Tuesday, September 12, 2006
I'd love to love you for who you are; not who I want you to be. Not who I imagined you to be.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
An evening on a roof.
I sat, and looked.
The setting sun was slowly turning into the red ball of flame we're so used to seeing in paintings. The sky was a dark blue, but cheerful nevertheless. The water, rippling, shimmering, echoed the sky's shades with even more intensity. The sky above was filled with little puffs of cloud of the purest white, like someone emptied a sack of cotton bolls and arranged them neatly in rows. To the west, it looked like God's own sweepers had been on duty sweeping the clouds with the very same brooms that our street-sweepers use-- only on a much grander scale. The wind was chilly, but not fiercely so; it wasn't the zephyr of a midsummer's day, either. It brought you to the point where you thought you'd shiver, but you didn't. The sun countered the wind with the gentlest warmth you could imagine, like your mother's arms. Far off, in the distance, trains ran- they appeared small enough for mice. People at that distance were mere indistinct moving dots against the landscape. It was simply beautiful.
I sat, and looked, and looked.
The setting sun was slowly turning into the red ball of flame we're so used to seeing in paintings. The sky was a dark blue, but cheerful nevertheless. The water, rippling, shimmering, echoed the sky's shades with even more intensity. The sky above was filled with little puffs of cloud of the purest white, like someone emptied a sack of cotton bolls and arranged them neatly in rows. To the west, it looked like God's own sweepers had been on duty sweeping the clouds with the very same brooms that our street-sweepers use-- only on a much grander scale. The wind was chilly, but not fiercely so; it wasn't the zephyr of a midsummer's day, either. It brought you to the point where you thought you'd shiver, but you didn't. The sun countered the wind with the gentlest warmth you could imagine, like your mother's arms. Far off, in the distance, trains ran- they appeared small enough for mice. People at that distance were mere indistinct moving dots against the landscape. It was simply beautiful.
I sat, and looked, and looked.
Green Thang:Chapter one, Horribly Horrendous Holiday.
Once upon a time, there was a little green alien from one of the… oops, sorry, from the ONLY planet of Omega Minimus, a small and apparently insignificant star. He was a pretty rich little guy. (By that, I mean he was rich, and little. Not pretty.) The planet’s name, you ask? Something unpronounceable, I assure you. Let’s call it “Little Green Planet,” shall we?
Back to our subject. The little green alien was on a holiday- a tour of faraway stars, and whatever else he might see on the way was an unexpected bonus, unless the thing he was looking at was considerable in size and on a collision course with him. It so happened that this particular little green alien’s tour included a fly-by of the Sun- yes, our very own Sol. His holiday was great; he was alone, just the way he liked it. He’d paid for the finest, and the finest was what he’d got. He saw many stars- the Universe Beckons Travel Agency didn’t skimp on the well-paying customers; they made it a galaxy tour for him. The sights! Quasars and pulsars and black holes (not too close, now) and other galaxies and white dwarfs and red giants, and… I do realize you can’t really classify pulsars and black holes as sights, since one can’t see radio waves or the disappearance of matter, but they were there under “sights”, just in case.
Where it all began to go wrong was somewhere around the sun. The little green alien found it a bit chilly, so he searched for the appropriate controls for cooling, and set them to “warm”. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t the cooling control for the cabin temperature, but engine temperature. Without sufficient warning, everything began to go wrong. The onboard computer detected the nearest unintelligent beings on a little blue-colored planet quite close to the sun. the reason it did this was simple- unintelligent beings asked a lot of questions, but never managed to get the right answers- only ambiguous ones.
What happens next? Does our hero survive the ordeal of his crash, only to find a far worse ordeal- humans? Will he break down under the strain to think unintelligently?
Back to our subject. The little green alien was on a holiday- a tour of faraway stars, and whatever else he might see on the way was an unexpected bonus, unless the thing he was looking at was considerable in size and on a collision course with him. It so happened that this particular little green alien’s tour included a fly-by of the Sun- yes, our very own Sol. His holiday was great; he was alone, just the way he liked it. He’d paid for the finest, and the finest was what he’d got. He saw many stars- the Universe Beckons Travel Agency didn’t skimp on the well-paying customers; they made it a galaxy tour for him. The sights! Quasars and pulsars and black holes (not too close, now) and other galaxies and white dwarfs and red giants, and… I do realize you can’t really classify pulsars and black holes as sights, since one can’t see radio waves or the disappearance of matter, but they were there under “sights”, just in case.
Where it all began to go wrong was somewhere around the sun. The little green alien found it a bit chilly, so he searched for the appropriate controls for cooling, and set them to “warm”. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t the cooling control for the cabin temperature, but engine temperature. Without sufficient warning, everything began to go wrong. The onboard computer detected the nearest unintelligent beings on a little blue-colored planet quite close to the sun. the reason it did this was simple- unintelligent beings asked a lot of questions, but never managed to get the right answers- only ambiguous ones.
What happens next? Does our hero survive the ordeal of his crash, only to find a far worse ordeal- humans? Will he break down under the strain to think unintelligently?
Green thang, chapter two: In the land of the inane
After he had strapped himself into the seat, he waited for the ship's computers to bring him down safely. What he didn't know, was the little blue planet's name- "Earth".
Within a short while of entering this earth's atmosphere, he landed in this small country called "Cuba". He didn't have any press or TV crews present to welcome and harass him, but that was only because they were told not to enter the country, and those intrepid enough to enter despite the warnings were shot and thrown right back to where they came from. (I know, its shocking, the waste of ammunition, but the country was then ruled by this maniacal despot with lots of bullets in his armoury.)
The first thing the little green alien was asked on disembarking was, "Are you an American?" When he replied to whoever it was that asked him the question that he did not KNOW what an American was, let alone be one, the Cubans were very hospitable. Being of a smarter race, he managed to sell his spaceship for US$3,200,000,000 on a hire- purchase agreement with the maniacal despot of Cuba. (The Cubans DID try to bargain by trying to deduct import duty, but didn't when the alien asked them to prove that he exported the ship from somewhere...)
The government of the United States of America, another country, also bid for it, but what they didn't have, was the spaceship within their political boundaries already. Cuba sold the ship to the US, of course, at the same price- and some bullets (shipping extra)- US$3.2B, but they settled for cash up front so they could live off the interest earned. What they also managed to do was reopen trade with the USA, and made a killing selling Cubans (cigars, not citizens) in the first month. After that, the novelty wore off, and so did the desire for them- there's this thing about contraband you'll never get in legally imported goods. Cuba also had to rework its economy since they now had so much money.
One more thing the Cubans tried was banking, what with the money and all. People put a lot of money and trust in them, so much that the Swiss went, well, bankrupt. They converted their banks to hotels and their vaults to solitary confinement areas for the worst criminals in the world.
The Cubans, in the meanwhile, tried to replace their poppy plantations with actual coffee ones but they just couldn't switch to a life of uprightness and honour. In the end the despot pocketed the $3.2B, closed trade ties, and all was well except for the occasional planeload of heroin being shot down, or a shipload of brown sugar being sunk by another country. (You ever wonder what governments do with confiscated narcotics?)
And the worst criminals in the world? They got got lost in transit while being returned...
Green thang: Life (or the lack of it) on earth...
Our alien, on the other hand, had been rechristened “Green Thang”, owing to the fact that he was green and his actual name a feat of tongue and lips that no human was capable of. By sheer coincidence, he happened to come across pictures and videos of an earth- woman and was very impressed. He later found out that her name was Anna Nicole Smithsonian. He managed to meet her (easy task for someone of his mental capabilities, see) and woo her (not so easy, but…), and after she had a peek at his bank balances, they got married. Everywhere Green Thang went, people called him “Mr.T” out of respect and affection. Mrs. Smithsonian merely called him “That Thang I do”.
Thang and his wife were living happily ever after, and one evening they went out for authentic Indian cuisine. The spices got too much for him, and he contracted food poisoning; since no one had been allowed to probe him and dissect him, they didn’t know how to cure him, and he worsened and died. The US Government confiscated all his property, first claiming it to be an alien’s, then saying that they were having it quarantined. When Mrs.Smithsonian filed a suit against the government, she lost, of course, because they had married outside the country, while on holiday, and not in California where they lived. (“Why California?” you may well wonder; well, Thang was a bit of a megalomaniac at heart. In California, even three eyes, four arms and green skin won’t make you famous. You need to marry a Ms. Smithsonian for that.)
Since Thang hadn’t made a will (he did, actually, only it was in his native tongue. No one could decipher it.) His whole estate went to his closest relation- who would’ve been a million miles away if it wasn’t for his wife. The government had taken it all away after winning the suit. What Mrs. Smithsonian did was shrug, sell the TV rights to his funeral to Fox and the body to the research division of the FDA for a tidy sum of money. The funeral had a fake body, neatly and quietly replaced by unknowns (If I told you, I’d have to kill you). Mrs. Smithsonian, needless to say, lived happily ever after, giving interviews to eminent newspapers like “The Sun” on topics as varied as “How it feels like to do it with an alien” and “Do aliens make better lovers than men?”; even some like “Are millionaire aliens more human than human millionaires?”
If you’re curious as to how she managed to “do it” with him, you can purchase the book “Alien Love” by Mrs. Smithsonian, currently #3 on the New York Times bestseller list. (The book, not Mrs. Smithsonian.)
Thang and his wife were living happily ever after, and one evening they went out for authentic Indian cuisine. The spices got too much for him, and he contracted food poisoning; since no one had been allowed to probe him and dissect him, they didn’t know how to cure him, and he worsened and died. The US Government confiscated all his property, first claiming it to be an alien’s, then saying that they were having it quarantined. When Mrs.Smithsonian filed a suit against the government, she lost, of course, because they had married outside the country, while on holiday, and not in California where they lived. (“Why California?” you may well wonder; well, Thang was a bit of a megalomaniac at heart. In California, even three eyes, four arms and green skin won’t make you famous. You need to marry a Ms. Smithsonian for that.)
Since Thang hadn’t made a will (he did, actually, only it was in his native tongue. No one could decipher it.) His whole estate went to his closest relation- who would’ve been a million miles away if it wasn’t for his wife. The government had taken it all away after winning the suit. What Mrs. Smithsonian did was shrug, sell the TV rights to his funeral to Fox and the body to the research division of the FDA for a tidy sum of money. The funeral had a fake body, neatly and quietly replaced by unknowns (If I told you, I’d have to kill you). Mrs. Smithsonian, needless to say, lived happily ever after, giving interviews to eminent newspapers like “The Sun” on topics as varied as “How it feels like to do it with an alien” and “Do aliens make better lovers than men?”; even some like “Are millionaire aliens more human than human millionaires?”
If you’re curious as to how she managed to “do it” with him, you can purchase the book “Alien Love” by Mrs. Smithsonian, currently #3 on the New York Times bestseller list. (The book, not Mrs. Smithsonian.)
Green Thang: the final word.
Well, Green Thang died happy; (Okay, so the stomach pains made him a little unhappy.) Mrs. Smithsonian lived happily, at another millionaire’s side (human, this time); the Cuban government continued exporting narcotics and shooting people and the US Government was happy, what with all the technology in the spaceship, and the dead alien in their possession…
…well, at least until they found that all the electricals had been fried (power fluctuations while testing by the Cubans), the engines poached by the Government of Cuba (sold to the USSR, another country, for cash- and bullets) , and the empty spaces used to smuggle a record amount of contraband into the USA…
…well, at least until they found that all the electricals had been fried (power fluctuations while testing by the Cubans), the engines poached by the Government of Cuba (sold to the USSR, another country, for cash- and bullets) , and the empty spaces used to smuggle a record amount of contraband into the USA…
The dream- part two.
This time, it didn’t surprise him that he dreamed. He was quite expecting it, in fact- he remembered awakening earlier that night, just as a nightmare was climaxing. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what it was. No matter, he was here.
There were people around, a mixture of acquaintances and unknowns. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uneasily- he never did know what to do in a crowd. While deliberating whether he should leave, she materialized.
She looked nothing like she did in real life- her skin was acne-scarred, her eyes were rounder, her hair shorter, her teeth prominent; the list went on. All that remained was her voice. Even before she said a word, though, he knew it was her.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled, said nothing. Waited for her to proceed- if at all she wanted to. Besides, he trusted silence more than he did words; words distracted you, hid the truth. Not silence, it always told him more. This particular silence grew long, and visibly uncomfortable for her. He finally spoke.
“What?”
Just one word in the warm, gentle way he knew made women want to talk, want to cry in his arms- and then return to their existence without a backward glance at him, he thought with a pang of bitterness. He quickly subdued the sentiment, now wasn’t the time for self-pity. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I need to talk.”
He shrugged on his psychiatrist role with ease. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ he thought with not a little cynicism. To her, he merely nodded, took her hand and led her away from the noisy group to a comparatively secluded corner. She still was crying silently, her tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision so she didn’t see where he was taking her, but her trust in him was absolute- he would never hurt her, she knew that. He let her lean against a wall, cupped her face in his hands, raised her gaze to meet his, wiped away her tears, and waited.
“I’ve done something terrible,” she began.
“You finally kicked your neighbor’s cat?” he asked with a small smile.
In spite of her tears, she laughed. She recalled now why she talked to him at times like these, even though her boyfriend didn’t like their closeness.
“I cheated on Alan last night.”
“Okay.”
“And he hasn’t found out the entire story… yet.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes...”
“Do you still want to be with him?”
“Uh huh.” A nod.
“Tell me about last night.”
She told him everything, and he listened carefully. Halfway through she was sobbing again, and the rest of it was muffled against his chest. He knew all of it by then- stories like these hardly ever differed. When she finished, he held her silently for a little longer, until his damp shirt began to get almost as uncomfortable as his skin. Gently he pushed her back and kissed her forehead.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she replied with evident surprise at the question.
“Good.” And he whispered to her; words of comfort, of reassurance; all the while hating himself more and more. For they were lies, all of them- and she loved him the more for it, for she believed they were true.
When he stopped, he gave her another quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head, took her hand and led her back into the crowd. He’d seen her boyfriend there before he met her, and he was taking her to him. When this got over, he’d be as alone as before, he knew. Old habits die hard. All of a sudden they were face-to-face with Alan.
“Hey,” he said to him.
“I know you’ve heard about last night. Let me explain- it won’t take a minute. Um, both of us were more than a little drunk last night, we weren’t counting the number of, ah, drinks we were having, and…”
he didn’t know who was more surprised, Alan or her. She was easy to read, as always. The shock, the fleeting hurt, the gratefulness for him, the hope of getting back together with Alan, they all flitted across her features. Maybe she’d realise later that they wouldn’t be meeting again, if he pulled this off. She always was a little slow on the uptake.
Alan was unreadable, though. He didn’t know him well enough to guess what was going through his mind. Mentally he shrugged and plodded on with his narrative, bracing for the punch (or punches) that may come.
What Alan was thinking was, “He doesn’t drink. I know he doesn’t drink…”
There were people around, a mixture of acquaintances and unknowns. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uneasily- he never did know what to do in a crowd. While deliberating whether he should leave, she materialized.
She looked nothing like she did in real life- her skin was acne-scarred, her eyes were rounder, her hair shorter, her teeth prominent; the list went on. All that remained was her voice. Even before she said a word, though, he knew it was her.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled, said nothing. Waited for her to proceed- if at all she wanted to. Besides, he trusted silence more than he did words; words distracted you, hid the truth. Not silence, it always told him more. This particular silence grew long, and visibly uncomfortable for her. He finally spoke.
“What?”
Just one word in the warm, gentle way he knew made women want to talk, want to cry in his arms- and then return to their existence without a backward glance at him, he thought with a pang of bitterness. He quickly subdued the sentiment, now wasn’t the time for self-pity. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I need to talk.”
He shrugged on his psychiatrist role with ease. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ he thought with not a little cynicism. To her, he merely nodded, took her hand and led her away from the noisy group to a comparatively secluded corner. She still was crying silently, her tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision so she didn’t see where he was taking her, but her trust in him was absolute- he would never hurt her, she knew that. He let her lean against a wall, cupped her face in his hands, raised her gaze to meet his, wiped away her tears, and waited.
“I’ve done something terrible,” she began.
“You finally kicked your neighbor’s cat?” he asked with a small smile.
In spite of her tears, she laughed. She recalled now why she talked to him at times like these, even though her boyfriend didn’t like their closeness.
“I cheated on Alan last night.”
“Okay.”
“And he hasn’t found out the entire story… yet.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Yes...”
“Do you still want to be with him?”
“Uh huh.” A nod.
“Tell me about last night.”
She told him everything, and he listened carefully. Halfway through she was sobbing again, and the rest of it was muffled against his chest. He knew all of it by then- stories like these hardly ever differed. When she finished, he held her silently for a little longer, until his damp shirt began to get almost as uncomfortable as his skin. Gently he pushed her back and kissed her forehead.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she replied with evident surprise at the question.
“Good.” And he whispered to her; words of comfort, of reassurance; all the while hating himself more and more. For they were lies, all of them- and she loved him the more for it, for she believed they were true.
When he stopped, he gave her another quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head, took her hand and led her back into the crowd. He’d seen her boyfriend there before he met her, and he was taking her to him. When this got over, he’d be as alone as before, he knew. Old habits die hard. All of a sudden they were face-to-face with Alan.
“Hey,” he said to him.
“I know you’ve heard about last night. Let me explain- it won’t take a minute. Um, both of us were more than a little drunk last night, we weren’t counting the number of, ah, drinks we were having, and…”
he didn’t know who was more surprised, Alan or her. She was easy to read, as always. The shock, the fleeting hurt, the gratefulness for him, the hope of getting back together with Alan, they all flitted across her features. Maybe she’d realise later that they wouldn’t be meeting again, if he pulled this off. She always was a little slow on the uptake.
Alan was unreadable, though. He didn’t know him well enough to guess what was going through his mind. Mentally he shrugged and plodded on with his narrative, bracing for the punch (or punches) that may come.
What Alan was thinking was, “He doesn’t drink. I know he doesn’t drink…”
Dream. Again.
It surprised him, the dream. He didn’t dream too often now, and that’s the way he preferred it. He’d been lying awake, sleepless, for God knows how long now, and he didn’t realize when he fell back asleep. He thought h never would, because he had no idea of the passage of time, just like on a hot summer’s afternoon when the electricity quits and you have nothing to do except swat extremely persistent and nagging flies.
It was extraordinarily ordinary- the same scene from every afternoon; the train. He was traveling home from work yet again. Only, as he looked around, he noticed his fellow commuters weren’t the nameless, featureless faces of his usual experience. He recognized the faces this time; there was Rohit, and Andy, and…
…her.
He was surprised to see her in the train, for he knew she caught the bus to work. It was then that it struck him, this might not be real; he was dreaming. In that moment he felt surreal. He became aware of his own weightlessness.
She was facing away from him; he could see her right profile. He studied her intently, finding things he’d loved a long time ago. Her hair- as silky as ever. He still wanted to stroke it. Her sad eyes, her nose…
That was when she turned and looked right at him, as though she knew he was looking at her. He didn’t know how to react- after all, he’d been caught staring. To his surprise, she smiled at him in a way she never did before. It was innocent, naïve, without malice.
He floated over to her and sat facing her. She seemed tiny- her head came only up to his eye-level. She began talking to him; her lips forming soundless, incomprehensible words of a language unknown to him. He let her continue without indicating that he couldn’t decipher what she was saying. While she talked, he studied her face, committing everything about it to memory, even the faint acne scars.
She seemed incredibly demure, and this astonished him. In real life, she was the most courageous person he knew. Their eyes hardly ever met during the entire conversation, but at times she was unaware of what she was doing, and studied his face openly. It looked like she, too, was trying to memorize his nose, his eyes, and mostly, his lips. He wondered what she was thinking.
He remembered asking her something, why they couldn’t go back a couple of years to the great friends they used to be, why they couldn’t erase the fights they’d had for no apparent reason, why she didn’t- couldn’t- trust him anymore…
He woke with the alarm sliding up the scale of his consciousness. Did she answer his questions? He tried recalling it, but the memory of the dream was fading, like water trickling through the fingers of his cupped hands…
He got out of bed. Another long, empty day awaited him.
It was extraordinarily ordinary- the same scene from every afternoon; the train. He was traveling home from work yet again. Only, as he looked around, he noticed his fellow commuters weren’t the nameless, featureless faces of his usual experience. He recognized the faces this time; there was Rohit, and Andy, and…
…her.
He was surprised to see her in the train, for he knew she caught the bus to work. It was then that it struck him, this might not be real; he was dreaming. In that moment he felt surreal. He became aware of his own weightlessness.
She was facing away from him; he could see her right profile. He studied her intently, finding things he’d loved a long time ago. Her hair- as silky as ever. He still wanted to stroke it. Her sad eyes, her nose…
That was when she turned and looked right at him, as though she knew he was looking at her. He didn’t know how to react- after all, he’d been caught staring. To his surprise, she smiled at him in a way she never did before. It was innocent, naïve, without malice.
He floated over to her and sat facing her. She seemed tiny- her head came only up to his eye-level. She began talking to him; her lips forming soundless, incomprehensible words of a language unknown to him. He let her continue without indicating that he couldn’t decipher what she was saying. While she talked, he studied her face, committing everything about it to memory, even the faint acne scars.
She seemed incredibly demure, and this astonished him. In real life, she was the most courageous person he knew. Their eyes hardly ever met during the entire conversation, but at times she was unaware of what she was doing, and studied his face openly. It looked like she, too, was trying to memorize his nose, his eyes, and mostly, his lips. He wondered what she was thinking.
He remembered asking her something, why they couldn’t go back a couple of years to the great friends they used to be, why they couldn’t erase the fights they’d had for no apparent reason, why she didn’t- couldn’t- trust him anymore…
He woke with the alarm sliding up the scale of his consciousness. Did she answer his questions? He tried recalling it, but the memory of the dream was fading, like water trickling through the fingers of his cupped hands…
He got out of bed. Another long, empty day awaited him.
Dream? Nightmare?
"I don't deserve her," I think.
Her bright eyes.
Her frail little body.
I want to protect her
from the world,
I want to protect her
from me.
And yet…
What will those lips feel like?
What is that mind thinking?
Will those bright eyes yearn to look at me?
I wonder.
She walks up to me,
A smile at the corners of her mouth-
That beautiful face.
My heart leaps at the first
faint whiff of her fragrance.
My nerves tingle at the warmth
she radiates.
Long, slender fingers reach out, caress my cheek,
And all of a sudden, I'm tasting
that beautiful, small mouth
As though it is the only chance I'll ever get.
My eyes shut,
I take in as much as I can,
For I know,
This is now,
This is not forever.
It is as surreal as a dream.
My eyelids flutter,
Everything is as it should be.
Except…
Her.
She isn't there.
As the fog in my head clears,
I realise,
She never was.
