Have you ever met a psychologist
And done the Rorschach inkblot test?
The gymnast is facing a mirror, I said.
That spook kept his poker face.
I could have told him what Google
Told me to say. C'est la vie.
Inviting straight jacket,
Shooing freedom away. On a whim.
Certain things should not happen together.
For example, saying “I am in love with you.” and
“When I was your age, you were not yet born.”. To be explained later.
It was a lovely day. The first rain of the year,
that too heavy. Autorickshaw still managed to cover the eight kilometres to
office in forty minutes. Only one passing car sprayed water. The first Mumbai drain
water on my face but not in my mouth.
By early evening, it was not so lovely. My boss
wanted me to pack my bags and leave the office. A head-hunter with my resume
had forwarded the same to my company and (bless the nitwit for finding the
right match) to my boss. It took half an hour of fervent begging to keep my
job. I was left a lot like Bond’s drink, shaken and stirred, was it not?
In between that episode, I had got two messages,
both from ‘MIL’. The first said, “My dear son, sorry short notice. Reach Mumbai
dom air pot at 7 pm.” The second said, “7. Airport.”
I told my boss my mother-in-law was coming to
town. He offered sincere condolences and reluctantly reinstated me in my job.
I got to the airport at 7:15. I did not have to
apologize.
“Sorry for troubling you, my dear.”
“Why are you late?”
And, I replied to both, “What are you two
doing here?”
You might feel as lost as I was without a bit of
history.
One, I should not have put their numbers under
the same ‘MIL’. Two, the sweet-sounding one is the remnant of the one who had
to go; and the other, that of the one who left.
It is tough to introduce them better. While my former
better halves do not want to have anything to do with me, their mothers had
their reasons to keep in touch. I remember vaguely that they did not turn out
to be like their daughters. While their daughters were rational and religious,
they were religious and rational respectively. Of course, that would have
helped only if I knew which was which.
Introductions were not required. They knew of
each other in that saga of betrayal. We made our way to my apartment. They sat
at the dining table expecting me to do the needful.
Beguiling, I thought, not realizing how beguiling
it could really be.
I did what I could. I called the third number
under ‘MIL’.
Again, history calls. I was a happy bachelor for
a long time, not before but after my first two forays into matrimony. Then, two
old friends pressured me to upset the steady cart. One was on the wrong side of
50 when he knotted himself to a 30-ish. The other was 40-plus 50-minus when he
entered into coy matrimony with a sub-30. They told me that the old regency
ways were fashionable yet again. Women these days want, they displayed a
classified ad: “a man who can handle himself, cook, manage house; a bit low on
pick-up, a bit high on empathy to compensate; experienced, financially
independent, low on ambition, short of time, company for not too long”. And, my
peers added, “They are exactly what we need.”
I bit that apple. I nearly spoiled the taste with
the afore-mentioned two lines at the start of this report.
My friends were right. My wife is a busy
professional. We see each other when she is in town. She is hardly a bother.
She coaxed me into putting our reproductive material in cold storage. She plans
to use it only in her 40’s when she is ready for that. I found my soul-mate
through her. That is, her mother.
Now, that is a really lovely character. And, it
was her who I called in my time of need.
“Will be there, pronto,” she replied sweetly,
succinctly.
The door-bell rang twenty minutes later. For the
second time that evening, I said, “What are you two doing here?”
I hate to do this but history, once again, is the
need of the hour.
A few months back, my wife surprised me with the
question, “Do you think we should try an open relationship?”
For a moment I forgot that women are prone to
such rhetorical questions.
It was a moment too long because I had blurted
out, “Yes.”
Don’t ask me why I wanted an open relationship.
Men do go to places no man should go to. To cut the story short, she gave a
curt nod.
I have not enquired if she has explored that
realm. It is sufficient, and necessary, to say that I tried my luck online.
On one site where one has to swipe right and
left, I found one match.
Our profiles matched because of the single line
in our bio, ‘Love cooking’.
Our chat was definitely risqué:
-Can’t wait to try it with you.
-Same here.
-Will you come here?
-Your house?
-Where else?
-Of course.
-I will get the kitchen ready.
-You prefer the kitchen?
-Where else?
-Of course.
I went to her house. Her mother opened the door
and told me, “She had to go with her husband. His father caught Covid. Sad
case. She told me to take her place.”
Before I could protest, she dragged me to the
kitchen. It was a pleasure-filled hour cooking Hyderabadi biriyani.
Again, don’t ask me where it had gone wrong or
right.
I have not yet seen that Covid-displaced daughter
but her mother and I have tried out many a recipe since then, at her place and
mine. Her number is also under ‘MIL’.
And, she was there at mine that lovely night to
try out jerk chicken.
Do you actually think the Grim Reaper is a
haggard figure in drab clothing riding a dark horse waving an unwieldy scythe
in the dark on a cold winter night?
I had the Grim Reaper in front of me: four
mothers-in-law seated together at my dining table.
Or, within the confines
of lockdowns and such,
Did we lose sense of time,
Did we let life slip away,
Uncaring, grasping too little?
Why didn't I
Say I love you;
Why did I
Leave you alone;
Why did you
Trust me;
Why didn't you
Leave me alone;
Why didn't we
Stay longer;
Why did we
End up alone?
There are days
when I know
no one
will listen
to me.
Yes,
days
when I know
and
days
when I ignore.
I had
such days
even
with you.
You
said later
you wanted
to
torture me.
You
remain
a
torture.
The others
a pain
I can
ignore.
No two words scare me more than "I think",
That precursor to confusion and danger.
Is it the comedy or the gravity of the situation,
Is it the human at the root of the problem?
That precursor to confusion and danger:
When he said, "I think we love the same girl,"
(Is it the human at the root of the problem?)
When I tried to defuse that bomb, "I think I love her not."
When he said, "I think we love the same girl,"
Did he not assume his thought and feeling outweighed all?
When I tried to defuse that bomb, "I think I love her not,"
Why did I assume it mattered what I thought?
Did he not assume his thought and feeling outweighed all,
On that day he twisted facts, ignored truth and incited a riot?
Why did I assume it mattered what I thought
And forgot that my action mattered most?
On that day he twisted facts, ignored truth and incited a riot,
I chose to dwell on lighter stuff
And forgot that my action mattered most
To the ones who would die in the days to come.
I chose to dwell on lighter stuff,
(His girl was religion and nation, I didn't know?)
To the ones who would die in the days to come
I turned my back to protect my life's love.
His girl was religion and nation, I didn't know
Even when he ridiculed, called me a traitor.
I turned my back to protect my life's love,
Now why would that be, I think?
Even when he ridiculed, called me a traitor,
I kept him as a friend, a jester.
Now why would that be, I think
I was saving myself from myself.
I kept him as a friend, a jester.
So dangerous it has turned out to be.
I was saving myself from myself,
With no guts to face our femme fatale.
So dangerous it has turned out to be,
No two words scare me more than "I think",
With no guts to face our femme fatale,
The gravity of the situation I took as comedy.
What was it about you
That caught my eye and my mind?
The way you walk or
When you slept (well, didn't you say?)
Leaning against me
Or...I don't know...I miss you.
We died the day we found a god splendid,
We had no time to fear, no time to spare,
Buried alive in grave unmarked, my kid!
We weren't the saddest case, the people said,
My friend's twins, they found tender loving care,
They died the day we found a god splendid.
To ease our pain there were more tales horrid,
Of houses and families all laid bare,
Buried, alive in grave unmarked, my kid!
The day after was bright lovely sun-kissed,
Almost forgot, erased, the day before,
The day we died and found a god splendid.
The tourists are back, the quarries are bombed,
The green a veil, the damned silent river
Buried alive, in grave unmarked, my kid!
Remain we will on slopes fragile, to skid
When rains will bring old plans disposed, terror,
A day splendid to find a new god dead,
Buried alive in grave unmarked, my kid.
I bought a time-machine.
Killed Hitler.
Visited Atlantis and Pompeii.
Stopped my parents from marrying.
I came back to the present.
I am still there.
Customer service says,
"Sorry. No refund."
This particular problem in fiction has been troubling me. As much as the doppelganger-should-die issue.
'Standard' fiction with time-machines usually has these rules: do not mess with your own past to kill your present; mess with your future to correct your present.
Somehow, I fear, the present will be preserved irrespective of what you do in the past or in the future.
Let's call it the Riddle of the Time Machine.
At Malabar Hotel, near PaiCo:
We said "Two Wills" at the door,
"Two strong coffee" at our table;
Swaggered to the kitchen to light,
Young cowboys with mean looks,
Slurped coffee in stain'd crack'd cups,
Our whiskey shots to face tough life,
Talked about Anju's tits and Anu's hips:
"What is the omega in sine omega t?"
We were not dumb, he and I,
Quiz aficionados et al. actually.
He had Jane's handbook on planes,
I had Manorama yearbook and more,
We knew all about Wilfred Owen,
Lady Chatterley, WW1, WW2 too,
Kamikazes, Woodstock, 'Nam,
The Beat crowd, Pirsig, madness,
Watergate, Deep Throat, both kinds!
We could recite the Gita and the Bible,
We did not know the Ramanan of that Changam-chap,
But we knew our local politicians, that's family;
We did not trust VoA or Sputnik, but BBC was ok
For the music, the plays and the news, was it?
We knew what to believe. We did not know our PM.
We knew when we had choice,
We knew our free will well,
We did not fuck ourselves.
We did not touch on heritage or discrimination.
We knew we had to go abroad to be accepted here.
We did fight over something. What did we fight about?
Before I forget, let me tell you
We were not sure about anything.
That saved us, believe me!
Malabar Hotel is no more, PaiCo too:
We don't smoke, we don't drink strong coffee,
We have had two wives, one kid, a few lovers,
All premarital we swear, believe us,
Extramarital would be tougher fiction.
We have been husbands, widower, divorcee,
Maybe a murderer, no just a killer.
We have lived, loved and let go.
We have fought for women. Cursed by a few.
We could be trash. We are not all bad.
We should not complain when we have been us.
We still don't talk about commies or fascists.
Is it their salute that embarrasses us?
Or did we expect them to be gone by now?
We don't touch the losers either,
They just won't do whatever, right?
We know all about the shit that happens.
He talks about his heritage, his new citizenship.
I talk about my lot, about perceptions common.
That's old guys' stuff. That's nothing new.
But he's uncomfortable, I notice.
It's not just me who is scared of me.
We talk about the new ones, the dangerous ones,
Who talk about heritage without changing citizenship,
Who talk about discrimination, believe what they say.
You sound a lot like them, he accuses.
If he can be sure about all, why can't I?
He accuses the majority of thinking like the minority.
Why can't the minority take the load of the majority,
I counterattack. Did we fight about this then?
Did that fight come back to haunt us?
Is that our hope too, the cyclical,
The circle of life, with its Yin and Yang?
Maybe, Malabar Hotel will rise again. Maybe not PaiCo.
Will entropy reduce here? At another's expense?
There is no escape from this circle of hate, is there?
We want to talk about Anu's tits and Anju's hips.
But what if the circle escapes into the unknown 3d,
Will this cycle of hate return to good only after us:
"What is the omega in sine omega t?"
Your love letters,
after a few years,
will be shared
with friends
and spouses.
It will be
a lovely
party joke.
Don't fret.
You will be
invited
to that party,
joker.
That which wears out should
Be cause for thought, not the rest.
Only fiction lasts.
#haiku ?
