J10297

The KP conundrum

2010-09-18T08:37:00.000-07:00

Sreemoy Talukdar | September 18, 2010

The rapid rise and fall of Kevin Pietersen has defied belief. What ails arguably the most talented batsman to represent England in recent times? Ever since he burst on to the scene in 2004, the dude with peroxidedyed hair broke all conventions, both on the field and off it. From his switch hit to his Twitter outburst to the dramatic relinquishing of captaincy to a cocksureness that sits better on a rock star, the naturalised Englishman has always been a bit of a maverick. All that ceased to matter, though, whenever he took up the cudgels, picked up the bat and proceeded to deconstruct the world's best bowlers on a 22-yard strip.

Sadly, that sight has become rarer.

As the season nears completion, it's becoming increasingly clear that England's 1, 000-watt bulb is getting dimmer and dimmer by the day. A careful look reveals that the decline hasn't been as rapid as England's selectors would like to believe. Pietersen, by nature or design, has been suffering an unprecedented low in his international career for almost two years now. So bad has been his form, especially in One-dayers, where he scored only 153 runs from nine ODIs at an average of 17. 00 in 2010, and 132 runs in eight matches at 18. 85 in 2009, that he was omitted from England's ODI squad against the visiting Pakistan team last month.

On being axed, a bitter Pietersen let loose his politically incorrect instincts, tweeting an expletive-ridden post and subsequently apologising to the England and Wales Cricket Board. The ECB promptly decided it was time for Pietersen to go back to the county grind to regain some confidence ahead of the Ashes in November.

England can ill afford to lose him for that series, but there was a slight problem. Pietersen's county, Hampshire, for whom the South Africa-born cricketer has played all but one T20 match since 2005, decided that they don't need him any more. That suited Pietersen, since he was anyway unwilling to travel to Hampshire from his residence at Chelsea. But under ECB rules, one can no longer represent the national side unless affiliated to a county.

The ECB brokered a loan move between Surrey and Hampshire and Pietersen was asked to help out Surrey till the remainder of the season. The former England captain's spell with Surrey has so far brought mixed results. He scored a 116 against Sussex in the CB40 series, but fell for a duck against Glamorgan in the county championship. That he was not happy with the new arrangement became clear when Pietersen sought permission for a short-term loan move, this time to his native place in South Africa, to the Durban-based Dolphins. The October 7-17 stint, which was cleared from both sides, will enable him to play two four-day matches.

The wheel has come full circle for Pietersen, who will not be paid for the stint. Strangely, it takes him back to where his cricket career started, before he opted for England. And as he waits upon his immediate and long-term future with England, it is in South Africa that he must find his touch.

By all accounts, Pietersen's tale has been one of befuddlement and intrigue. Before his spectacular fall, he was touted to break all English batting records. Initially, the star did not disappoint, becoming the fastest batsman to reach both 1, 000 and 2, 000 runs in ODIs and also being the quickest in terms of time to 5, 000 Test runs. Pietersen also has the highest average of any England player to have played more than 20 innings of One-day cricket. He has the second-highest run total from his first 25 Tests, behind only Don Bradman. He was the fastest player, in terms of days, to reach 4, 000 Test runs. He became only the third English batsman to top the ODI rankings in March 2007. Shane Warne even wrote in a column that "I don't think Pietersen has an obvious flaw in his technique". No wonder England are sweating over this unexpected patch of bad form.

What went wrong? And how can the ECB get the best out of him? The answers probably lie deep within Pietersen's strained psyche. His megalomaniacal ways haven't endeared him to teammates wherever he has played. Former England captain Michael Vaughan once said, "KP is not a confident person. He obviously has great belief in his ability, but that's not quite the same thing. And I know KP wants to be loved. I try to text him and talk to him as often as I can because I know he is insecure."

In a bare-all interview recently with an English news channel, Pietersen admitted that he was suffering from a loss of confidence. It hasn't helped that luck has deserted him. In the Lord's Test against Pakistan last month, post hours of practice, Pietersen flayed wildly at his first delivery from Mohammad Aamer, edged and made his way back to the dressing room for a duck. Was it the stroke of a desperate man trying to hit his way out of trouble or that of a man who was challenging his fate in the only way he knows?

After all, faced with a similar situation two years ago at Edgbaston, the more plebian Paul Collingwood had waged war against the odds and gone on to make a career-saving hundred. Given that Pietersen's success depends on his confidence, has the ECB done the right thing by dropping him ahead of the Ashes? Is it justified to treat Pietersen at par with a Collingwood or an Ian Bell, who are blessed with more diligence than talent? Would it have been better to keep playing him till he came good, which he inevitably must?

But then cricket is a team game and one standard must apply for all. Pietersen has shown intent by opting for hard work. Perhaps a week without media glare in his home town of Durban might help him rediscover the mojo. Either that, or England's fortunes are bound to plummet along with Pietersen's.

Murder, she wrote

2010-07-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

After nearly a year, all I can come up with is a whimsical little nonsense. So be it.

Murder, she wrote
I looked into her eyes
I saw my death dance, Black/
the night flows around her shoulders
So tell me, is that what you wanted/
to tell me? Is that the promise you/
couldn't keep? Is that the lie
I took as my truth?
Is that the dream, the foolish dream?
Murder, I wrote.
And let's get back to business.

B+

2009-09-12T03:54:00.000-07:00

I wait for you with falling night in my eyes
Taut, slender, dark, alluring
Life passes me by
Tie it up, your free flowing darkness
The light, it hurts...

The morning paper feels crisp. I take the inky smell. I love the smell of old pillows, yellow books and your discarded clothes. I love the smell of first rain, of damp earth and the dampness between the legs. I hate spines. All my books are spineless, split down the middle, just like me. There was a time when the pouring sunlight reminded me of a brand new day. Now it makes me afraid. Another day, fruitless, maimed, demented is about to be born. I am sorry I cannot write about all the positives. That marketing guy... what's his name now...? He tells me I should be positive. I should think positive, eat positive, even shit positive. Trouble is, I forgot his name.

Liar

2009-04-17T04:49:00.000-07:00

There are some days when I don't want to be myself. There are some days when I wish I could forget how fat and thick I am and lie on the bed and with the agility of my two-year-old son, put the big toe in my mouth. There are some days when I wake into the mirror on a stillborn afternoon and wish my life was just like my hair, that I could fix it with a little bit of water on a bad hair day.
No. I don't want to write poetry, you fool. I don't want my words to sound poetic. In the middle of a nondescript day, with half desires buried in me, I try to make sense of it all. Curly hairs, svelte figures, sulky sexuality, spartan athleticism, petite, delicate, understated beauty, I have seen it all. I crave for roughness now. A dominatrix, maybe. Someone who will shake me off my stupor and rub red chilly powder in my eyes. Whip me into admitting that I am just as perverted as one of those six rapists. Grovel my nose into dirt and slap me hard so that I realise what a waste it has been so far.
But of course you won't understand anything. With the calm casualness of Mr/Ms know-it-all you will tell me what a brilliant post it has been. Liar!

Dark

2009-04-04T05:18:00.000-07:00

I am a creature of darkness. I prefer to sleep during the day. The sun hurts my eyes. At home, I have invested in some heavy-duty dark fabric for the window curtains that keeps my room semi-dark even at noon. I feel drowsy and wander like a zombie till the sun sets. I don't have a real appetite at daytime and can carry on without a bite till evening. Maybe some juice or a glass or two of water. When the sun sets and darkness descends, I wake up. I come into my own. My senses sharpen as evening melts into the night. A strange restlessness engulfs me. I feel keener, taut, energetic. My heaviest, multi-course meal is the dinner which I usually have around 1am.
Ever since my college days, when I was no longer bullied into retiring early to attend the morning classes, I have never gone to bed before 2. But it is only after taking up journalism as a profession that I got a valid excuse to spend my nights the way I was born to.
In the early Statesman days, the poor souls couldn't afford an hourly drop at night and we had to wait till the earlier car came back. We usually let the married and the impatient leave early and after the day's work, sat and chatted over a blue sofa. "What do you do till so late?" my mother would sometimes ask as I tiptoed into the room. "There wasn't any car, ma... And you know we have to drop the girls first..." Partial truth. But isn't life a blend of such like?
We would ask the driver to halt at roadside dhabas near the airport. Angona used to stay near the airport -- bless her -- and have a rowdy, hearty meal. Kebabs and naans and creamy daals and drinks so cold that hurts your teeth and some good grass before and after... Hash makes you hungry.
Then mom passed away and my nights became a little more lonely. I would return really late and play Max Payne till the sun peeps out. When the city sleeps, my hero would kill thugs by the thousands and pump a trillion bullets. I would clinch my fist in excitement and roar in frustration at times. Max Payne was good. He didn't allow me to think.
Mumbai is so different from Kolkata. The smell, the colour, the drapes, the works, the glitz, the shapes, the curves. But as midnight approaches and she sheds her frills, I find her. She spreads out like a woman whose every contour I am familiar with. She whispers in the dark. I listen. I walk back home every night from the station. The main street, the sub-street, the lanes, the branches, the slight risings, puckered tips, the forked alleys. I walk like a man possessed. The stray dogs look at me with suspicion. The kulfiwallahs and rickshawwallahs look at me with interest. The leaves swish, stray voices pour out from multi-storied windows. Bored ATM securitymen, trapped in ill-fitting uniforms, doze off. I blend. Me, the darkness and the city.

Single in the city

2009-04-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

Alone. In Mumbai. It’s been a few months. It was August last year when I first landed in Santa Cruz on a hot, steamy morning. I was to meet someone, sign an offer letter and catch a morning flight the day after. Since I had no prior booking, I had to go on a hotel hunt immediately.

I was looking for a room at around Rs 2500 per day. The amount, I was confident, would be enough for a reasonable room in a reasonable hotel.

Determined to be as near the airport as possible, I picked out what I thought were unassuming buildings.

With a slightly overdone courteousness, the receptionists politely told me that the “rooms, sir, start from 9000 INR.”

The guards respectfully opened the all-glass door for me.

Three walkouts later, when I was thanking my lucky stars for keeping a goatee since scratching it at these moments provides a welcome diversion, my guardian angel spotted me.

“Kahan jana hain, saabji?” He knew the answer, I suspected. “Aiye, baithiye,” the door of the AC cab held slightly ajar, he said.

“It’s no use looking for a lodging here,” he said, adding: “Let me take you to a cosy place nearby. The hotels here are mercenaries out to make a killing,” he warned me.

We wound our way through the lanes and by-lanes of Santa Cruz. Around 10 minutes later as the city became narrower, busier and shabbier, he halted.

“Wait,” he told me urgently, and disappeared.

It was noon already and I had an appointment at 3pm. Not knowing how far Lower Parel is from Santa Cruz and how best to reach there, I was perhaps getting a little impatient.

He came back after a few minutes and asked me to follow him.

We came to a lane just off the main street and he ushered me into a hotel which no one would notice unless looking for it. Two rickety side chairs and a damaged sofa sat opposite a reception table where a 30-something woman was busy talking over the phone.

My angel asked me to sit, went up to her and muttered something in a muffled voice.

“Bahut mushkil se ek room mila hain,” he came back to me.

After duly filling in the details, I grasped the key, took my bag and in my best Hindi, asked my angel “kitna hua”?

“Rs 500, saabji,” he said.

My palm started sweating. “Arrey!” I blurted, outraged. “Show me your meter”, I challenged.

My angel took pity on my ignorance. “Yeh AC taxi hain, saabji,” he flashed his betel nut teeth in a snooty grin. “You shell out the amount the moment you step inside.” He then reminded me that he has not charged a single paisa for his philanthropy! I handed the money.

I checked into the room. A large bed left little room for anything else. It was 1pm already but I ignored my watch and lied on the bed. The heat left me exhausted.

A cranky sound followed hot air. I don’t have an AC at home and don’t know how the damn thing works so I called up reception.

Shortly a towering, smelly attendant came and started tinkering with the machine. “Ab thik hain?” he asked me. There was a stream of cool air accompanied by a whining sound that grew louder by the minute.

“Off karna ho toh pehle lal button dabaiye,” he shouted over the noise, and went off.

I lay stubbornly in bed, determined to ignore the sound and squeeze out every bit of my money. Suddenly there was one mighty flash and then everything fell quiet. Acrid smoke started coming out of the AC ventilator.

By then I was getting desperately late for a very important appointment in a city which was new to me. I grabbed my bag and rushed out.

My appointment went off like a dream even though I was nearly two hours late. My would-be boss gave a warm hand-shake, a disarming smile and led me into a space filled with a young, vibrant crowd. For someone long used to the stiffness of a corporate hierarchy, it seemed refreshing.

It was the third birthday of the organisation I was about to join. The mock fighting to grab a small piece of the cake, the spraying of the bubbly, the infectious smiles of those around me caught me unawares. Pretty girls they were too.

I returned to my ground-floor room that evening thanks in no small measure to another taxiwallah who stubbornly went through the lanes and by-lanes because I had lost all clue. I lied on the bed after an exhausting day. The AC has been fixed. I had to catch a morning flight but suddenly I couldn’t wait for my date of joining. I was beginning to like this melting pot – this city.

Of square pegs and round holes

2008-03-02T12:29:00.000-08:00

So it's clear by now. I pick up the shards of my irrational whims and tie them up for a post that belonged to yesterday. The trouble with chocolate mousse is that you love it, and hate yourself for loving it. I mean that's the point about sin, isn't it...? Why do chocolates and sin have to be wonderfully irresistible...? I mean I almost see a divine design here . Which brings me to the point of will. What with my track record I shouldn't be fishing here but as they know, when have I stopped taking a risk?
Why do we have a will in the first place? What is the purpose behind it? If everything that we do is pre-determined then what's the point in writing this anyway? The bloody computer KNOWS what I am going to type. To think that I was going to write a soft-porn story and ended up writing an incoherent set of misleading words was, too, you guessed it... pre f-ing determined.
Trapped in a circle, I try to find a square peg. A Patiala peg, anyone...?

Dinner

2007-10-25T05:38:00.000-07:00

First get two soup bowls... sparkling, squeaky clean
Then cut both my veins in two deep, neat slashes
Pour the warm blood carefully... take care not to spill
It's O-Positive and precious
Stir them till the coagulation gets over... Your soup is ready
Next, take out my heart... Shouldn't be too difficult
It's already badly bruised... So no need to make further cuts
Microwave it in 70 degrees for 3 minutes....
Should become properly browned, crunchy and nice
The liver next
Mash it well... make into little dumples and deep fry...
He'll like it...
Lastly, roast me over slow fire
After you have tearfully marinated me well over two days
Should be succulent and tempting by now...
Light the candles... Lay the table...
By the way, have you checked the cutleries?
After it's over and you proceed
To roll over into his teasing arms for a long night of syrupy, passionate love
Tell me, mademoiselle...
Tell me how was the dinner...?

Master

2007-10-11T00:23:00.000-07:00

Uncomfortable, wild whims. I try so bloody hard to keep them under control. All my judgements, common sense, practicalities and maturity make for a strong, thick rope. Very elastic. Very durable. I tied the wishes up in a firm, stubborn leash. Pushed the bundle back into the anterior chamber of my brain.
And then I call you up at 2.00am in the morning...
Don't laugh. I don't know what else to do with my wild horses. They run me over, dictate my actions, overrule my better sense. They make me a laughing stock.
Perhaps you have a better idea, don't you? A thin smile dangling on your lips ever so lightly as you read this...? GO ahead. Mock me. Amuse yourself at my expense. I lie naked, vulnerable before you.
My hands are bound behind my back. The torso taut, facing the blazing sun I try to lower my eyes. Drops of sweat drip down my chin, my chest... slowwwly.

Around this time I come to my senses. Defiant, I demand an explanation from my fingers. They are amazed. "How could we have typed these words on our own...?" They wonder!
Perfect idiots, if you ask me, because I entirely rely on them. I mean, they know that with mutilated fingers there is NO way I can write. Have you seen anyone type with their lips? The keyboard won't respond, simple. So why won't I ask for an explanation? More specifically, the middle fingers of both hands. Even the thumb is a party to it. And I always thought it was the silent one. But look what they have done.
It is SO humiliating to expose myself. What would she think, that I am trying to make a point here...?
Trouble is, I can't even erase these words without the help of my fingers. And they are simply refusing to delete what I see as a clear effort to insult me in public.
Lest you misunderstand me, let me tell you these are NOT what I wanted to write. I wanted to write about the Pujo. The office. The happy, happy me. My salary. Rizwanur. India losing the match. My friends who would be landing in India from all corners of the world. The brilliantly necessary "breaking news" that the channels churn with rotund regularity.
Instead, all you get are some incoherent, utterly nonsensical words. I apologise. I am not the master of my self...

Snake

2007-10-04T00:06:00.000-07:00

The dream meanders
Like a slow moving snake
Taking in all the dirt, grime and a little bit of sunlight

Take the metro on days like this...
Stay away from the doors, keep
Your eyes firmly on the book
The dream loves to hibernate

The hint on you hair
Is what colours my eyes
The dream lives
Feeding on hope...

Stay,
Stay near me...

Draft

2007-10-03T10:30:00.000-07:00

Ira came to me yesterday...
Slightly breathless, she said after living, loving
Staying with him for 15 years, she feels like running away.
A wonderful life it has been, she said. A wonderful kid, a close-knit family
A car, own house, a cushy job, maids, doting in-laws
So she feels like running away
'Go Ira', I said, 'run'
She ran, tumbled, smiled back at me
The chains were pink, now they are slightly red...
Burnt Sienna, the colour of her sari when she spoke
The day has passed... A blackish tinge to the unblemished yellow...
The spot has darkened...
Why Ira, I asked her...
Why, after so many years...?
That's the point, she replied... The black is what attracts me

Comedy

2007-09-09T02:21:00.000-07:00

Aristotle may not agree, but life is one bloody comedy. And there is nothing remotely Poetic about it. I didn't believe it when I read Name of the Rose. I mean Umberto Eco could have chosen a different subject for his work. But the fact that he focused on Aristotle's missing (?) book, says a lot about how others have stumbled on to the truth before I did.
Well, to cut a long story short, they always do.
I have always thought of "brilliant" ideas only to discover that others have done that before me. There is no more to be written, no more to be travelled, no more to be filmed, no more to be canvassed... Everything has been taken care of...
Which is why, one is forced to turn inwards. The inner truth. Now if you have been stupid enough to stick to this absolute gibberish for so long, pray stay with me a little longer.
What has taken me, you may ask, to suddenly discover this at the ripe age of 30?
That, which led to the creation of the Big Bang in the first place — Chance.
Imagine waking up from the bed one fine morning and discovering yourself being turned into a cockroach. Might be a good laugh for the wife who now has a valid reason to sweep you out of her life... But I can assure you, not a good feeling. Now, you are thinking... here we go again... Delving deep into the realm of utter nonsense... But what if it's true. Think. Is your life better than a cockroach's? At least they have a purpose to live... To die for...
And I am not even considering Kafka here... I have always found him a little too intimidating for my taste.
The cursor blinks. I wait for the next word. The promise was meant to be broken, so why crib?

Death

2007-07-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

I want to talk about an issue tonight which I have been forcibly trying to push at the back of my mind ever since I created this blog. Call it soul-bearing if you will, but it is impossible that any human being wouldn't have thought of it.
Death it is, in case you are wondering what exactly I have in my mind. We all have our little brushes with it. Some, like me, have died quite a few times before the heart actually stops pumping. Clinical death, if compared to the one I am talking about, would at those precise moments come as a relief!
However, I am going to concern myself with death as it is. Shorn of all adjectives, adverbs, introductions, epilogues and monologues. To me death is just that. Period.
It has always fascinated me, ever since I was a child, to think about death. What happens at the very moment when we realise we are dying? What thoughts cross our mind? Or is it just what I think it is, no thoughts... no conjectures, just a plain and simple struggle for the next breath? I have done a fair bit of research on death. But nearly all the answers have been metaphorical when all I need is a very objective one. Part of the problem, I guess, is the fact that there isn't anyone to talk about it.
Whatever I am doing right now, quarrelling, abusing, living, loving, fighting, writing another pointless blog, I am aware of my presence. It is My hand that touches the keyboard, My brain that dictates me what to write, My eyes that see what has been written. What happens to ME??? Who is this I am talking about? I become so utterly confused.
How would I react when it would dawn on me that I am dying...? When I think very hardly about it, I shudder. A cold, cold wave goes down my spine. I struggle to breathe. And I stop thinking about it...
Death has never left me. It has been bugging me like those insurance agents all through my life. I can't go away from it. I can't run from it. Even during the most crucial moments, death has been just around the corner, smiling that toothless smile. Reminding me that the interview that I just cleared, the girl that I just married, the woman that I am eyeing at the metro, the new pair of shoes that I am longing for, the gala dinner that has been laid out for me, is nothing more than a mere passing phase. Come to me, it says with arms wide outstretched... I take to my heels...

Office

2007-07-26T11:38:00.000-07:00

Bitchy hushes in the pink corner. Low laughter rings like a metal, sonorous and crystal clear. The swishing of a pair of bell-bottom denims, the sudden gust of Chanel 9 air melts into the tippetty-tappetty of the Dell keyboards. The cell phones cry out in myriad tunes, high-pitched voices drown the soft murmurs of a nearby coffee corner. L tries to concentrate hard on the monitor. The screen flickers into life in the same monotone. Little voices within her head makes her cast a sideways glance onto the next cubicle. A's busy with his work, a little too busy perhaps, feels L. The remnants of a half-eaten role stares back at her. Chicken eyes thickly wrapped in stir-fried capsicum.
'D's wearing the top at least three sizes small,' muses L with a thin smile. She starts sifting through the spams in her mailbox. One gets a little tired, doing the same thing over and over and over again in a mechanical, routinous way. Oddly, the way she throws her chappals after logging in, the left one kissing the tip of the right always at the same angle, is a small miracle taking place with an almost boring regularity.
Some feat, this, thinks L. To be able to do things with such precision without even thinking about them! Perfectly commonplace, mind you, but there they are. The mouse always held with the last three fingers, the other two lying in casual abandon. The cell phone kept at 45 degrees, landline 15 centimetres to her right, legs crossed with the left resting ever so lightly over the right, the spams which promise millions of dollars in an African bank, unclaimed, waiting to be picked up, the boss barking in the same moronic voice, colleagues conspiring, hating, teaming up, falling apart, cuddling close, licking off tears, slapping the back — the sameness of an eternal cycle spinning round a sphere... Even the flirty glances of casual eyes brings a sense of Deja Vu.
It's very easy to read about great men who have broken away from the dumbing down-ness of a ghetto. K recently threw away his job for a career in music. S loves trekking, so she took a two-month leave and never returned. G wears g-strings under the matronly suit. P threw the R-letter at his boss for bad-mouthing him. Great men, women, peers. But L loves being roasted in her own juices. Of recalling what a mistake it had been to join the job. A bit like scratching a mole. Truth is, the moribund existence of a ghetto-ised life promises a security that seems dangerously elusive outside it.
L snaps back into the words that are forming into sentences as if all on their own. The office crackles into life with the sure, heavy footsteps of confident men who have neither the time nor the intention of lazing away, day-dreaming with words. L smiles, inwardly. It's good to be human.

Streetcar

2007-07-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

I finally got a car last week. Before you turn the page over in disgust, let me tell you my earlier statement is untrue. I didn't get a car. It got me instead.
Well, the streetcar looked cushy, comfortable and didn't tug too much at my purse-strings... I sat on the driver's chair... I remember I wanted to pick up something from the New Market.
The throbbing, pulsating wheel, however, steered me into a lane I hadn't ventured before. An unmitigated, raw desire welled up as if a dam has burst within... The tour de force of it took me completely by surprise.
The corner, which I had turned blindly a thousand times, couple of hundreds while I was sleepwalking, threw open a new angle so blindingly seductive that I became powerless to resist its charms. The flighty temptress seemed too alluring. What started as a casual little drive became a devouring desire as I delved deeper and deeper into its alleys and sub-alleys.
For nine days and nine long agonising nights I thought about deserting the lane for the highway. I do not have to spend my time convincing you that greater mortals than me have lost the battle, so it is almost destined I will lose in the end. Self-destruction, I have to admit, is one hell of an addiction. The fireflies will be able to tell you better how easy it is to jump into the fire than wait in the wings of warm, melting heat. One that skins you alive.
This was becoming too much too handle. I honked the horn in desperation, tried to jam the brakes. The accelerator pressed tightly, I turned the wheel. Or did I?
Let there be fire, someone said, and out broke the inferno that slept within. I became me. I never knew it's so soothing to be roasted alive. Ah life! See you in another time, another space...

Sleepy nights

2007-07-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

I am sleepless. It’s weird. The Citi, they say, never sleeps, but not my city. The car zips through the sleepy pavements, downed shutters, curtained windows and random traffic lights. ‘Enough’, laughs Red to the car, ‘I am not going to stop you now’… She dances with Yellow as Green looks on. Green always looks on. It’s his destiny. Not for him the little crook where the short top gives way to the svelte waist. He sees others resting their hands on the slightly bulging desire as their staggering legs fumble to kickstart the bike or get into the car after a heady night. He blinks. Allows the pair to pass. Not that they would have waited for him. Neither do we. Our car leaves behind smelly rubber. With looks of pure disgust, highway dogs give way. Have you ever noticed how black the water becomes at night? Tar. Simmering, shivering in faint wind. Padded bras in place, girls stare at us with bored faces. Anxious eyes. The radio sounds a tad too seedy with the bored DJ trying her best to cheer up sleepless ears. Like us. The humid air sticks to the collar. We carefully ignore desperate commuters waving frantically at us. The dinner is getting cold. The baby’s fast asleep. Sleepy wife shifts uneasily on bed. Whispering sounds fill the air. Another night comes to an end…

Choiceless

2007-07-19T00:59:00.000-07:00

The red tape has been sticking up my backside ever since the day I was born… Funny that I thought it won’t be there when I wanted to write a simple blog. Cutting through that swathe is tiring and putting-off.

Now that I have a name, a blog title and have been assured of a global audience (clap, clap) I don’t wish to write any more. But I found out quickly that here too, the elusive Choice has deserted me for the dictionary, residing as it does between Choctaw and Choir. Oh come on! Can’t you be mine? Even for a fleeting moment? ‘Nope’, answers back Choice. ‘Because if I did, you wouldn’t know what to do with me.’

Choice is heartless, as you can no doubt see. So let’s move on…

Let’s talk about raindrops and mittens, and warm woolen kittens. Or is it mittens? I am not too sure. My old fuddy brain keeps on pulling a fast one, every now and then. Layers and layers of repression are hard to clear. They clog the cerebellum and cerebrum like stalactites and stalagmites. I wanted to break free a thousand times, but nowhere seems safe enough. Not even the useful anonymity of a casual blog. There are too many fingerprints to trace me… Hunt me down. Pin me up. Nail me finally to the coffin whose warm bed awaits me. I toss and turn in my earthy bed, light footsteps of a fragile little girl over my grave. She is lost in rain and decides to take shelter near me. Oh God! I am ready to die a thousand deaths just to see her face. But it is not possible, you see. A lifetime that has been spent looking at the legs has condemned the eyes to the cracked sole. A cracked soul too. I become a worm and squirm under her feet. She could have trampled me or stepped aside in disgust. But she takes me in her hands. I worm my way up her face where you can’t tell whether it’s raindrops or tears since she had split. I smell of the sea, oysters and fresh face.