The Effects of a Modified Insomnia

I have been plagued, of late, with the affliction of the most irregular sleep patterns I have ever had. Result? I'm up at 7 am, on my porch, cup of chai in hand, watching the colony wake up.

Still, I think I could get used to this.

Orange clutched the robes of grey. Said, "You won't stop me anymore."

Morning broke.

Unmasking

They found him dead in his bed. Natural causes, as far as the doctors could tell. No one knew he wasn’t well.

They grieved for him silently for the most part, once the initial shock wore off. Each in their own way. Slowly, as the news spread, people trickled in. At first, it was just family and close friends, then in large groups, acquaintances, old flames, college classmates. So many people remembered him; a kind word, a helping hand.

The memorial was beautiful. Some were weeping, but only silently. Everyone remembered and tried to respect his well-known wish: Smile at my funeral. Dozens of them spoke, telling of how he touched their lives, selflessly. Made them realise what it was they wanted to do with their lives. How his smile had moved them all so deeply. How he’d always been laughing, always trying to make everyone smile.
Towards the end of the ceremony, just as people were about to leave, his lawyers walked in. Said they needed everyone, just about everyone to stay. Apparently, he’d left a message for them all. A video tape, with the explicit instructions that it be shown to everyone who came.

A large television set was arranged for, and the tape pushed into the VCR. An expectant crowd leaned forwards; some anticipating a reading of his will, wondering what he’d left them; others simply curious to know what he could have known he wanted to say to them even before his death.

Static. Then a hand moving away from the screen as the camera was turned on. And there he was, sitting on a simple chair, smiling calmly like he always had. To many, it seemed at the time as if the dreaded event had never happened, as if he were just somewhere else, talking to them all via video conference or something. And then he started talking.

If you’re seeing this, I’m dead. Heh. I’ve always wanted to say that. I hope you idiots aren’t all dressed in black, weeping around an open coffin draped in flowers. I sure as shit hope to God not.

Now, some of you are expecting me to start reading out which of my ample worldly possessions go to whom, and I’ve got a good feeling I know who you all are, too. Well, tough shit. My lawyers will do that in private, later. But I respect the fact that you’re here, eagerly listening, sitting at the edges of your seats, barely able to conceal your greed behind what is now your rapidly fading glee.

No, that’s not what this tape is for. This tape is so that those of you that have the wrong impression of me get the story straight. I know some of you would have eulogised me, said lovely things about me. Mary, I bet you told everyone the story of how we met. And Paul, how we built that treehouse one summer and I taught you how to hammer a nail in straight. I bet you all said how you really enjoyed all my annoying habits and that as you now realise, much too late, that’s the reason you loved me.

Well, this message is for all of you so that the record’s set straight. I hate myself. I always have. I couldn’t stand my guts and I don’t know how you idiots did. Mary, I cheated on you. Thrice. Once with your sister. I’ve done things that would make you people look back at me and ask yourselves if you ever knew me at all.

And the answer is no. You didn’t. No one did. And that’s why you liked me. And that’s why I hated myself. Because I knew me. And that’s why I’m in that coffin. You cannot imagine the relief I’m feeling as I tell you this. Good bye, and good riddance.

Static.

And silence.

How Messiahs Are Born

The Dreamcatchers come around everyday.

They're there, at my door, every morning, in their pink and blue suits and large, yellow-rimmed sunglasses. I never understood the sunglasses; it's only about 7:30 in the morning. I think they have microcamera screens on the lenses to help them see the fragments of dreams hanging in the air around us. Did you know pink and blue are relaxing colours in the morning? The State told us. They saw it in our dreams.

Ever since Executive Decision 47065B, our dreams are property of The State. They're collected so that The State knows what the people hope and dream for and can give it to us. That's what all the campaign commercials said. So yeah, they give the people what they really, truly want. And they'd know, right? They have the only copies of our dreams.

They come in your door, bright and early; right after you wake up. I guess they have advanced sensors that tell them when we've gotten out of bed. The Dreamcatcher Wands don't hurt. They wave them through the air around our heads, and the blinking blue lights help us relax while they suck the few remaining shards of dreams out of our peripheral memory. The State tells us that The Wands are like vaccuum cleaners for our brains. Just as safe, too.

Don't tell anyone this, but I don't trust The State. That's why I have this plan, see? I've figured a way to get around The Dreamcatchers. And they'll never find out.



You see, I have a dream diary.


Sshhh!

Slow Decay

He stumbled a little. The pain in his foot had been growing.

He sat down on a bench and took off the shoe. The sock was sticky at the big toe. Gingerly, he pulled it off to find a rather large hole at the end of his toe. Later, he remembered thinking how remarkably little blood there was for something of that sort.

He turned his foot around to get a better view. That's when he saw the maggot inside his toe, eating away at his flesh. He woke up screaming.

He could still feel it, inside his toe. Quickly, he pulled up his foot to check. Nothing. Sleep didn't come back to him for a very long time.

He felt it on the bus, going to college. Frantically, he pulled his shoe off to check again. Nothing. 'Get a grip,' he told himself, pulling his windcheater on and stepping into the rain.

Through three classes, he paid rapt attention, willing himself to concentrate on anything else. His friends found it odd that he was so quiet.

In his head, he was screaming.

Workout

They planned to work out together. ''If you don't want me to be fat, I'm not going to let you grow a paunch,'' she said to him.

''Kickboxing! Or sparring!'' he said excitedly. ''You can try taking me down.'' She disagreed. Said she didn't want him kicking the tar out her physically as well. Apparently, he did that enough verbally. It took three weeks of convincing. Very persuasive convincing, at that. Finally, as a compromise, she agreed to try it out once.

The kickboxing lasted exactly three minutes. They sparred every morning.

The Devil & The Deep Sea

Every morning, my parents wage a war. An epic battle with one simple aim. Waking me. They take it in turns. One is effective but lazy, the other persistent as hell.

Mom's modus operandi is simple. Yell 'Get up' / 'Utho' or some other derivative of the same in her loud, scary, kindergarten-teacher voice.

Unfortunately, this appeals to the eternally-eight-year-old in me. Yes, that stubborn, never-do-what-you're-told eight-year-old. And I stay under the sheets, stuff my head under a pillow, only to have her repeat the cycle till I groggily tumble out of bed.

Dad, on the other hand, comes and sits on the bed next to me. Gives me a back massage. While I'm still half asleep, he asks (and I'm sure he's perfectly aware this is the best time to get an answer out of me) what's happening with me.

And somewhere, completely casually, he'll slip in one of those scary questions; the kind that are hard-wired to set off alarm bells ringing in your head. Questions like 'How much money is in your bank account?' And suddenly, my eyes are wide open, my mind completely alert. Somehow, I deflect his question and shoo him away. But I'll be damned if I can go back to sleep after that.

I'm not sure which I prefer.

An Unequal Relationship

They'd made love like gentle summer winds. Fucked like wild rabbits on the brink of extinction.

She lay back, dreamy, exhausted. He reached over to the dresser and lit a cigarette. Adoringly, she whispered in his ear, "I love you."

Absently, he replied, "Yeah, me too," contemplating the benefits of mushrooms in a cheese omelette.

Does ink die?

...as it dries on a page, spread out into incoherently scrawled symbols?

Or do those symbols grant it a new life eternal?

Just a thought.

One Word

He cradled his head in his hands. Breathed slowly, deliberately. His head was pounding. His eyes were close to watering. And every muscle in his body burnt. All he wanted was to find a soft mattress of some kind and pass out on it.

The phone rang.

The headset was already plugged in. He looked at the display. That sappy executive at the associate firm. Again. No doubt asking his stupid, ignorant, inane questions. Again. Refusing to understand logic. Again. Trying to get three weeks’ work done in two days. Again.

He answered.

The customary bout of arguments ensued. He tried keeping his calm. Gritted his teeth and rationally explained why it couldn’t be done in such little time. His calm lasted 30 seconds. As he exploded on the phone for the second time that day, at least three people looked up from their machines, eyebrows cocked. Others quietly, and wisely, chuckled to themselves.

He hung up.

He looked around, daring anyone to say something. A few gazes lingered, then quailing, went back to their work. Rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms, he rested his head against his desk. More than anything else, he wished for the day to end.

His message tone beeped.

Certain he’d be looking at another mountain of work, he looked down at the screen. A pleasant surprise awaited him. It wasn’t from the account executive. Or biz-dev. Or his boss. Or any of the clients. He opened the message. It contained just one word.

Coffee?

He looked up and across the room at her. Their eyes met and they both smiled. As one, they got up and walked to the pantry.

And just like that, the first post in the new year gets dedicated to Pink. Because even now, she has no idea what that ping did for me.

Words

They’re here somewhere. It’s almost three in the morning and I can’t sleep because I can feel them. They won’t let me.

They're somewhere underneath. Waiting. Crouching. Ready to pounce. Looking for a way out. Stringing themselves together. Lazily floating through each other, joining, disassembling. I close my eyes and the letters are right there, behind my eyelids. All jumbled up and swimming around me randomly.

I have to let them out. They leave me no choice.

 

I’m glad they don’t.

Floodgates

He sat there, staring into space, fingers twitching nervously. It just sat there next to him, saying nothing, doing nothing.

He cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to erase the images. His hands were shaking now. The visions took over.

Sitting there on the porch, he lit his first ever cigarette.

A View To Offend

It’s two am. A traffic signal blinks desolately yellow at a now-ignored intersection. The most activity comes from a pack of fighting dogs and three cows. The yeasty crawling of Jack London’s Wolf Larsen is all but at an end.

The jagged road makes a swathing cut through the hutments, the pale yellow lamplight a lame attempt to divide, to cut through a living, breathing mass of the city. The distant road marks a bejeweled, outlined crown.

Surreptitious meetings take place in dark alleyways. Shaken hands, whispered words, short walks together. The sound of the odd vehicle passing by is alien, foreign. It intrudes on the beauty of this silent spectacle.

Cigarette smoke and friendship waft before me, my silent companions in a dark, secluded balcony, reminding me of those I’m with. And those I wish were here.


Inspired by the view from Maniak's balcony.

Moron Couldn’t Keep His Birdie(s) Hidden

A man was arrested on Wednesday for attempting to smuggle 14 birds from Vietnam into the US [link]. He was nabbed when an airport inspector with a wayward glance spotted copious amounts of bird poo on his socks (the journalist would like to assure you that he really wishes he were making this up).

It is still unclear how and why said official came to be inspecting the perpetrator’s socks in the first place. Foot fetish has not been ruled out as a possible alternative.

Investigators believe the smuggler, one Sony Dong, was motivated by deep hatred of his own name and a latent inability to keep it in his pants. Not the name, that is.

Animal rights activists across the world have condemned the incident. On the other hand, Human Rights organizations across the board have unanimously stood up in support of Dong, saying a man thus named could not possibly be blamed for his actions. Legal experts close to the incident expect Dong to plead insanity and mental trauma caused by being named after a large reproductory organ , a product that rivals the male (see defn. #9) and a horrifically valueless currency.

In what is being seen as a shocking fallout, indicative of the trauma they went through, none of the birds involved have tweeted about the incident.

Reboot

One old rechargeable battery. A seven-year-old movie ticket. A tie pin with a chimp on it. An old, chipped, marijuana-leaf locket. A pouch with Grandpa’s spectacle lenses, bottle thick and slightly scratched. A pink pocket comb, fading to white. A compass, rusted. A gift pen case.

Stories, all of them. Memories of an age long forgotten. Gingerly, he traced the edge of the tie pin. Picked up the pouch. Felt the weight of the lenses in his palm. Held them up to his face. Looking at the world through his grandfather’s eyes. Reverently, he returned them to their pouch, and his fingers came to rest on the pen case.

Carefully, he lifted it out of the box; for a while, just staring at it. Then slowly, he lifted the lid. Lying in repose on the grooves in the fabric inside, like the sculptures of kings on tombs, dormant, were four pieces of chalk. Only one of them was intact, retaining it’s perfectly cylindrical shape. With trembling fingers, he lifted the other three pieces, one by one, out of the case, setting them on the table. Two rooks, one pawn.

And it all came back to him. The days of sucking up to his teachers in school, just so they’d put him in charge of the class cupboard. Bringing them fresh boxes of chalk from the staff room. Filching them slyly to make rocketships, cars. And a full-blown, self-made chess set.

The days of sitting at the back of the class, scratching away at a piece of chalk with the compass, an old and disused pen cap, and the comb – his greatest discovery in the art of chalk-carving. A tool with ruthless efficiency at making straight-line cuts. The memories all came flooding back.

Absently, without even thinking about it, he picked up the compass and the last piece of chalk, starting the second pawn.

Exercising Personal Choice

Do you smoke?
No, I don’t.

Oh, why not?
It doesn’t really appeal to me.

Oh, but you should smoke! It’s fun!
For you, maybe. Enjoy!

No, no… You MUST smoke! Everyone else does!
That’s great for them, but I’d rather not.

But it feels brilliant! Come on, just try to smoke.
Thanks, but no thanks.

But look at those children there, smoking. Don’t they look happy?
Sure they do. And they’re entitled to that happiness; it’s just something I’d rather not share with them.

Oh, no. You’re smoking, and there are no two ways about it.
No, I’m not… Hey, let go! I don’t want to!

 

Lovely conversation isn’t it? Go back to the start and replace ‘smoke’ with ‘play holi’. Welcome to my life.

The English professor, his fast car & special guests

Since we have been on the subject recently, here’s proof that I’ve lost my mind: my latest dream, fresh out of the oven, as they say.

I am an English Professor at an elite post-graduation school. Classes are held in small wooden cottages with gravel paths leading up to and between them. In one such class, I am conducting my lesson. The end of lecture is marked by a gong in the distance, and my class disperses.

I leave the cottage and walk up the gravel path, past another couple of cottages where lectures are being wound up. I recall distinctly as I walk past one of the classes that I particularly dislike the professor conducting that class, for in incompetence and inherent inability to teach. I haven’t the faintest notion who that person was.

Anyway, I move on and pass through the Teachers’ Lounge, which is another, bigger cottage some way off. The next bit is weird. I remember getting into my silver sportscar and driving off for home. I particularly remember this for two reasons. One: I’ve always thought my car would be black, and no other colour. Two: I think somewhere earlier in the dream I had already established that I rode a mountain bike.

Anyway, I drive away in my really fast sportscar, on smooth and beautifully designed roads that don’t exist in Bombay. And at the end of it, I reach a multi-storey building. I don’t actually remember reaching the building, just that I was next in it. And surprisingly, instead of starting at the bottom of the building, I was on the roof, making my way downward.

Now this was one weird building, too, because, for me to get to the floor below, I’d have to go through the room on the floor I was on. And not just through, around, in a sense. Not making sense? I thought so. That’s why I decided to add this helpful visual aid, with the arrows showing my direction of motion.

Now the weirdness begins. I started from the roof, descending to the floor below. Here, I was walking between walls while following the upward and leftward arrows in the graphic alongside. But when I got to the bit marked by the downward arrow, there were doors (both open) to the dorm rooms of two of my students, a boy and a girl. The boy came at me with a thick hardbound book, wanting me to clarify some doubts. The girl sat alone in her room, listening to music and folding clothes.

On the floor below, it got weirder. As I’m descending the stairs to get onto the next floor, I find myself already in a room. It is dark, and to my left there is a bed. There is the shadowy form of someone sleeping on the bed, huddled under heavy blankets. But what struck me as odd was the stuffed toys strewn casually and profusely all over the room and even over the bed. Odder still, the certainty and calm acceptance with which I knew the fact that the figure in the bed was my cousin. Check that. My cousin brother who’s 17 years old.

Nonetheless, I tiptoe through the room, stepping over and around several soft, blue pillows and a veritable menagerie, and begin my descent to the next floor. Again, I was already inside a room. Weird, innit? And it got even weirder.

On this floor, there was a TV set in what is the top right corner of my visual aid. It was switched on to Cartoon Network, and was blaring at a ridiculously loud volume. In the diametrically opposite corner was a music system playing heavy metal. A figure lay on the bed, hands covering ears, as if attempting to block out the cacophony in the room. Instead of blankets, this person was covered by an orange Jai Maa type shawl. A closer look revealed that the person was meditating. And that it was Baba Ramdev.

That’s when I woke up, stifling a scream.

My Lovely Little World

I exist only in my head. My world is in my head. It is a wonderful world. It's like clockwork. It's beautiful. It's an amazing place to be. It keeps me happy. It also defines me.

I know this.

Try as much as you want, you can't get in there. Not unless I let you in. Only trouble is, you won't know you're there. You see, if I've let you in, I've completely forgotten to tell you you're there. Because if I think you deserve to be there, I also think I don't need to tell you you're there.

Which begs another question. If you're in my world, and you don't even know that you're there, does that mean that all there is of you in my world is an idea of you? And if this is true, do I really care for you, or for the idea of you?
I hope I am, at last, naked before my own eyes. I can dig no further.

Gay Blues

Example of Pointless Conversation:

Dude. Blues is such gay music. I mean it's so repetitive. How can you like it?

To each his own, I guess. What're you into?

Oh, you know, mostly trance...

Sacred Promises

Promises are made to be broken. It is in their nature. At least, that's the way men see it. For men, all promises can be broken, and without the fear of divine retribution, too.

But there is one promise among men that is sacred. Its bonds have never been tested, let alone broken, without the breaker's eternal damnation. When two men make a pact which is signed by the Clinking of Beer Bottles / Mugs / Glasses / Flagons / Plastic-Cups-With-Small-Furry-Animals-Painted-On-Side, nothing short of natural calamity may prevent it from being carried out to its fullest.

In terms of hierarchical ranking, the Beer Clink promise outranks, by far, promises written in blood, and by a considerably smaller margin, promises made while peeing next to the other party. Failure to complete one's end of a Beer Clink promise is akin to welcoming an eternal existence painting one's gonads with meatsauce while playing naked with Satan's starving dogs.

Sir, I hope I may consider mine fulfilled.