Wednesday, September 20, 2006

the silent night

With both hands clutching my hair and my head bent, my eyes were restlessly following the intricate design of the tablecloth. A glimpse of the passing waiter’s apron stole a part of the table from my vision. I recklessly turned and blurted – “A cup of coffee please.”

I was taken aback to see a beautiful girl in an elegantly simple evening gown standing there, equally alarmed. For a few moments we just stared at each other – both of us stunned at my outburst. Her smile finally broke the awkward silence and she daintily went and sat at the table ahead. I was still in a state of shock. I caught up with reality, rose and went to the next table to apologize. “I am very sorry. I mistook you for the waitress.” My words were slow and abrupt and it seemed like each word touched her sparkling eyes, felt her soft cheeks and then reached her ears. She patiently heard me with a benign smile and nodded. She had a sweet face that reminded me of a flowing river – full of life, calm and soothing.

I didn’t know what to say next. This time her touch broke the silence. She touched my hand and pointed to the opposite chair. Her face and smile had enchanted me completely. Her sharp nose was small for her face but it made her look cute and innocent. I realized that I was deeply attracted to her. I also sensed, or perhaps imagined, that she liked me too.

I was about to say something when she lifted her finger, pointed to her mouth and shook her wrists. She could not speak! She pouted her lips and squeezed her eyes as though sad about her condition. I clasped her hands with mine. I wanted to speak, thinking it would entertain her. But I felt her eyes asking me not to speak. I felt that her language of silence was richer than mine and we were communicating with an immeasurable tenderness. I was mesmerized by her, enslaved by her lively eyes, motionless lips, tantalizing fragrance and reassuring silence.

She held my hand and led me out to the balcony. Sounds of lapping waves were dancing wildly in the soft light of the full moon. The moonlight seemed enthralled as it touched the bubbling whispers of the sea. Silently absorbing the intoxicating beauty, we held each other closer and kissed. Her passion was as tender as her smile. Under the moonlight, we made love in a dream like delirium.

When I woke up, I thought it was all a fantastic dream. But then, I could smell her fragrance on my self. I looked around and couldn’t find her anywhere. I ran down to the portico and saw her entering a car. I almost called out her name and I realized I didn’t know it. And then, I heard her talking to the porter! The bewilderment at hearing her voice shook me from within. A streak of worry passed over her resplendent face as she saw me. The car roared away filling my shock with smoke.

I stood watching the car with my vacant eyes, my mind confused and numb. The car stopped at a distance and I saw the driver running back. He came to me, handed a sheet of paper and ran back. I felt I was in the midst of a mysterious intrigue. I watched him running back to the car and drive away. The note explained it all. It was as simple as that – “I didn’t want words and our lives to come between us.”


Sunday, September 17, 2006

Excerpt from 'Trainspotting'

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life.

But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you've got heroin?

People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget - is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid. Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you're still nowhere near it. When you're on junk you have only one worry: scoring. When you're off it you are suddenly obliged to worry about all sorts of other shite. Got no money: can't get pished. Got money: drinking too much. Can't get a bird: no chance of a ride. Got a bird: too much hassle. You have to worry about bills, about food, about some football team that never fucking wins, about human relationships and all the things that really don't matter when you've got a sincere and truthful junk habit.

The only drawback, or at least the principal drawback, is that you have to endure all manner of cunts telling you that -
"No way would I poison my body with that shite, all they fucking chemicals, no fucking way."
"It's a waste of your life, Rents, poisoning your body with that shite."
"Every chance you've ever had, you've blown it, stuffing your veins with that filth."
"Get off that stuff, Rents and get a job. It's not as bad as it looks. While you're here, you don't fancy buying a cooker, do you?"

Swanney taught us to adore and respect the National Health Service, for it was the source of much of our gear. We stole drugs, we stole prescriptions, or bought them, sold them, swapped them, forged them, photocopied them or traded them with c ancer victims, alcoholics, old age pensioners, AIDS patients, epileptics and bored housewives. We took morphine, diamorphine, cyclozine, codeine, temazepam, nitrezepam, phenobarbitone, sodium amytal dextropropoxyphene, methadone, nalbuphine, pethidine, pentazocine, buprenorphine, dextromoramide chlormethiazole.
The streets are awash with drugs that you can have for unhappiness and pain, and we took them all. Fuck it, we would have injected Vitamin C if only they'd made it illegal.


Sunday, September 10, 2006

The Parting

I was sitting in my verandah with a book on my lap staring at my dreamy eyes that were looking at the refreshingly clear blue sky. I could see birds gliding near the horizon – birds trying to fathom the depth of the sky, moving higher and higher, dissolving in the sky and emerging again from a speck. While the book was fluttering its pages to catch my attention, I heard another flutter.

My friend, the gray falcon, flew into the verandah and sat beside me. Had she flown out of my mind or did she fly in through the window? There she was in flesh and blood and it was a delightful surprise! We had not met many times – she had the habit of flying in and out of my life at her own fancy. I remember the first time we had met – we had struck an instant friendship. There was an ineffable aura of warmth and openness when we were together. As she sipped water from the bowl, memories of our previous meetings – few and fond – flashed through my mind.

She: You have become older!
I: Yes, I have! And you look better than before!
She: I’m enjoying my flight more than ever. In the last two years I have seen new lands and met new families. Nowadays, I’m flying with a family that’s very simple and easy to live with! Indeed I’m happy with them!

She winked and added, “They are not complicated like you and me!”

I: How I wish I could fly!
She: It sure would be nice if you could. We could have spent more time together. But, men can’t fly because their minds are too full. They don’t “let go”. Flight requires freedom.

I pondered over the meaning of that esoteric statement. She was flying in and out of the window meeting other falcons who were passing by. We talked, as usual, about life, philosophy and flight and of old times and common friends. A falcon’s face is not too expressive but she could laugh. We had a meal together and later, I walked behind her while she flew ahead. It was symbolic of the past when she had led me to unknown directions. We returned and sat quietly in the verandah.

She: This is probably the last time we’ll meet. It’s sad.

There was a melancholic quiet when she said that. I tried to fill the silence with hope.

I: Life is long and strange. You never know how and when our paths may cross again.
She: You are a man and I am a falcon. We have different lives and different flights. And, today when I fly, I don’t know where I’ll be going.

A quaint thought passed my mind. I imagined the two of us meeting after many, many years and spending the last few years of our old age together. It was an amusing picture – a gaunt, toothless, hunched man with a walking stick and a drooping falcon on the shoulder!

She: I have to leave now.
I: Can’t you stay longer?
She: What is the use? I have to leave anyway!

And she flew away once more. Her flight was elegant and enchanting. Her flapping wings soon became a spot that disappeared in the clouds. But the spot started growing and flew in my mind for hours. The breeze blew her dropped feather onto my feet. I looked at it wistfully and thought, “My dear friend, I’ll miss you. Hope you have a good life ahead!”

Many birds visit my house. Most are scared of me. Some like me and talk to me. But only a few leave a nest behind. When they come and fly away, they leave a disquieting void in the nests. But slowly, their nests get filled with memories, and life goes on…

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