Oh to be a Liar: the autobiography of a failed Liar

Enchanting Migs, can make one’s heart twist in French knots with his turn of phrase. Often have I swooned at his commas and stops. So you can imagine what it means when he says, nonchalantly, ‘H darling, you are it’. You don’t get arsey about it even if tagging in your worldview is akin to flatulence in public spaces. Instead, you’re honoured and even grateful for the tag, never mind that you’ve done the same one earlier.

So here goes, for the second time, the 123 tag.

I must grab the book nearest to me, turn to page 123, and quote three sentences, starting the fifth.

Equal Rites by... Terry Pratchett! Lalalalala.

“Young men who showed faint signs of having such a talent were encouraged, on special ceremonial occasions, to bend the truth ever further on a competitive basis.

The first recorded Zoon proto-lie was ‘actually, my grandfather is quite tall’, but eventually they got the hang of it and the Office of Tribal Liars was instituted.

It must be understood that while the majority of Zoon cannot lie, they have great respect for any Zoon who can say that the world is other than it is. “

***

And now, a bit more, to do justice to the title of this post: Inspired by Pratchett’s clan of Zoon – their custom of electing Liars; and my rabidly nervous disposition. Yes, yes I know what you’re thinking... get over Pratchett already, move on, read something else, don’t bore us.

Between Pratchett and the pool I’ve a little industry going, haven’t I? Ha. ‘Tisn’t my place to say it, but I will anyway, ‘cause I’m generous like that... [You really don’t have to stay if you don’t like reading what I write]. There. I’m done whispering in brackets.

The truth is if I were elected a Zoon Liar, I’d suck at it. Very seriously.

I’d probably sooner evince a penchant for and even excel at being a cutting edge Zoon water-changer for cattle. Or a Zoon sinker-of-feed for algae. My mum has in fact always harboured a fond suspicion that I might have a talent for stamping floral shapes on bus tickets. But what’s undisputed is that I haven’t the slightest, most bashful, trembling hint of aptitude for being a Liar. ‘Tis a terribly clever job, the demands of which I am utterly ill-equipped to meet: this much is clear to me now.

But once upon a Zoon time, it wasn’t. I was young, and possibilities abounded in nature – even the number of times I could poo in my little chuddies was wonder-striking and full of potential. So you can imagine the shock I received the day I tried my head at Lying. I was four, the sibling was six and as is ordained by Things Greater Than Us, while we were playing in that dangerous frenzy in which one sibling must either fall and get hurt very badly, or the playing must take a combatant turn, the playing took a combatant turn. The innocuous pencil in my grubby paws lodged itself with certain force and vengeance in the back of my smug, taunt-mouthed sibling, who was smug no more and rather red faced and in that frozen moment which precedes a particularly violent bout of bawling when one’s mouth is dangerously silent and wide open, eyes are screwed shut, breath is stuck and one’s face goes from red to redder.

There are two things that strike the mind of a four old watching her elder sibling poised on the wrong side of balance at this fearsome precipice from which things can only go downhill for all parties involved. One is a primal instinct arising from a residual collective memory, also sometimes called mob-mentality, which demands that you drop all things at hand and instantly join in the bawling, contributing greater decibels if possible to the general ambience of panic. The other, if you are a bastardly child called H, is a highly underrated, but promising instinct of self-preservation which demands that you move into elaborate modes of damage-control immediately.

And so, being H, in glorious disregard of the wily incisiveness of the Adult Mind mostly arising from prodigious volumes of ignorance, I arranged my four year old face in a singular look of bewilderment [which comes naturally when you’re four and everything of interest lies at least five inches out of reach] and immediately sought my parents.

I found them one doorway away, in their room, reposed in a memorable picture of bliss. Pa was lying back reading, beautiful mum was bent gracefully over a piece of mending. I shuffled up urgently, reluctant though I was to break the spell, and trilled in endearing baby tones “I don’t know why di’s crying. I just tapped her lightly with a pencil!” To demonstrate, I took my pudgy index finger and with the sort of delicacy that could embarrass a gay butterfly, tapped my father ever so lightly on his arm. I had time enough only to barely catch the look of utter love that my parents exchanged...

Just then the sibling’s voice came unstuck and a piercing, sickening, shrill wail arose, destroying the gentle afternoon air.

Without getting into the gruesome details of what followed, briefly touching upon the discovery of a half-centimetre long black lead nib embedded in a six year old back, a certain sore bottom and the admonishment of a lifetime, I can safely say that this defining incident broke my confidence and spelt the end of my Lying career.

Some [not least my mum] say it is a good thing.

***

Mine darling fairyblogmatha, THE Nanster, has also tagged me. Her tag’s cute, simple and very precise. It says post the title of your autobiography as the title of this post. I just did, Nan.

When H hugs Hafrank, and juggles slinkies with Ben

It’s no secret how much I adore little Ben - THE Bennay J D – King of Gnome Blog who likes to roll with the Kid Rock. He’s the darlingest blogger I never met. In fact, if I had a flying carpet, I’d send it over for Ben to come avisiting, with limitless servings of fun flips and imli sherbet all the way from Ohio to Delhi.

I love him that much.

But ruefully, my carpet’s aloft somewhere having racy adventures of questionable consequence, and my wings are soaking in the rain.

Just as I was brooding over this and more, look what he did for us! He brought the whole gnome company over for a visit!

Come on, join us... it’s fun really! And John Travolta’s promised not to do the full-monty.

The Gnome Company in Indiahhhhhhhhh!

Ben, this goes out from R-B-o-H and L-B-o-H...

THANK YOU! WE LOVE YOU!

Chat

This is what a cheap-arse resorts to when:

1.) Inspiration is abundantly absent.
or
2.) She’s suffering from a debilitating bout of feeling slighted.

As will be evident, regardless of circumstances, it is deplorable and utterly juvenile. However, indulge me, for once.

Presenting: My conversation with Phish, who is a PROFESSIONAL WRITER [and I’m NOT]

Phish: So
Aren’t u missing me at all?
me: Umm. Are you missing me? When you're NOT swimming and all...
Phish: maybe
me: Well yes. A distant memory of meeting you once. fond, nonetheless.
Phish: i came FOUR times
me: damn. HOW could I forget in the 50 odd times I've been...
But. FYI [hooow I love this] the pool has been LOVELY in the last few days with this crazy weather.
Phish: SHOO
me: Btw, tell me... is this very pretentious?...because I really felt it: swimming in the rain is like breathing mud dreams...
tell me. honestly.
Phish: it’s a lovely phrase
ive swum in d sea in d rain and THATS EXACTLY WOT IT WAS
me: well someone said it sounded like it was out of a reader's digest.
Phish: uh NO
me: I thought as much.
Phish: they would’ve said "swimming in the rain is the highest form of communion with nature".
or summin like that
me: no they would've said "swimming in the rain is ... WAH WAH WAH".
because 'they' are that eloquent.
Phish: that's Delhi Times

Clearly, by the end I was still talking about someone, Phish wasn’t. *Sigh*.

Blurt

There’s much to be said of the kind of sarcasm that accompanies a dark mood. It’s vile. It’s incisive. And always, always effective.

I’ve been on a roll this morning, dashing off vile, incisive responses on email, which are no doubt going to effectively bankrupt the meagre social-stroke-professional [how sensual and useful, she thought] goodwill I’ve had the mildly-good fortune to earn.

To my punctuation-challenged music director*, who’s been indefinitely stalling work and dodging my calls, but who finally had the decency to respond saying “have already started working will send you something by thursday now cos we got packed with sudden jobs in the middle but i have already started your thing...so ill send it to you when i feel confident about it...”; to him I said, with an involuntary spill of verbiage that skittered off my fingers in a thoughtless little scurry across the keyboard “Shall be praying for your confidence.”

O woe.

And then another*, to whom, with much fondness I sent a list of flattering alliterations, who had the indecent gall to suggest, with unabashed unlettered smugness “i couldn’t find even one allit there u know, all different letters of the alphabets!!!”; to this jewel my fingers involuntarily expectorated “You'd better start paying me for grammar lessons”.

I will not be surprised if I do not receive:
1.) The melody I’ve been awaiting endlessly.
2.) A flattering paean to my literary effort.

Now tell me, how many marks do I get for effectiveness? And [dis]engagement?

***

*Believe me when I say this... I am rather fond of both.

Angel

Today, I swam with angel fins.

Today, I grinned into the water madly happily and burstingly, and couldn’t suppress the spill of my teeth even when I came up to breathe.

Today, I didn’t notice the bird droppings and insect shells.

Today, I shimmied out of the pool with a song in my heart.

Because, today, I swam alongside a G-shaped angel.

I can’t wait for tomorrow

***

“Angels have fins?” exclaimed my poor friend. It must hurt to not have an imagination.

“Well of course they do”, said I. “They have fins, and gills, and third eyelids, and webbed toes, and horns and scales and powerful tails; wings, and more than four limbs and tiger stripes and leopard spots and toad warts... “

At this point I paused for a breath, and he quickly saw his chance to pipe in.

“What happened to blonde hair, blue eyes, celestial tiaras, halos, harps and plain old dove wings?” he smirked.

Said I: “That’s a very narrow Caucasian anthropomorphic view of angels. Plato said that the true form of anything exists as pure latent potential. And somewhere, really powerful angels must be able to be angelic to every kind of being, mustn’t they? If squids had invented paper before us, we’d be praying to giant ink squirting, water lurking angels for salvation. Na?”

“Stands to reason”, he mused, easily won by the lucid logic of my retort. “You should say something about saving the Earth, you know. Something meaningful about latent potential and multiple perspectives… and species. A common inheritance and such”.

I shook my head sadly “I tried.”

“And?”

“And nothing. All I could come up with were a few rancid opinions on George Reisman’s views. I became too bilious and wretched to think anymore”.

“Never mind” he said kindly, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get a cassata. And maybe watch tadpoles in the gutter?”

Such an angel. But I didn’t say it. He mayn’t like to see himself like that. Anymore.

Being Gracious

M declared sanctimoniously the other day as I was propping my fragile jaw carefully on a thoughtless palm while slumping over a table in vapid despair, “what do you expect H? Even if someone wants to express their appreciation to you, you brandish this red flag at them. You suspect their motives for being complimentary or even just nice. You’ve this particular combatant machete-flailing stance in the face of a compliment that is a bit… um… discouraging. No. Intimidating.”

“But…” I started, having settled in a complicated posture.

She cut in ruthlessly, “… No. Shut up. You are.”

I wanted to say, and I know it’s true [don’t ask, I just know], “…it’s because I have broad shoulders.” But this sort of argument doesn’t wash with M [it hasn’t in the past]. She isn’t impressed by the physicality of things; herself being all of 5 feet plus differential bits of an inch, she believes it’s all in the language of your body, and not the body itself.

M shut her eyes to think. M’s the sort of person who delivers her verdict on situations very swiftly and clinically. She doesn’t pause too much on the before-and-aftermath of it, because the idea, as she firmly believes, is to work out a solution.

It is this solution I was waiting for. Not daring to breathe or move for fear of toppling in a broken heap on the floor and breaking her train of thought, I sat contorted atop a freshly upholstered zebra striped chair in the flame licked cavernous mouth of our favourite sharabghar in a painful slump of stillness.

Minutes passed, she showed no sign of opining voluntarily, or opening her eyes.

I was just about to straighten my spine when M finally opened her eyes.

She looked around and quickly spotted a waiter. I sat unmoving in tense anticipation. The waiter slopped over slowly. She placed the order.

I waited.

She traced the blacks of the zebra stripes with her fingers.

The waiter slopped back with our bloodies. M took a long sip.

Finally I sat up.

“Dammit M, I can’t slouch anymore.” I cried.

“That’s a good thing H. It doesn’t become you. This bloody isn’t as good as before the renovation, don’t you think?”

*** [To denote the time lapse between horror and comprehension and all the emotions in between.]

M is losing her memory and fast become a senile old bat.

I on the other hand am becoming a fanciful old bat with an experiential overspill, because this exchange didn’t really happen. I cooked it up. Most of it. Though not about the ghastly renovation. It’s true. Bloody Marys aren’t ever going to be the same again on zebra stripes. Faux antler horn headrests had so much more character.

The thing is, M did give me a solution. M said, “H, stop being a tight arse.”

But I could be wrong. Because it was actually G’s best friend S who said this to me, two years ago. Which I thought was very kind and generous of him especially since it was entirely unasked.

I mayn’t be able to accept appreciation, but I’m always willing to hand it out on a golden platter. Thank you, S-of-the-well-lubed-arse. I might follow your advice some day.

Meanwhile, please don’t get intimidated by my broad shoulders. Go on, be nice to me. I can take it square in the jaw.

No pee princess

Been feeling a bit like a frog in the bog lately.

Crotchety, sticky and green, and nursing a sneaking suspicion that the world is not bog shaped, entirely.

Possibilities are fast closing in, and the most alarming symptom is that my dreams have become calcified and porous, leaked through with the hollow stifling breathlessness of the gaps between realness and fantasy. Truly, shit curdling scary.

Last night my wings became tangled with imli chutney – in as far as something winglike can become entangled with something chutneylike. My mother captured the incontinent spill of my memory in an omelette and served it up to a passing fakir [how colonial is my half-core perception-processor, really?] who later forgot how to invoke a spell on banishing laziness.

And I could, from where I was hanging, see the fraying holes in my head.

It doesn’t help that my gut feels like a sewer pipe that has seen its best days, and would like nothing better than a small pension and a dry spell, but is rapidly losing its grip on reality and that bond which holds sewer pipe alloy molecules together as it burdens under the heaving prolificity of the big bum of fate.

I’ve also had enough of humorists who sound like Woody Allen. It's enormously depressing when people find it in their sick heads to raise laughs about deeply moving things that end with ‘ism’ or ‘isation’. God made American sitcoms for laughing at. The rest is all serious and businesslike – the stuff that Sunny Deol makes films about.

Also, I cannot pee through seven mattresses, which Terry Pratchett says is incontestable proof of royal lineage [and femininity.]

O woebegoneness.

In a departure from my usual and mostly affable frivolity :: OR :: on the periphery of meaningful discourse

I’m going to [try to] talk knowledgably about this absurd piece of rhetoric: “Can Capitalism Save Climate Change?”

Someone gigantically important, no make that monumental, to my head asked me for my views on this idea, saying my advice on this matter would be pertinent since I am among, as he’s most generously and somewhat inaccurately suggested, “…the wisest people I know”. [And, since his views are “mostly unprintable”.]

I put on my most formidable expression and off I went on a resolute search across world wide web for some borrowed ideas and pert observations in a foolish attempt to live up to this false reputation. [Some types of adoration are certifiably injurious to one’s respectability.]

However, notwithstanding how I feel about the act of seeking borrowed intelligence on the matter, I’ll get on with my findings [observations is just too dishonest] or at the very least offer you a chronological account of all the adventures I’ve had across the ether net.

Sailing along Google, I first chanced by George Reisman.

An objectivist and strident advocate of laissez faire capitalism, he believes environmentalists at their moderate best are enthusiastic naïve, blinkered do-gooders and at their extremist worst, a bunch of fascists doomsday alarmists.

In Reisman’s worldview, the UN is the new harbinger of a mutant and vilely insidious form of Communism and [hold your breath] Nazism: Environmentalism. In an illustrious piece on his blog, he says:

“Environmentalism [here Reisman’s referring to the Environmentalist take on it]: The pursuit of individual self-interest causes global warming, acid rain, and ozone depletion. It must be replaced by self-sacrifice for the good of other species—our "fellow biota"—and for the good of the planet, under the auspices of international treaties and a nascent Global Socialist State: the UN. Most of the human race must be exterminated for the benefit of exploited species and the planet. (This is what the environmentalist “extremists” already openly say. The “moderates” merely want to reduce carbon dioxide emissions by 90 percent and thereby reduce the American standard of living to that of a third world country, with a third world country’s infant mortality and life expectancy.)

SAY NO TO RECYCLED COMMUNISM AND NAZISM. SAY NO TO ENVIRONMENTALISM.”

From Reisman’s perch, the world is clearly divided into Capitalist and Environmentalist. If you’re pro-environment, you’re against progress. And of course, American = Person. All other existences are one messy puddle of indistinguishable life form.

But let’s be optimistic. Let’s assume that Reisman provides a critical balance to this raging debate on Capitalism vs. Global Warming. Let’s assume that his is the voice that represents an absent army of bottom line enshrouded corporate sultans whose voices are vaulted away with their hefty bank balances – who are not present, simply because it doesn’t interest them to lend a voice to this tiresome rant about the environment. Trivial things like an obscure ozone layer, landslides in fucking half-the-globe-around and the migration patterns of Siberian cranes are clearly not their concerns, well within the periphery of reason.

Let’s assume, also, and let’s be frank in assuming this, that he gives resonance to that little voice in our heads [my head] which really doesn’t put much faith by the idea of eco-friendly practices leading to viable solutions to anything that will ever be efficient or affordable. A voice that somewhere genuinely believes that material progress is antithetical to being sensitive toward the ecology.

This libertarian voice of Reason goes on to say that we must accept global climatic changes and other such ecological disturbances as the inevitable byproducts of industrialisation, rather than view industrialisation as an infringement on the rights of other species [and people from third world countries and the world at large]. He implies that by being the easiest way forward, industrialisation is also the most natural way forward. It is within the scheme of evolution.

To quote him again:

“…Before any implication for action can be present, additional information is required.

One essential piece of information is the comparative valuation attached to retaining industrial civilization versus avoiding global warming. If one values the benefits provided by industrial civilization above the avoidance of the losses alleged to result from global warming, it follows that nothing should be done to stop global warming that destroys or undermines industrial civilization. That is, it follows that global warming should simply be accepted as a byproduct of economic progress and that life should go on as normal in the face of it.

(Of course, there are projections of unlikely but nevertheless possible extreme global warming in the face of which conditions would be intolerable. However, as I explain below, to deal with such a possibility, it is necessary merely to find a different method of cooling the earth than that of curtailing the use of fossil fuels; I also show that such methods are already at hand.)

In fact, if it comes, global warming, in the projected likely range, will bring major benefits to much of the world. Central Canada and large portions of Siberia will become similar in climate to New England today. So too, perhaps, will portions of Greenland. The disappearance of Arctic ice in summer time, will shorten important shipping routes by thousands of miles. Growing seasons in the North Temperate Zone will be longer. Plant life in general will flourish because of the presence of more carbon dioxide in the atmosphere…”

The assumption is that life – regardless of its form – if it flourishes, is sufficient justification for the unnatural [defined as ‘through man-made conditions’ here] obliteration of millions of other species, because shorter shipping routes are evidently more critical in the larger scheme of things.

To push for a stronger case, he adds, defining a clear polarity of intention:

“…The environmental movement does not value industrial civilization. It fears and hates it. It does not value human life, which it regards merely as one of earth’s “biota,” of no greater value than any other life form, such as spotted owls or snail darters. To it, the loss of industrial civilization is of no great consequence. It is a boon…”

Reisman goes on to bring to our notice another scientific finding, in favour of his argument.

“…two ice ages having apparently occurred in the face of carbon levels in the atmosphere 16 times greater than that of today, millions of years before mankind’s appearance on earth…”

He has a point. Any geologist will have you know that the Earth is in a constant state of flux. Land, water, climate, species that exist and even the shape of the globe; regardless of human presence, things are going to continue to turn. Rivers are going to change their courses, the seas are going to expand and contract, and species of every life form will continue to flourish and die out.

But what he omits to point out is the rate at which it’s happening now. In the last two hundred years [economists and environmental scientists safely – because they must prove it – peg it at developments since the 1950s, which is all the more alarming], the kind of ecological imbalances we’ve set in motion are perhaps equivalent to [or far more extensive than] what we’ve managed over a slower, less synthetic process in the last several millennia predating these two hundred years, which in scale is certainly not as trivial as something to be brushed aside as a mere byproduct of something [industrial civilisation.]

However, what is undeniably attractive about Reisman’s perspective is that he forges on with an exuberant and glorious faith in human intelligence [that abhorrent word again.] His argument hinges on the objectivist notion that the sole moral responsibility of the ideal human is to seek happiness – which is a biologically developed barometer for measuring how successful one is in the pursuit of one’s life purpose. So humans must essentially act for the better of their own kind. He forgets that we measure our purpose in human lifespans, and invariably future generations [whatever lip service we may pay] are never a part of the plan. Why else would America not sign the Kyoto protocol?

However, not all economists subscribe to this extreme viewpoint in favour of an almost fanatical notion of capitalism.

During Nicholas Stern’s tenure as an economist with the World Bank [I shan’t get into the controversy surrounding WB’s involvement in development projects around the world, now] his team wrote up a report, now famously known as The Stern Report, which speaks of the imminent and serious dangers of abusing the environment. It then goes on to draw up a viable economic plan for how developed nations of the world should plough back a percentage of their GDP into environmental damage control.

Sounds reasonably sensible – in a moderate sort of way, na?

While Wikipedia lists an impressive compilation of quotes from Nobel laureate economists over the years congratulating Stern’s report for being the first of its kind to have opened up scope for finding viable ways of addressing the issue of environmental damages without trying to change the order of the world, it too has received scathing criticism. For a faulty calculation of discount rates. Yes, right, my response too. Discount who?

***

I had to stop here with this post. Because it went on in this vein for a while, over a week really. Looking for a nicely compact little watertight idea on healing the environment turned into this messy slow march through a marsh of many conflicting views with no clarity in sight [such a visually loaded sentence, straight out of the Sundarbans. Ah irony.]

And now, I have nothing to show for my diligence. Just a very muddled, alarmed, hopeless head which I am increasingly tempted to bury in a mound of sand [because flushing wastes too much water].

So I’ve dashed off three to four paragraphs of some very crisp words to Monumentally Important Person detailing: a.) my abysmal level of awareness, followed by b.) my views [nonetheless, since you asked] outlining a largely sketchy [at this stage] plan on how political bodies at international, national and local should work it out, ending off with c.) my cheeriest and best wishes for a fantastic debate. Love H.

Uff. I hate compromising my wisdom with such emails.

And now I must leave you with this absolute gem of a quote, which M – the best friend – believes I have fallen in love with just because of the way it’s been phrased [can you believe how absolutely annoyingly right some people can be?]:

“…millions of people in the United Kingdom [H note: this could be true across the globe] who are happy to be described as “environmentalists” remain acutely reluctant even to acknowledge the ideological heartland of what they call “environmentalism”, and are so depoliticised that any mention of the bigger capitalist picture sends them running off back to their bird-boxes and gently simmering organic lentils…”
– Sir Jonathon Porritt

***

Before I run off to my little birdbox, here’s a little note for those of you [all one of you] who’ve made it to these last words.

Since I’ve written a spectacular amount [if we can overlook the quote-unquote] concluding nothing, do share your ideas on this… If you send them in soon enough, perhaps MIP could make use of them – with due credit of course.

Lady Macbeth on soap

O bloody. I think I’m developing a hand-washing fetish.

It is a reliable diagnosis [I am almost certain] because MY MOTHER noticed. Mothers, especially mine, never notice unless they’ve said it at least a million and a half times. The halfth time is when she’s just about barely said “H…” in that sighing, soap loving, child rearing tone and my hands shoot up – gleaming and wet and exuding a gentle-wash lemony floral bouquet, my eyebrows come together, my mouth twists sourly, and starts tiching and barking short “I did” yelps. These days my mouth doesn’t twist sourly it curls into a fresh lemony smile forming floral “I did” shapes, involuntarily.

I wash my hands now. Unasked.

Just this ought to have me quailing in my chuddies, biting my nails down to my elbows, installing restrainers at the wash-basin. Instead I just keep creeping my fingers toward the press-nozzle springiness of imminent delight. You’ll be asking why, just about now and I might as well answer because it is cathartic – this blogging thing. Because it’s an alarmingly regressive hereditary condition in my family. All women on my Mum’s side of genealogy – three [not] wyrd sisters of the Burnpore outback – post-motherhood-pre-something discover a particular baptismal quality to washing. There’s nothing that a good hand washing cannot redeem. Bacteria, foul temper, poor blood circulation and bad karma. Absolution is clearly in the innocuous nozzle of a soap dispenser.

By the way, have you noticed that when you really really get the hang of the word ‘clean’, the idea of a cake of soap being used by more than one pair of hands is a gruesome, macabre, hell-raising thought?

Actually, many things now seem gruesome. For instance other people’s hands. Or going 31 minutes without washing one’s hands. Or touching things in those 31 minutes.

It can be tough when one is used to biting one’s nails. I feel I must wash my hands after they’ve hovered masochistically around [‘in’ is just too crass] my mouth. Which is odd, because mum said hands must be washed so that they could become mouth safe. Not that she said my hands must be stored away in my mouth when not in use…

But this, I suppose, as all events in our lives, is symptomatic of something else. Something larger. Something that has a perverse preoccupation with becoming cosmically meaningful. This something being dirt. The realness of it. The dirtiness of it. The absolute ill-health of it. The creepingness of it into the ridges of the skin on my phalanges and the crevices in my head.

How else does one explain the sense of morality involved in washing my hands? The glorious bursts of celestial fireworks, floral showers, soft white clouds and pristine sparkles of pureness akin to the dust that dancing apsaras kick up – okay maybe not dust – that spring forth in my head when my hands come out dolphin like from under the tap, fragrant with caressing mild liquid soap; and clean.

I think I might have a crush on liquid soap. The rich sparkly creamy floral lemony kind.

That’s it. No OCD. It’s just a bleedin’ crush. Wah hahaha. That was close.

One day in Doon

This is where it was sucked out of me. Commas, colons and stops. And all the words in between. So it is befitting, in the deeply subliminal [because we never display overt signs of it, ever] neat virgoness of my brain, that it should begin, once more, right here.

Here, where my amma wrung my wrists with her baby hands, tugged at my jacket [and something deep inside] and kicked her legs. Life is a tenacious bastard. And pleading, I learnt, doesn’t help. But she got away. On a plump morphine cloud, in a nappy with the last deeply unreliable memory of two generations of her blood, red and alive, spilling salted sorrow and relief and regret and prayers and thanks in a pool, in a spool in a spill in the still around her and above her, hovering between being and not.

She went in peace. I’ll tell myself this. I will believe it.

She went without the burning, bastard catheter. The trickle of an insolent bowel, the embarrassment of it. The ripe blue sore that spread in abiding companionship to the purple rubber sheet, and the years that crept into the cradles of her bones.

She slipped away, thief like, with something that belonged to me.

Stories. Her stories. My stories.

Stashed away in her head, frittered carelessly to passing angels, I’m sure, she made off with my past.

Recollections of baby sized lisping fathers. Of kidnappers and bandits. Of fighters and freedom. Of death and widowhood and resurrection. Of three strong sons like the Sun the Moon and Earth. And of love.

The love she lost half of a hundred years ago. Love so quiet deep and constant that 52 years after she last beheld him, like a naughty, haughty, eager bride she crept away, early in the morning before the household awoke, to be with him once more.

How would I know?

Because she said so.

Frail fingers ran through my hair, my head lightly nestled in the bony crook of her arm as she spoke of her love. “He’s waiting for me” she said, the last time we spoke. “He keeps coming to me in my dreams”.

She even showed The Sibling, her favourite grandchild [I was the least favourite] an ivory brooch he gave her. I LOVE YOU it said, ornately. “What does it say amma?” asked the Sibling, winking at me. “Pah” spat amma, flushed and smiling and getting angry and coy and excited and shaky, “something in English. I shan’t say…”

By the end he did away with all decorum expected of the dead. Sauntered in wherever he pleased to claim his bride.

“There he is, in the doorway, calling my name,” she said once, waving to him coyly from the hospital bed. “I need to go!” she pleaded with my sobbing father.

He. That’s how she referred to him. “When he was ill…” or “When he was transferred to Lucknow…” or “he used to buy me English perfumes…” or “He was a good man, your babaji. The best there ever was”.

He. He had a fucking name. A name as sharp and handsome as he. A name that smells of pine nuts in the Himalayan foothills. A name that ripples with the thunder of thickly muscled Gods. A name befitting a king. Rudra.

And now that Rudra has his bride on the other side; my amma no more, just Shakuntala – princess Shakuntala – age fallen away from her bones, cheeks flushed sparkle in her eyes; I think we’ll begin a new story. One in which she and I could like each other.

***
For Duck [somewhat], because you asked. And because I couldn’t explain adequately, why.

Most of all for Amma, and three generations of her blood.