Of Butts, Grasshoppers and the Glass Half Full

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“Mimi, please don’t waste your food”, says Leya every time the little one has had enough and stumbles away in her quivering, just-learnt-to-walk gait. I don’t think Amy cares. I never did either. And as a kid who grew up in the eighties and the nineties, I’ve heard that line a lot.

 

That, and about the starving kids in the world. I told my mom that she was free to feed those less fortunate, once I was done. I didn’t care about hunger. Just like Amy now. All she wants to do is walk around pushing things, picking things, scattering things, pointing to things, rambling about said things, screaming about other things,… but I digress.

 

This write is about wasting. No, it’s not about wasting time again, which, by the way, is an absolute requisite to my favourite pastime – doing nothing.

 

This is also not a rant about wasting food. I really have never cared much about the wasting of food. When you’re done, you’re done. But sometimes, it does make me a little uneasy when I see people leave entire main courses, sans a spoonful, on the table when they leave the restaurant. But it’s not something I care about much. It’s probably because , we’ve been lucky enough to never have been in a situation when food was a scarcity. But there is something that irks and screws my mind up every time I see it.

 

A half smoked cigie.

 

It makes me mad even when I think about it. And you know why? It’s because there was a time when the Grasshoppers, in Flat no 13, BBC Apartments, Gandhi Nagar 2^nd Street, Chennai, tightened their belts and sacrificed food in order to buy more of those gentle wisps of contentment, that they shared. The start of any month had each of us all having full packets in our pockets which dwindled to zero by the third week, after which it was ‘beedi ki jai’.

 

The perceptions of the glass being half empty or half full meant nothing to us. We thought in terms of a cigie being fully smoked or if one last drag could be coaxed out of it.

 

The sharing of a cigie was one of those moments that was the epitome of companionship. And if anyone among us had the off-chance nerve to stub one out, that had in it an inkling of even half a drag, was immediately round-house kicked in the head before the name calling began.

 

It instilled in us the value of everything that is material, immaterial and those that money can’t buy. And that’s why even now, even more than the wasting of food, I hate it when I see the stepped on corpse of a half smoked stub.

 

It stands for the values that make a part of who we are.

 

*

Of Creepy-Crawlies and Voices Inside

*

 

The waters flowed. From the orifice, it was meant to, into the bigger crevice through which it bled on through, to the other side.

 

 Slowly. Ebbing.

 

He let it flow. Over his fingers and palms and onto the things he held. He let it flow over his thoughts before they found their way. To the other side.

 

His thoughts flowed. Crystal, like the waters. It had been so, for a long time now. His questions always found their better halves when he stood there letting the waters flow. But like the villainous fiend, in those moving pictures, the skeletal claws of doubt loomed high above the long-lost lovers’ embrace.

 

Why was this world so? Why was his world so, he rephrased. Is this the way it would be till the end of time? Till the end of his time, he rephrased.

 

Why was he still looking for something? What is he looking for? Didn’t he have everything that was true? No. Not everything, he thought. Then what, he asked himself.

 

Passion? In a world devoid of everything but entities enclosed in their own pitiful selves, how would he find it?

 

Meaning? Of what? Life? No. That’s not what he was looking for. The meaning of life would be whatever his life spoke of fondly, after he’d breathed his last.

 

Importance, then? Or power? No. He’d understood what the word meant. His poetic heart had already written of it and now as the waters flowed, the words came back to him.

 

I watched a crawlie creep her way,
Through overlying roots under my swing.
She looked up and wondered, why shadows passed,
Each time I swung back, over her world.

To is to dark and fro is for light,
She seemed to reckon and silent, crept.
I wondered if she knew, the harm I could deal,
If I should stroke her immaculate realm.

And then, thought I, of the frailty of mine.

 

He had named it Magnitude at the time. It was an answer, from the voice within. To a question he’d asked, not too long ago, when he’d let the waters flow over himself. Where was that voice now? The one that answered every time he whispered. Did it forsake him or just silently fade to nothingness, like every one of those who are alive?

 

He didn’t get an answer. But he did hear a voice. And this time, it asked him a question instead.

 

Alan, are you done washing the dishes?

 

*

 

Of Wordplay and Forgotten Gifts

*

 

Sorry. Can we start over?

 

No. You’re an idiot.

 

But it didn’t come out right.

 

But it did come out. Right?

 

It did come out. Right. But…

 

But?

 

It didn’t come out the right way.

 

But it did come out right away. Right?

 

It did come out right away. Right. But…

 

But?

 

It came out wrong.

 

It came out wrong?

 

Right. It shouldn’t have come out at all.

 

But it did and so that’s what you really think.

 

No it isn’t. Let’s start over.

 

No.

 

Okay then, I’ll ask.

 

No.

 

Why not?

 

I’m angry.

 

That’s good. I’ll know what you’ll really think now.

 

Okay then. Ask.

 

Sweet?

 

Chocolate.

 

Family?

 

Amy.

 

So I’m out?

 

Yes.

 

Why?

 

I’m angry.

 

Okay. Red?

 

Wine.

 

Love?

 

You.

 

Wow. Thanks.

 

You’re still an idiot. You should have said ‘Love you too’.

 

Oh. Okay. You ask now.

 

You still didn’t say it.

 

Oh. Love you too.

 

It’s no good now.

 

Sorry baby. But I mean it. Now you ask.

 

Okay. Music?

 

Floyd.

 

Flowers?

 

Rosapoovu.

 

You should have gotten me some.

 

Sorry.

 

…and chocolates.

 

Ferrerro.

 

No. You should have gotten me flowers and chocolates at least.

 

Oh. Sorry.

 

Idiot.

 

Belinda.

 

No, not your sister. You’re an idiot for not getting me any.

 

Oh. Sorry.

 

Love.

 

Sex and dhoka.

 

Prick.

 

Pin.

 

No. You’re a prick. The first time you said ‘Sucks’ and now it’s ‘Sex and dildo’.

 

Sex and dhoka.

 

I don’t know what that means.

 

It means ‘To cheat’ or ‘Betray’.

 

That just makes it worse.

 

Oh. Sorry baby. Happy Louers Day. Ummah?

 

Poda Patti.

 

*

Of Denied Spoonfuls and Ribboned Remotes

*

 

So last year I’d decided to not keep putting off my assignments. And where did it get me? To a place where another written word had the power to make me scream in my sleep, that’s where.

 

I’d finished a seven thousand five hundred word assignment in seven thousand five hundred and eight words, one weekend in September last year, and I was done. What little brain matter I’d owned was strewn across twenty eight pages of A4 sheets in Times New Roman with a font size of twelve and a line spacing of one point five.

 

I couldn’t bring myself to even think anymore. And I didn’t care. I’d had enough.

 

But I knew I couldn’t give up. I had to get back on my feet. I had to rejuvenate my senses. So I did what I love doing.

 

I sat my lazy bottom down and watched television. And when I got tired, I lay on my back and watched some more.

 

One weekend got me from being the laziest bum on the planet to the most hardworking and back to being even lazier than I was in the first place.

Sometimes I’d even beg Leya to spoon-feed me like she does Amy.

 

Oh how I wished she’d comply. I’d even started opening my mouth to spoonfuls of fruit puree that were meant for the little one. But Leya kept pushing me away as Amy kept pushing those spoonfuls away.

 

See Leya? She doesn’t want it. Why don’t you just feed me instead? It’s not like I’m taking from the hungry. I’m just asking to be given what the hungry doesn’t want.

 

No Alan. You’re asking to be given what your daughter is supposed to have so she can grow strong and healthy. So she can be immune to sickness and your laziness. Do you know how long I’ve been slogging in the kitchen to make food for her while you sat watching reruns of The Simpsons? All morning. You couldn’t even…

 

I zoned out. I thought it was just the written word that I had had enough of. As she spoke, I realized I had had enough of the spoken word as well. So I did what I love doing.

 

I got back to the television as Leya tried coaxing a whining Amy to open her mouth.

 

I felt bad.

 

I really did. And I blame you, you mind-wrecking, soul-crushing, assignment. And now that I’d just gotten back to being mildly lazy, I have to complete another seven thousand five hundred word assignment by the end of March. AAARRRGH!!!!

 

It’s a vicious cycle, I say. I’d just gotten back on my feet and now I have to start all over again.

 

Talking about getting on feet, Amy took her first two steps and tumbled back down yesterday. We recorded her fourth, two steps and tumble, because she surprised us with her first two and when you need the camera, you just can’t find it right?

 

Well, she got tired after the fourth and we were lucky to get that recorded.

 

Talking about tired, I wonder if Amy would turn out to be like me. Now that I think about it, there are a lot of instances where laziness did rear its ugly head in her.

 

Oh my god. YESSSS.

 

I’m finally going to have some company when she grows up. I can’t wait to greet Amy with bowls of popcorn and a remote control tied with bright red ribbons as a welcome gift when she eventually sees the light.

 

Finally. I’ll have someone on my side when Leya gets her preacher’s pants on. But now, Homer’s bringing his D’oh in a couple of minutes.

 

ALAAAN!!!!!! No. You just can’t keep doing this. There’s a lot of…

 

Sadly, right now, it’s just me who has to zone out. But I can wait. With the remote snug in my palm.

 

*

Of Age Old Sayings and Chankaran’s Curse

*

 

They tell me I won’t change.

 

Not in such simple words, no. They reference that proverbial dog with its proverbial tail in that proverbial tube. The one who finds the aforementioned tail still bent even though he’s been wearing that tube for eons.

 

What do I have to say about it?

 

Poor dog. He was probably using that tube as a walking stick for the better part of those eons and you just had to take it from him, didn’t you, you sannamabich.

 

So yes, I’ve been keeping stuff off till the last minute and yes, I’ll learn my lesson. You know, because the little kid will learn when it itches, along with that lazy guy who’s destined to carry that mountain. But that’s me.

 

I’ve always been this way. The type who never winnows when there’s wind.

 

You know how it is. You keep thinking that next time you’ll do those dastardly things on time and then, the next time comes and what do you do? You find yourself saying those words again. Next time. For sure.

 

Sometimes I wish I was one of those farsighted ones. The ones who just have to prepare, rehearse and then finally do it all in advance. The ones who stone the running dog by aiming a yard ahead of him.

 

That poor damned dog again. First you take his tube and then you stone him, you sannamabiches.

 

I think that dog’s cursed. He’s like the chicken that’s fated to be sacrificed no matter who’s possessed. Keep doing the same mistakes, do you? Blame the dog, tube his tail. Farsighted are you? Stone that mutt’s butt.

 

Maybe we should at least give him a name. I think Chankaran’s perfect. Coz, no matter what happens, Chankaran’s always back on the coconut tree.

 

But yeah, like I was saying, I’d like to be one of those far-sighted ones. The ones who never do anything on the spur of the moment. Not that I was the spontaneous type either, but I did hang out with a few impetuous ones in college. The types who were either on the master’s chest or out of the dojo.

 

For someone who’s always been sheltered from the wayward ways of the world; college and those guys were exactly what the patient wished for and what the doctor prescribed.

 

And that postpone-everything-but-the-good-times habit I was talking about? It got etched in stone within me.

 

Alan, could you do the bed?

Later.

Could you do Amy’s bed?

Later.

Do you wanna do me on the bed?

Later. Wait. What? Yes, absolutely.

Piss off.

 

So, it’s getting bad. The assignments, work and all the other things I’m putting off. It’s driving me crazy. But like they say, it’s funny watching someone else’s mom act crazy, so you can all laugh it up.

 

For now.

 

Coz every dog will have its day. I mean, Chankaran, will have his day too. He’s probably waiting for it with oil in his eyes and will probably be like the monkey with the garland when that day comes.

 

But you’ll still be hanging around to stone him, wont you? Coz even if he rips his heart out for you, you’ll just say it’s a hibiscus.

 

Coz he’s cursed and wherever the sinner goes, it’s hell.

 

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