The first touch

There was a moment of hesitation, a tentative movement. And then, he let go. She reached out to him and he felt a dusty, dormant string within him, untouched for ages, plucked. A touch connected two fingers and broke a silence that had been stinging him unknowingly. It stirred something; like an uncoiling of a spring. In a flash, he saw two springs coiling together and his life getting tinged by the fragrant color of her being. It was a strange feeling of another presence. Like a tactile expression of abstract life previously unimaginable. It gave birth to a desire for togetherness that he had earlier found whimsical, absurd. That two lives could connect and feel each other with such a mysterious intimacy was inconceivable. He felt he could see life through the mirror of another vision. Perhaps it was an illusion and that illusion necessitated her presence.

The flash of colors that sang inside made him aware of an utter loneliness within him. Its these rare beautiful moments when we deeply relate to someone that make us aware of the empty passages of life in between. The contrast deepens the void. The daily din of life desensitizes us, cons us into living. Her touch was a momentary celebration of a liberating death. Life has befriended time. Beauty and death still belong to the glorious realm of timelessness. Like a sponge we absorb life drop after drop. A hand comes along and squeezes the sponge - there is a fleeting glimpse of harmony, a soothing emptiness that itself sucks in life and life gushes in.

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…

Early morning

A cold beautiful morning melts on the quiet buds of my thoughts. The suppressed crooning of the tender breeze bathes my skin. I wake up and look out of the window. Just inhaling the sight around me is divine, blissful. Twittering birds that dissolve in their camouflage. Moist grass catching the enchanting first rays of sunlight. I look at a large drop of water sitting like a pearl on the upper edge of my window. It has swallowed the sky and I look at the clouds floating inside it. As I open the window further, the drop rolls down slowly. I can see it letting go of the sky and consuming, one after another, the trees, the hut beside, and my finger nails. Like memories, they coagulate inside the drop and vanish. The drop falls on the ground and spreads to engulf the blossoming of a flower above. The liquid flower flows in the spreading drop, mingling with sunshine, yawning and stretching, changing colors and shapes with a fluid effortlessness. In that fantastic mirage, the flower and the water live together and move with the rhythm of the sunlight, feeding on the ground and slowly fading away. In an effort to save them, a drizzle begins. The sweet smell of rain wafts into me and settles on the stillness of my mind. I see the colors of the flower rise up against the rain, crystallizing in every raindrop. The rain destroys the solidity of the surroundings - the hut, the trees and the hills around. They become shimmering silhouettes of delicate, dancing colors. The world around me looks gentle, vulnerable and tremulous - like a nascent being.

The Final Intercourse

He was delirious with exhaustion. His heart was beating wildly as he lay with his back kissing the dry grass, his hands outstretched beside his head and his legs held together as though in a vice. Despite the heat and noise, his mind was comfortably numb and was moving incoherently through absurd lanes of his mind. The sun was streaming mirages into his head - a bed cozily tucked below a dark, damp staircase, a garden surrounded by snow clad mountains, previous moments of intimacy that he had never found in his conscious memory…

She was lying atop and had the serene look of conquest in her eyes. She was panting and her nails were quietly caressing his bare chest drenched in sweat. Her legs were on his legs - perfectly superimposed – twitching now and then, seductively, through the shreds of his trousers. Her naked skin displayed the resplendent vigor of youth.

Their breath coincided in a swift, tired rhythm. His eyes were closed and hers were intensely awake. In the midst of the blistering sunlight and arid land, the two of them made a perfect picture of raving wildness and intolerable hunger.

At a hazy distance in the plains, she saw hyenas approaching. Without further delay, she dug her razor sharp incisors into his stomach and devoured his entrails. A strident wail melted in the vastness of the plains as her tail fondly stroked the spattered blood on his legs. Other lionesses and cubs had joined her and were nibbling at his toes and outstretched hands.

Of, relating to, occurring in, or appropriate to winter - Lila

When I look at Lila now, I wonder how I had ever fallen in love with her then. She is talking about things which I don’t want to hear now. She is telling jokes and laughing and I am responding by smiling my arrogant smile – only to let her imagine that I am with her in the conversation. Perhaps she knows that I am not listening and she doesn’t care either – she never cared anyway. I don’t even know why I came here when she called me. Despite all that had happened between us, I have come. Her face has not lost her radiance; she is still as attractive as she had been. But, it’s lost. The feeling just isn’t there. I actually feel strange at the thought of my sitting and talking to her. But, that’s what I am doing. I feel disgusted at myself and the fact that circumstances have led to this. I really don’t know how to describe it. I have thought about it for about six years now – the thought of how it happened almost made me crazy.

After those two months, I always loved her only in her absence! Or, perhaps I only loved those two months – the time, the place, the atmosphere, her. But I loved those two months after those two months…

Her sweet smell used to drive me mad. The soft, freezing nights, fog fragrant with blooming jasmine - enchanting and still vivid in my memory - Our first train and jeep ride; the mellifluence of her voice; our walks together in beautiful moonlit nights –
when we discussed dreams, philosophy and coffee! Her special treats only for me; her relief when I came alone to meet her without my friends; chocolates for attending her concert; her calling my name aloud in her shrill voice; our emails which determined when we would meet next and where – despite the fact that we met at the same place everyday and at the same time! Her songs sung only for me and the stars in the romantic quiet of the temple garden; her standing close when I was sitting on the parapet; the warmth of her touch – her hands on my knees; her reading my fledgling writings; her prophecy of my writing, my dreams of her – real and fabricated, her piety and my atheism, our only photo that I lost, my dreams, my dreams, my dreams…

Those two months I didn’t realize what was happening. I was in a trance. Everything had changed. My only pastime was to wait for her evening calls. My only thoughts were the cumulative memories of our togetherness of the previous days. Each day only added more memories. I was dormant, I did nothing – she came and there was magic… everything happened effortlessly – like an intoxicating fog coming from heaven, enveloping my helplessness.

And then, it snapped. The fog lifted. The sun blazed the plains but froze the memories - neatly casketing and locking them up. There was nothing more to be filled and yet there was enough for a lifetime of agonizing recalls. All of a sudden, there was a callous wall between us. We met, but not the same way. We talked of the same things and yet, the feeling wasn’t the same. It was as if the curtain had been suddenly raised and the chilling suspense and sweet anxiety evaporated leaving an annoying vacuum. It was maddening. I just couldn’t figure out what had happened. And my confusion led to bizarre behavior. I acted stupid – behaving like a spoilt child, nagging her sometimes indirectly and often, directly. That furthered the rift.

Life moved fast. It took us to different places, led us to different circumstances. Our paths didn’t meet of its own like the earlier magic. And when forcibly intersected, it only brought to the fore the saddening absence of harmony. All the while, I kept thinking about what had happened. How? Why? What did I do? What did I not do? Each time I met her, I went with an expectation. Outwardly I put on an angry, stoic front; deep inside I wanted those two months back. They never came. I never discussed it with her. It had to happen by magic like in those two months. My conscious efforts in the past had only ruined it further. I tried for two years and then I was sapped out. Hope has a limit.

Love only touches for a moment. And then, nothing lasts – neither love, nor the moment; only memories of the moment – tender and haunting memories.

Once in a while, we meet like today. I don’t like these meetings. Yet, the ghost of hope lurks within, gnaws inside and brings me to her. The safely hidden casket in my heart opens. Those two months flash through my mind along with the absurdity and nausea that followed. I try to keep the latter away from my precious casket. That’s my secret treasure that nobody can comprehend or see – not even Lila. And yet, even while I write this, I am hoping that she sees this and…

Hope never dies. Fortunately, love does! Does it?

BOO

The young boy was sitting with his elder sister on a wayside restaurant. It was a dry, dusty day. They were in the outskirts of the village and arid lands were all around. The vegetation consisted chiefly of dry, thorny shrubs. Once in a while, a vehicle passed them on the road - a state highway - moving towards the city. Every time a vehicle passed them, the dust on the road swirled up and appeared to dance with the tune of the engine, settling down slowly only after the vehicle was out of sight. The midday sun shone with blinding resplendence – not a speck of cloud was visible in the azure sky.

There was no one in the restaurant. After serving them, the waiter, who was also the cook and the owner, had gone to his house as his buffaloes could be heard bellowing for a long time. The boy was looking at her sister as she was scraping the last morsels of food in her plate. There was a playful wistfulness in his demeanor. The girl was chewing the food and the mingled dust without feeling either - apparently. Between two consecutive sessions of mastication, the girl was chattering incessantly in a drawling voice and the boy, without paying any heed was looking at her and day dreaming. He saw a thin red line appearing on her neck. The line was lengthening and encircling her neck. The girl went on chattering without the slightest hint of discomfort or pain.

The thin red line had become a full circle and a liquid – red in color – started oozing out from the line. Flies from the surrounding filth started buzzing around her neck – many of them sitting on that circle and devouring the liquid. The liquid was now flowing like a stream and her neck, below the cut, was completely red. It was like a grand necklace with flies carved into the design. She had been talking without a pause. Then, she let out a sigh, brought her hands near her ears, clasped her head with both her hands and with a soft groan, pulled her head off her body and placed it on the empty plate. A fountain of blood gushed out through her neck and her body fell backwards along with the chair. Blood streamed all over the place and mixed with the filth all around.

The head kept on chattering. The boy was delighted. He let out a yelp of joy, picked up the head of his sister, holding it with the short hair above and went out of the restaurant. He threw the head up lightly. The head went up in the air till his shoulder height and then started falling down. The boy gave a light kick and the head rolled forward into the field, scraping the shrubs as it moved. The boy steadily moved in the fields, kicking the head along. The head chattered incessantly.

Murder?

The wind was howling into his ears. The lashing rain colluded with the wind with a brutal ferocity that was terrifying all earth. From the window, he could see coconut trees swaying helplessly in the cruel, capricious storm. The fierce lightning and thunder could have petrified the bravest of hearts. The storm had been raging for hours now and beloved trees that had provided shelter to many had been uprooted with an unnaturally fierce callousness. The silence of doom was impending in the raucous drama of the elements.

He was staring vacantly out of the window. The stillness of the dark room seemed like the eye of a ravaging twister. His wife was lying on the bed in the middle of the room. The room was like a hospital ward meticulously inserted into a bedroom. There was a strike of lightning and the woman, who was on oxygen from a ventilator, convulsed and her body appeared to be writhing in pain. However, her face was as tranquil as ever. He looked at her impassively and made no efforts to move towards her. She used to have such convulsions frequently and each attach would last only a few seconds. In the last 12 years, this had been the only sign of life in her apart from the relentless, rhythmic breathing. She was in coma.

His face was calm and pale. The dim light in the room did not betray his emotions but the tempest outside was a perfect depiction of what was inside him. His countenance bore the signs of intense decision-making. He had lived with the eerie and miserable condition of his wife for more than a decade. Her rock-solid stillness had frozen all memories of his past life. He saw a dazzling fire-play of lightning that lit the whole atmosphere. He saw rain drops falling like a torrent and coconut leaves swaying like monstrous fans, sweeping all life forms into oblivion.

He walked to the bed and disrobed himself. He flung the blanket that covered his wife and unbuttoned her gown. The icy wind charged into their flesh. He removed her oxygen mask and lay on the bed embracing her limp, unresponsive body. He kissed her lovingly on her colorless, pallid lips and slowly life oozed out of her body. His eyes were full of tears as he lay clasping her death. The strident yells of the wind went on incessantly. With changing directions, the wind brought some rain into the room as well. The thunder was deafening.