built, by the frozen stretch of water, for her, the fire kept on burning in the hearth of her heart.

The sun’s rays trickled through gaps in the snow. Slowly, the gaps became wider, larger, the world bathed in the glorious sunshine. Green, red, yellow, orange, the earth was blooming in multiple shades. Life seemed to ooze from every grass blade, from the breeze that blew, from the endless chirping of the birds. Children came out of their homes, dressed in bright shades, singing and laughing loudly, their mothers chasing them with bowls of food they refused to partake. They chased the butterflies, smelt the freshly bloomed flowers, and mimicked the songbird’s doleful song. The world was a burst of color; a delightful cacophony of voices, a celebration of the joy of youth, of all things growing. She stood still, her eyes fixed on that point afar. Still, stationary, static…. Wait! The corners of her lips curl slowly, could it possibly be, in a smile?

She stretched out her arm, as if to touch something. She said, her voice hoarse and otherworldly, ‘They are here’. She reached out again, groped the air, her face fell, the smile drooped a bit, she mumbled, ‘Just a bit more. Almost here’. Boy went near her, tugged at her skirt and looked into her bright lively eyes that for some reason seemed full. She said in rapture, “See, I told you they would come! They are almost here”. The boy looks out into the expanse of the blue ocean, sees nothing. He starts to ask where but realizing that it is pointless, shakes his head and moves on, smiling sadly.

Anger, seething, boiling hot, the earth dried and cracked, the leaves drooped, the flowers wilted, the water in the ocean seemed to dry up. Parched tongues, cracked heels, sweaty necks, burning eyes, they crowded around the wells, fought for water. She stood there, near the ocean, that vast body of water, the sight seemed to quench her thirst forever. She held out her arms, hugged someone, kissed the air, laughed at the jokes that others could not hear, blushed at the unseen someone's compliments. The onlookers knew that ‘they’ had finally come for her.

Who were they? Friends, relatives, family? Where had they gone? Why could not the others see them? Where they as real as the blue leaves and the pink trees? They did not know. They saw her smile, her bliss: the thirsty and the angry became pacified, filled with some sort of vicarious joy seeing her return to childhood, to happiness. Now! There she was with tears on both sides of her face, waving her hands as if in goodbye, holding someone in tight embrace. She cried out, ‘Goodbye, I will wait for you. Come back soon’. The thirsty and the angry, the children and the adults got water, salty water on their cheeks. Who was she? Why did she cry?

There, by the accustomed spot, she stood still and pensive, wounds raw, waiting for the next summer, waiting for the warm embrace, for the company she hoped, for her unseen, unheard beloved. Yes, she had something, or rather somebody to wait for, to look forward to and to long for with hunger. The boy went to her, patted her on the shoulder. She turned to him. ‘My sons, they will be back next summer. I have their dinner ready, their beds made. Wait with me for them, won’t you?’ She shivered, she cried, she gripped Boy’s arms tightly. ‘The sails, where are they? The bright sails!? The ship! Where is it? Ah! Is that what I see sinking?’ She fainted, fell into Boy’s arms.

Is it rain? No, it wasn’t, someone was sprinkling water on her face. She starts, leaps out, rushes to her spot, pushes all the onlookers away from her path. Huffing and panting, her frail form looking ready to break any moment, she stood leaning onto the maple tree, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Waiting for the rains to wash her and to immerse her in misery. Waiting for autumn and the impending despair. Waiting for the cold, dreary, bleak winter and the lively spring. For summer to come. Waiting, waiting, waiting….

The Imposed Exile

There is nothing but rubble here. These stones were once much bragged about architectural symphonies. Ah! Something glitters, it dazes me; what is it? A shard, a broken piece of the mirror she used to preen herself in front of. What is that blue? Is it a reflection of your periwinkle eyes? Reflection! you remain, but where is she? What is that piece of wood? Was it not our sideboard which held many a savory she prepared, seasoned with love and care? The life has gone out of them, these bits of material wealth. She was the life; no they were the life. They breathed life into all that was around them; all that we fancied to be ours. Where did they go?

I try to call out their names, my lips refuse to move. I try to move my arm, the pain blinds me; I smell blood, my eyesight fades. I should see them, I should hold them close to me… ‘Get up!’ I chide myself. With excruciating pain in every sinew in my corporal self  I manage to get up. Where are you my dear, dearest? I search for you amongst these bricks, stones, dust; all that remains of the great civilization. Cry out to me, I will pull you out of this mess. Am I deaf ? This silence is deafening in its eloquent clamor. And them, those lovely little cherubs, ours; where are they? Come! come rushing into my arms. They can’t be gone or are they?

I am searching; searching among these lifeless, worthless pieces of junk for you, for my vision, my voice, my life, myself… I want to call out, I want to scream at the top of my voice, screech out their names so that they will come running. My mouth is dry and parched, I am unable to make a sound. Have you taken my voice with you wherever you have gone? Who is pulling me down? Can’t you see I am searching for all that was mine. You should understand how… precious… li’l… mine… life… gg… g..go…

I wake up; no! I should not have slept! Things have changed, days have gone by or even years. Still no sight of them; I am lost, I am dead. One by one the rubbish clears itself. I see boulders being lifted, slowly, with painstaking effort. The rubble is vanishing before my eyes, yet the dust remains. My eyes fill up; it is the dust, yes, it really is. Pang? Why does my heart yearn for that disorder? Those ruins, they did veil my grief. I sought solace in that disorder. They justified my wails. Four walls around me, I feel claustrophobic. Break them down once more! Is that, could that possibly be, footsteps? Grey walls, you do not seem to be as suffocating as you once were. Somewhere I hear laughter ringing, I join in. No! I shouldn’t be laughing. I do not deserve joy in a world that is no longer yours. Bring back that rubble, let me cry! Dolor, make me your child!

I hear voices; concerned voices that inquire about my well being. Go away! I don’t need you. Yes, I do. NO! I DON’T! My eyes have feasted on those dilapidated scenery long enough. They have had their fill. Don’t add baggage to an already leaden heart, I might bend; no, I am sure, I will stoop and fall. Who will embark on a journey that knows not a destination? There comes a time when the boots will have to step off that muddy road. The doors of my vehicle will open to let them, my fellow passengers, out and that toxic silence will set in once more to plague me with its distinct murmurings. Better, I travel alone along this path that many before me have cleared and made less savage. I don’t have that hand to hold, I yearn for a shoulder to weep on. Deny that luxury, stain not him who gives you company.

Indulgence, you have reaped your reward. Here you stand again tasting loss in the dust. Boulders, rubble, twisted iron rods, deja vu.  Pain? In plenty. Been bathing in blood, it ceases to horrify. Two roads before me: one a similar path that brings me back home, the other a complex jungle, sharp thorns and jagged rocks it is sure to hurt. Familiar dilemma? The poet preaches one way, I know the other way well. See the leaves in your branch wither away or let all your sight be a blur. Depressing! I choose to bury myself in this chaos I’ve created for myself. Amongst that rubble, those material remains, I have lost my heart. To seek that bloody vital from amongst this confusion, I have not strength; giving up, I choose to lie in this graveyard where all I hold dear lies. Oblivion! take me as yours, as you have taken mine to be.

Wait! what is that green I see yonder? Sapling! We planted you here, did we not? I see my cherubs, their eyes wide, watching her as she tenderly placed you in earth’s warm womb. I still see her pale, slender fingers patting the mud around you, making sure you were safe and that you would grow. White, dark brown, green. Watered you each day, didn’t we? With love. My little ones; crooned they to you, did they not? Mentoring the foliage, that looked ready to wilt and droop any moment, to look up and face the sun. You! you green plant, you are all that remains of them, of us. I live through you. You are for my sight alone, all your hues are mine, exclusively mine, to behold. Sustain me in your evergreen growth…

The Quest

They looked like angels, gods. Otherworldly, there is no other word that describes their beauty. Auburn hair, bright twinkling black eyes, pendulous lips, dusky complexion, goddess, I fall at your feet. There is none to surpass your beauty. Wait! I see another, (could it be possible) more beautiful than you are? Another! yet another? This is paradise. Gold fountains that squirt pure milk, mounds of heavenly food, downy beds with drapes of silk, birds that sing delightful symphonies, bright eyed does that dazzle you with its magical elegance, smiles all around, no tears, no grief, no poverty, no greed… Surely, this is paradise. Earthquake! in paradise? Why am I shaking back and forth, who calls my name?

Everything is blurry at first. Slowly things come into focus. The dirty tin walls, the grimy opening and the bright ray of sunlight that fights its way through the dust. My vision was obstructed by the imposing figure of Martha, my better half (three quarters, actually). She was yelling at me, waving a rolling pin. Slowly the doleful music of the birds begin to fade, I could make out angry grunts and pitiful wails of hungry children. She was asking me to move my you-know-what. “There is not a single penny in the house, not a bite in the larder, nor a speck of flour. The children are starving. Go, pawn your dead father’s chain if you have to. Don’t you dare come back without food.” She shoved me out of the shanty we six call home.

Perched on a rock, I try to get that beautiful dream back into my pumpkin. Sometimes I wonder why I ever got married. When I was a chap, someone told me I would go places, see sights. Yet nothing happened. My rag-picker dad married his rag-picker son off to a fellow rag-picker’s daughter. (Yeah, we have a pretty decent lineage) The day my dad died, he gave me a thick gold chain he had nicked one fine rag-picking day. To pawn it would be an insult to his honorable memory. I will sell it and get something to feed those stick insects who call me ‘dad’. Yeah, that will do for a couple of months or maybe, another half, but after that? I am sick of this life, I tell you. Born a rag-picker, I will die a rag-picker if I am to stay put in this hell. The angels, the gold, the food, the fountains of milk…

I can see the blue of the ocean behind me, stretching on and on; endless. Suddenly, I notice something I have never seen before, a land that isn’t all green and brown like the others, but gold. Maybe that dream was not just a nightly illusion that visits everyone, but a message, an answer meant only for me. That land I see there is Paradise, I will have angels to take care of me, food to satisfy my years of hunger, milk to quench an eternity of thirst, everything that I need to turn that permanent frown on my burnt and lined face upside down forever. My heart beats like a drum roll on a Republic Day parade. It is not fear; it is the excitement of finally knowing what I want, of knowing a goal for the first time in a life of meaninglessness. Slowly, reason transcends. How will I get there? My heart skips a beat. Will this be yet another unfulfilled dream? No! I won’t let it be. It is the purpose of my being. I will sail to Paradise at any cost, even if I have to drink and drain all the water in the ocean.

I shake my head, slap the clouded old lemon a few times, and try to get it to work properly. In sheer desperation I grab at my chest and I hit gold! My dad’s one noble piece of work; the gold chain! If Martha and her pests are hungry, they can go out and beg. This honorable piece of heirloom will not be wasted on worthless pieces of dirt; I will buy a nice little sailboat, one I can manage by myself. Ha, ha! The angels await, Paradise, here I come. My stick-legs carry me to the market. I sell the ornament and make a small fortune. I buy a few things that will come in handy for the journey. Some food, a jar of the finest wine, a nice and decent pair of clothes and on an impulse a thick woollen sweater and a pair of boots. (Who knows if it snows in Paradise?) Next, I head for the dock. I meet a nice chap there who sells me a little skiff. I spend all my money on that little beauty and include a handsome tip for the chap. I am off to Paradise, why would I need money there? Life there is free like the smelly air here. I wrinkle my nose. Heavens! The smell of this place!

 

Without further ado, I jump into my chariot that will take me to my dream-destination – Paradise! I row on, energetically. My spirit spurs me on, I am unstoppable. I stop to catch my breath, grab a handful of grub, take a huge gulp of that wine and row on. I can see the sky getting dark, night is falling, I do not stop rowing. At some point I might have fallen asleep. When I wake up I can see the land of gold quite clearly, it will take only a couple of hours to get there. I row on with all the strength that is in me. I stretch every sinew of my body to the breaking point. I reach the land of my dreams.

 

My face is wet, washed in a torrent of salty water. No, it is not the water of the ocean; it is mine, my bloody tears! What do you reckon? Tears of happiness? Joy of reaching my destination? The pain of salvation? Bah! To hell with all that! There is gold here, true, piles and mounds of gold. Tiny specks, they are. SAND! A vast expanse of sand, nothing else. And the HEAT! You could fry an egg on my head now. Aaargh! Yeah, I met the first life-form here; it is not a doe, it is a rattle-snake! Is this P-A-R-A-D-I-S-E? I feel a kind of numbness all over my body and a kind of pain deep down. Now I know what it feels like to get your heart broken. Mine isn’t just broken, it has been fist-pounded into fine powder, in a way you can never glue it back together. I weep shamelessly. Why be ashamed when there is nobody to see you in this unmanly act of crying, of converting your sorrow into comforting beads of salty water that cools at least two tiny parts of your face?

I shake myself up; try to cajole myself to move my backside. It is no use crying over spilt milk. I walk on and on. It is miles and miles of sand. I throw away my costly sweater (pashmina, they told me). I rip most of my new clothes off. It is too much heat for me to bear. I am itching to throw away my boots too but I bear the heat in my legs for fear of snakes and the burning sand. I do not know how many times I fainted or how much time had passed. In my solitary march, many a time the sunlight becomes too much for me and I blink. When I open my eyes next, I would be lying on the sand. On one such instance when I rub my eyes and shake the sand off my person, I spot green and long trees laden with some strange fruit. I drag my feet along hoping with the only trace of optimism that is left in me that this isn’t another one of those illusions that haunt me. Every other day I would see springs of fresh water, my thirsty eyes would urge my tired legs to go on and on. My parched lips would wait for the fulfillment of their unquenchable thirst. Yet there will be nothing, just sand and more sand for my eyes to feast upon. No, this isn’t another of those, the green is getting closer. I can make out shapes. There are people there, there are houses and there are some horse like animals with huge lumps on their back. I am relieved.

I reach the pool of water, I lap up water like a dog. A man with a huge handkerchief tied on his head speaks to me in some alien language. I am bewildered. I point to my stomach. He nods. There is no language for hunger. I am provided with those strange fruits. No taste registers in my mouth, I just eat. Even dog meat would suffice to satisfy my hunger. The woman who served me was covered from head to toe except for a rectangular portion that revealed a pair of hawk’s eyes. She said something in that alien tongue. I shook my head. She mimed by rubbing her thumb and index finger. Oh! Money! I do not have anything left. I shrug my shoulders and look to the ground. They throw me out, swearing. Language is no boundary for that too.

I wandered through the market alleys that displayed wares I had never seen. I came by a shop that sold perfumes. They smelled heavenly. I sniffed in deeply and my heart knew at that moment that I had come to the wrong place. I had not reached Paradise, but left it. My nostrils craved for that smell of garbage, of the uncovered sewers, of Martha’s sweat, of the land that was mine. I do not want succulent meat or pure, wholesome milk; some chlorinated water from that ever-dripping tap and dry, unleavened bread that knew Martha’s touch would do. I don’t want this otherworldly music that the chap plays on his accordion; I want the chirp, the irritating chirp of my stick insects, my children. I don’t want gold; I just want to be back to where I was born, to where I belong. I fill my wine jar with some water, trade my boots for some food and start my journey back. Luckily, my little skiff was there by the shore. Who would take it? Who would come here? I start rowing, enthusiastically.

This is a journey to where my heart belongs and not to where it longs to be. It is my land, the paradise I dreamt of. The land of happiness and fulfillment. Happiness of the hourly sorrows, fulfillment of the daily denials. I crave for all that, for that is what I am made of- my element. You complete me, my home-soil. I set upon my final voyage where the destination is the land from where I embarked on this journey to Paradise. And I tell you, I have found it, my Paradise.