Friday, November 21, 2008

One night on the road

Today I am wandering in the road not because I am drunk, not because the world is moving before my eye, not because my vision has blurred and not because I am living the excitement fed to my body by alcohol but still I am swinging here and there. Standing near the road divider I watch vehicles escaping into the smoke of dark once in a while. My eyes miss to catch their speed but abrupt light jolts by brain. My brain that had been a factory of thoughts that disrupt peace. I have to rely more on my ear than my eyes. The swift whiff try to blow me with it, my hair fly, I feel the chillness in the air of the wintery breeze. The whore that offered herself to me is laughing, I cannot see her face in the street light under the pole but I can still see her face, I assume the smoke that rises from under the pole as the smoke of her cigarette. Same cigarette I gave her, since I had paid for the cigarette, the cigarette was mine but the smoke was not mine. I hear her laugh, meaningless laughter that rip apart the silence of the road. The laughter that ring my ears more than the sound of the vehicles that slides into the darkness. Where there is meaninglessness there is no question of ‘why’ still I question the meaninglessness itself. There is a man with her now and now I hear her shriek. I want to rush to her to check if the man is not hurting her but this desire is not because of any kindness but because of my male chauvinism. Someone was hurting a ‘poor’ woman, a human being who is taken as ‘weak’ for granted just because her genitals were different as mine when she was born, that arouse my ego, that challenged my strength I have carried by birth. Before I reclaimed my self hatred, I saw the two shadows under the poll becoming almost one, the shadow was larger than the shadow of one, it roughly sketched the silhouette of a human being but still they were human being. They had embraced each other ignoring me who was standing just about twenty or thirty meters apart. I wondered if they would make love right there on the cold footpath. The hunger of the body can make one forget the cold. The girl laughs again, she was laughing because the man had said something. She was laughing not because she understood anything, she was laughing not because the man told her anything funny. She was laughing on herself. It was the laughter that mocked on what she was. I remembered her face when she had stood in front of me staring at me top to bottom. The air that carried the smell of her breath said she was drunk but still she knew her business. If she was beautiful or not that is something I don’t care. The strong smell of her perfume had my stomach churn, fifteen hundred for the night she said. I didn’t say anything. Seeing neither approval nor rejection she said five hundred. Probably she would have said thousand but my appearance made her guess my caliber. I didn’t say anything again. She brought her face close to mine, I could smell her lipstick and I moved my head in other direction. She asked for a cigarette, I gave her one. She yelled at me, smiled and moved away. I could have slept with her for free but money is not a problem, had I allowed myself even a little pleasure, I would have paid her ten times what she wanted. My hatred for myself had been so much that I had not allowed any pleasure for myself. When life had become burden of responsibilities rather than wish to live, how could I allow myself bodily pleasure no matter even for few minutes?
My cell had been ringing in desperation. I once see who is calling me though I knew it was from home. Its eleven thirty and more than half of the city around me is asleep. My cell says I had missed fourteen calls and twelve are from home. Two are new numbers I don’t recognize. I get angry on my people at home because they love me, they worry for me and I get angry on rest of the world because it ignores me. It ignores me, it ignores the whore who has just slipped into the darkness. Anyone can drive his/her car over me, anyone can come and rape that women.
Why am I wandering in the street, I have no answer? I have lost nothing that I need to seek. Even if I had lost anything, I didn’t want to seek it. A van passes so close by me that it misses me by an inch of a hair, the driver slows down and yells at me. I borrow the laughter from that prostitute, I feel with my laughter the whole city has been disturbed, all the dwellers are in panic, I feel a grandeur in me. The driver gets scared and vanish soon. My mobile rings again, it says ‘Wifey calling’, ‘wifey ‘ how lovingly I had replaced the name of my wife with this term. I know how much I loved her when I had just married her, in the years that followed, what ate me I don’t know. My feelings for her is more ‘sorry’ than ‘love’. I dislike her because she seeks her happiness in me, I am angry with her because she is sad since I am sad, I have lost myself. Just yesterday, I fought with sleeplessness. I had just fallen asleep when I woke up, I lighted the lamp, my wife slept so silently beside me. Her face still as pretty and innocent. The hair that spread on the pillow as soft as they had been when I had first touched them. My life has halted there, entangled on the string of her hair. If there is one thing that has made me drag my body through days and night in this earth its only that face, its only that life. The life that peacefully slept by my side. I had slowly put my lips on those beautiful cheek. If she were awake I could have never shown that gesture. She is not like other women I have seen, who enjoys independent identity, she is a poor creature who had submitted herself to me. I switch off my cell. I realize that would make her more desperate. If my deeds made her hate me, that would be the only happiness I could grant myself but she doesn’t. she will never leave me no matter what I become, what I do. The prostitute appear from the darkness making her clothes, she wraps the neckerchief and walks along the light. There is no man beside her. She fears no darkness because she has nothing to loose. Far away a dim light is still simmering, that is not my home but somewhere beside all these houses the lights in my house are also lit. Somewhere a woman with the most beautiful eyes in the whole world is worried. I switch on my cell and it rings abruptly. I pick it up, “Where are you?”, its her. “I am coming”, I reply. I too follow the light. Further I move from the street lamp my shadow elongates, as soon as I reach the other lamp post my shadow becomes a dwarf. Soon I am in the road that ends at the gate of my house, yes the light is still on. When I open the entrance gate, those very two eyes peep from the windows wiping the dew deposited by night. She rushes to open the gate. My parents are already asleep, the tears have dried in her face but she still looks beautiful. She says nothing and I hate her for it, she does not quarrel. I know I have to live the other day as well because by saying nothing she has given me a verdict to hate myself the other day as well.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Golden tooth, brown hair, fair face and gap between the teeth

From a distant I could see the dying rays of Sun brightened only my house. The evening sun looked warm and charming as if it were smiling at me. My home seemed to smile back at me. On the courtyard of the house close to the road, a smiling grandfather had stretched his both hands; his body little bent luring a toddler who seemed to have just learnt to walk to come to him. I wanted to believe the sun would have a similar face if it were to take the look of a man. On the corner where the main road bade bye to a small path leading to my home, the wall read ‘Punk is not dead’. I do not know exactly what does that mean, but I like it somewhere, I like the way ‘Punk’ is written, the way ‘P’ is bulged. If Punk is not dead he/it/she is being lived by somebody else. I read that line whenever I realize there it is written, I take ‘is not dead’ to inspire myself. ‘Long live death metal’, a line that comes attached to signature in every mail from a friend comes in my mind. I like that passion, his passion in spite of the fact I run away from heavy metal etc.
At home the living room with books spread on the floor welcomes me. The unfinished homeworks of Sarita stares back at me and I take it for granted that she has sneaked into the other room to watch tv programs. I do not know which book is that but the image looks familiar, not even the image but the color, light pink. The image of the book vanishes and there gets stuck the image of cave-men roasting meat inside the cave. Their monkey looking face, wire like beard and their eyes focused on the fire brings before me the bare nature of the man, his greed. That is the image from ‘Social Studies’ book I studied when I was in grade 3, almost 16-17 years back. I am there in the living room bent, my body resting on my bent knees, pencil moving in my hand. I remember the golden tooth, the brown hair of my teacher, the gap between the teeth. She smiles back at me, soon I am in my 3rd grade classroom. Soon the noise fills in, few known faces few forgotten faces brighten up the whole environment. ‘Tukk Tukk’ a thin stick pats the blackboard. The golden tooth, the gap, the brown hair, the fair face and the stick have become inseparable in my memories. Once my brother told me a woman had recognized him, asked him what I was doing telling she had taught both of us. He didn’t remember her name, I asked him if she had golden tooth, fair face, brown hair, gap in the teeth. I must have been silly she might be looking completely different now but deep down I thought it was her. The next day I went to the shop described by him but didn’t find her, no one knew someone like her, someone with name ‘Ambika Shrestha’, I must have gone to wrong place or I must have guessed wrong. She looked so different from my mother except that she shared her first name with my mother I found her similar to my mummy. Why are few pictures, few people, few events get permanently written in our memory. The squatting cave men, the cave with faint carvings I cannot identify, the fire, the pink color and a steel lunch box of a friend whose name was carved in it (I don’t remember the name) they wag before me. I remember few faces and remember few names. Has time treasured these things inside its embrace, I wonder. My dog who had been taken out for a walk runs toward me after smelling my presence. Slowly the noise become silent, the image of the cavemen and their cave gets wiped away, the same image that was in Sarita’s book is there again. The golden teeth, grey hair, thin stick and the gap everything vanishes. Sarita comes gathers her things and I sit alone in the empty room refreshed, rejoiced but still missing things.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Thoughts, thoughts and thoughts

While returning home, my eyes caught the sight of the tiny grasses whose blades bent as if someone was crouching to warm himself. Had it been bigger its silhouette would have confused me as if it were a real human. Just a little later the autistic girl wrapped in thick jackets. With evening already veiling the sky from the earth and moon somewhere in the backstage preparing to take its position people were seen little bent their jackets pulled. The autistic girl looked at everything with an expression of surprise. She moved her fingers which were meaningless to me which she must have some meaning for herself. She smiled at the dog, I don’t know if she was teasing the poor animal that it had nothing for the winter. Her mouth continuously dribbled, but the smile never left her face. I do not know if God had punished her or had spared her from witnessing and understanding the trickery, intricacies, and the false world. I have always seen her mother worrying about her at least what the girl is, is obviously a punishment for her parents. I have seen the other kids play with the girl, they make her dance and she moves, twists and turns leaving the other kids laugh. She is elated for having others laugh without understanding that the laughter is a mockery of her innocence. They do not laugh at what she does but they laugh at what she is. My feet take wider paces not to escape anything neither with expectation of any other thing. What is there in home? I will go drop my things and watch TV or talk with my parents. New things do not happen everyday but I have realized new things haven’t happened for quite some time. Its time for change even the weather is in transit. The moon has appeared. Its silver color has made it look solemn but not sad. I have already forgotten the autistic girl, where I am is what my world is. They say Obama defeated McCain in the country called United States, who knows if there is such country. Who knows I will wake up all of a sudden to realize what ever I had heard, learnt or experienced was just a dream. What if no McCain and Obama exist where I wake up, what if there is no country called America, what if there is no autism; what if I do not look the way my mirror shows me. The small lumps of white clouds are scattered in the sky, an object shines by the side of moon. I do not see it twinkle, may be its Venus. I wonder if they see me and think so many things just the way I do while watching them. Are they the spies left to track me? They look innocent. The smell of green vegetables being fried jolts me to a new world. I had just few pieces of ‘paratha’ in the day, the smell makes me realize I am hungry but I do not hurry, the hunger is under control. At a corner, a girl in her early twenties runs a cosmetic shop. I have observed her looking at me, I don’t know if she finds me weird or she thinks something else when I pass by. I like her simplicity but I have never thought about her when I don’t see her. I like so many girls, women, ladies for so many different reasons. Few I see regularly just like this cosmetic shop’s girl and few I see on the road.
Tomorrow I have lots of work in office and that thrills me. To be busy is so good, it’s a kind of meditation. To realize its time for lunch when one is expecting its time for early tea gives a satisfaction for which I find no words but I feel good that tomorrow will be a busy day. That excites me and I walk faster just to ponder why tomorrow’s schedule is making me walk faster, why don’t we walk slower when we are excited. A little boy collides with me, his friends were chasing him in a game. The boy mustn’t have been more than seven years, when he recollects himself and resumes his run he looks at me with his dark eyes, dark complexion and curly hair. He does not move his lip but I know he must have told me something, I cannot read his eyes. The autistic girl has never ran thus, she has never given me those looks, she has never seen me, I take the same route to office and back home and I always see her there dribbling, drawing things in the ground, running as if she had tripped on a stone but I do not exist for her. The horn of a motor-cycle disturbs me, the boy is nowhere in the sight, I must have stood there for almost a minute. The street lights looks at my tiny size with scanty brightness. I can see my home and the dome in the upper verandah is also lighted. I can see the wind bell, I want to know if the wind has told it I was coming and if it had sang to tell my people that I was on my way.