tsuede

[tsuede]

Spent

Flaky yellow plaster on the walls reflect the bright of the noon sun. I couldn't bother pulling in the curtains.I've become tired, lethargic, exhausted, (and 'all the synonyms of these words that convey lethargy,') of the heaviness of the warm air that fills this room. the light bloating from the un-curtained window bleaching my cones, forcing me to close my eyes - for a second. just enoug...

Afternoons. There are people who love the dawn, the night, the dusk, the twilight, I even know a vampire who likes 6:48 pm (strange guy, he is); but i genuinely wonder if there's one person, one single person in this sad world who likes afternoons. When I say afternoons, i mean 2 to 4. Those two hours of insatiable grief and existential angst, as the sanity and coherence of your thoughts get veiled by the dense purple shroud of boredom. And oh! don't be fooled, my friend. this is no usual boredom that plagues you. This is one of exquisite vileness; so malicious that it makes you question your privileged existence. It will make you wonder how worthy you're to deserve this luxury of boredom - of having nothing to do. And then, like the mermaids who allure the estranged sailors of the deep seas with their marble eyes into the depths of the foaming, tumultuous green waters until they choke and die, so that they can collect the sailors' marble eyes to play solitaire and then keep 'em safe in mason jars that sunk to the sea beds centuries ago along with the ships they occupied the cabinets of, the sleep comes on to you. As you lie unaware of the stealthily approaching sleep, like a prey oblivious of it's death, you watch on stupefied as your conscious faculties get tangled in a noodle soup of semi-consciousness. how so much ever you try, you cannot accurately determine when, which was the point of no return, where you lost the last ounce of consciousness that you thought you wouldn't give up - ever.

A 'comfortable noon,' such an oxymoron, isn't it? As I grow old, i can imagine days in an armchair, when I'd have come to accept the noon, the heat, the sweat, and the discomfort. Maybe the communist rebels, of the by gone era, who worked on the fields of Kuttanad, might have dreamt of this idea - of a 'comfortable noon.' Where they had the audacity to earn their siestas and be spared of the anguish, of the guilt, of having been lured into an undeserving nap at noon. Peacefully snoring to the comfort of not having to fear missing out on anything, of not being the hare, having done enough when they were awake.

The idea is to get by. Getting by - the 2 hours. and then you wake up, to the scrutiny of reality and moral reproach. having taken a nap that you clearly didn't deserve.

Slowly-

Spent; on a siesta. 

You wake up to notice the warmth of the floor you've been sleeping on,

the drool pool beside your cheek, 

and the gradient of dampness as the pool evaporated in the heat,

the mechanic drone of the fan, the crinkle of the newspaper on the teapoy,

the Oswald shaped blotch on the corner of the wall,

the ever paleing color of the cleaning cloth hanging on the window,

the need of your subconscious to feed your starving inflated ego, 

the 3 pop-up notifications on your phone,

the looming presence of all the deadlines that you've to meet this week,

the wanting to hear her voice,

the longing to smile at her jokes while focusing on the crinkles beneath her eyes,

And then you'd lay there in your sweat, a bit longer. 

You'd watch the lonesome ant who lost his mind, aimlessly tracing the joints of the floor tile, probably looking for things he doesn't know he's searching for. He then navigates to your ear and whispers to you how he did many things, moved very fast and how he lost his mind trying to do everything, in the middle of the grinding bustle of his smaller world. As you lay there processing all these new things you've noticed, the lingering caustic taste of slack lime in your mouth gets ever so slightly moistened by your saliva. Like a cigarette after sex. You summon some more saliva from your dry throat to wet the palate.

you make yourself a glass of lemon juice, and as you sip on it you wonder whether there's something fleetingly beautiful about all this, or if it's the compulsive romanticist in you trying to convince you so?

[tsuede]

Change of shades

Tripunithura is a temple town much obsessed with it's past - a town in perpetual rumination. The place takes on the persona of that old lady who talks about her ancestral home's 'pathayam' full of rice reserves when she was young. The thin, pale, peripheral branches of a kshetreya legacy - the town's favourite residents. Vestiges of this aristocratic legacy are preserved in structures of brick, blood and society.

Towards the end of November is 'vrishchikotsavam,' the temple's anniversary, a week of chaos. The whole temple compound gets a golden glow at night, yellow luminance invading into the privacy of the black night sky. Camphor soot and dust, disperse the yellow light from the sodium vapour lamps propped on bamboo poles. Everything, and everyone, becomes beautiful in that light. I spend the nights near the wooden stairs of the West gate. They're relatively less crowded. It's not easy, you know, existing as the omnipresent like me. It's very distracting, and also, you don't have as much freedom. Everything becomes decided for you, you are restricted by the imagination of the dumb few who made you up - your shape, name, mobility, sexuality, where you exist, who you can see, who can see you - everything. It's hard. On the third day of utsavam I saw him in his favourite black tee and 'kaavi mundu.' His goatee is catching up since the last year I saw him. He knows I don't exist and hence doesn't bother visiting, except for these yearly visits. He's here for the 'panchavadyam' - the orchestral drum music. He stands away from the rush, in a clear patch, looking down at the sand moist with elephant pee, cross-armed, taking in the rhythmic beats of the chenda. But, today he's disturbed - too conscious of his presence. She is the reason. She's there standing by the gallery wall, with an ease which he can only dream of, and she's beautiful. Her sharp nose with a bump at 1/3rd the length, her exotic pale grey eyes, bony fingers with closely cut nails and her lilac chiffon churidar with floral patterned baggy salwaar. She waves at her sister who along with the rest of her family is watching the procession from the gallery reserved for the royal families. Privileges of your ancestors being fucked by some Aryan. Maybe it's these privileges that let her exist at ease in this crowd and maybe the lack of which makes him conscious of his presence in the same crowd. The space itself is new to his ilk. They are strangers, at least in the broader sense of the word. For her, he is just another face illuminated in yellow. But he knows her face a bit more thoroughly, maybe a bit too well, well enough to sketch it on a Monday morning from memory. He used to enjoy his bus rides back home from Palarivattom, after those wretched classes, with a curious sense of achievement. It was his reward for sitting through 8 hours of depressing lessons in cramped classrooms - his way of unwinding. One day she gets on his bus and sits a few seats ahead of him. He observed every curve on her head's silhouette. Next morning he woke up at 4 and started sketching it down so that he wouldn't forget how it looked. This was 5 years ago. He hasn't seen her since, until today. That face he sketched from memory, the only one he could - the bump on her nose, the grey in her eyes, everything was before him again. The chenda beats were muffled. He watched her as she sat down on the moist sand, cross-legged, leaning back on her hand propped on the ground. Then she closed her eyes, raised her head up and tried to read the beats. ..... Day 5, he came early. The panchavadyam wouldn't start in another 2 hours. He went to the koothupura to see the kathakali. 'Baali-vadhanam' is playing today. She is sitting at the back, in a corner. She recognizes his face from a dream she once had. The boy who painted her in the light of a kerosene lamp. Every stroke on the cotton rag canvas gave new colours to her skin. She got maroon hair, grey skin and yellow eyes. She loved how she'd changed, she wished she had maroon hair, grey skin and yellow eyes. She believed it was the light from the soot-covered glass shade of the lamp that gave her her new colours. She saw his face in the flickering glow of the 'aatavillaku,' and she felt the joy of having a chance to get the colours she never had. She relished the possibility in all its absurdity. The handheld curtain is let to fall and the music became louder, a few hurried stomps of the feet, and he looks back over his shoulder. Two beats skipped, two breaths stuck half-way, and two pairs of eyes averted. The first set of sticks fell on the chendas - panchavadyam has started. The Kathakali crowd started shrinking. She stood up, dusted her bottom and walked to the front. She introduced herself, 'Durga.' Two wide-opened eyes met the outstretched hand. 'Hey, I'm Tejus,' he shook the hand. 'You wanna sit?' She sat beside him. He's amused by Ravanan's face patterns, a bit of extra black and red, violent and threatening. This is the part where he abducts Sita to the forest confinement in Lanka. What if Sita wanted to be with Ravanan and the whole Ramayanam is a distorted version of the story - an elope rather than an abduction? The panchavadyam beats were getting intense, but neither of them felt like leaving. 'Do you draw?' Durga asked, noticing the black-bound sketchbook jutting out of his satchel. 'Yes... I like to sketch, yeah.' He was always reluctant to acknowledge his taste in art. I bet he felt noticed and exposed. 'What kinda things do you sketch?' 'I like doing portraits, illustrations, ...that kinda stuff.' 'Can you draw me?' Durga asked. A question that he's heard an umpteen times before, and yet, this time it was different; for both of them, both knew he already had. 'Yes... sometimes,' he replied with a shy nod. Tejus' phone rang, True caller tab popped up red, 'Bsnl telemarketing,' it read. 'Wow, Yumeji's theme? From "In the mood for love?" Are you a Wong Kar Wai fan too? They gushed over their love for Wong Kar Wai movies. They both thought they were the only ones to see all 10 of his features. Tejus' favourite was 'Chungking Express' and Durga's was '2046.' They talked about the omnipresent elements in his movies: the rain, mirrors, unrequited love, stop printing and catchy pop songs. When the nuances of Wong Kar Wai movies were exhausted they bitched about almost everyone who was sitting there - the GoPro techie who had brought the whole product box with him, the aunty with jasmine flowers on her head that had started to rot, the bald guy who ironically had scored most number of mosquitoes circling his head, the butt crack guy with a fluorescent 'Jockey,' the over engrossed mom whose kids they planned to murder, the sorority of princesses with matching blouses, and the oldie, who for some reason kept calling me, only interrupted by the periodic scoffs of disappointment at the mumbling two. They hardly cared anything about the grieving Ram(easily an 8) who just lost his wife to the dark evil Ravanan( a 5, at most a 6). The Kathakali performers bowed and left the makeshift stage. A few of the audience had come with bed-sheets to sleep on, which they spread over the floor and slept. Durga and Tejus left the koothambalam. It was 3 in the morning, the panchavadyam was over long back, and the temple grounds were deserted except for the footprints from the night. They decided to sit and talk for some more time before they went home. They sat at the west gate, on the black rock platforms on which people, and I, usually sit. It'll glisten ever so lightly in the moon, the oil from the lit lamps would mix with the dew and give a greasy coating to it. Durga started, 'Have you seen ''Begin Again?" Yeah? So, there's this scene in which they talk about how you can know so much about a person from their playlists.' Durga looked at Tejus intently, waiting. '...Oh, you wanna know my playlist? Okay cool, how about we play one song each from our playlists, alternatively. How's that?' 'Cool, works. You wanna start?' 'Yeah, sure.' Tejus started with 'Angela' by The Lumineers. They played Angela. I liked that song. Something about tree logging. 'Wasteland baby, by Hozier.' 'Okay,...Hero by Family of the year.' 'Coastline by Hollow Coves.' 'Cherathukal...?' ... Tinges of orange spread in the sky and suddenly there were rays of sunlight creeping in from behind the silhouette of the clock-tower. Savithri had started sweeping the stone pavements. She's a friend. We talk often about her grandkids. Pigeons stirred from under the clay-tiled roofs. Durga rubbed her eyes and took a few deep breaths of the cold morning air. She looked at Tejus sleeping on her calves, waited a moment, and then woke him up. A bit embarrassed by the drool on her salwaar he gave her an awkward smile. He lazily sat up. 'Oh, shit..! We're back in real-time.' 'Do you hear a Harpsichord playing? We can dance maybe,' She asks with an animated face of sarcasm. Tejus spurts out a laugh, 'It's funny you said that. I've always had this fantasy of having a sunrise-esque moment. You know, in some foreign city, walking around the streets - connecting with a person...Oh, and then I want the sequels too. I really love them, Jesse and Celine. They put everything good in those movies, and now, that's my scale, you know what I mean?' 'Yeah, I guess so. Yeah...But, you're gonna be disappointed my child. I don't think it ever works that way. Probably why the movie is special, right? I mean - you'll probably be perpetually disappointed in whatever you'd have - I guess...' 'Yeah...I guess. Anyways it'd be something I'd be looking for I guess.' Durga jumps down from the platform they were sitting on, 'well, this was close, right?' They shared a smile. They and I knew it was; the closest. The sand was cold - pleasant to walk on. They got a morning tea from the stall at the gate and decided to leave for their homes to sleep the day off. As they parted and Durga walked to her home, she looked down at her feet - there was a patch of grey on her skin - like a brushstroke. I watched on as the maroon at the ends of her hair glistened in the sun.

[tsuede]

Never bottled

It's seven years from now, a city not too happy with its existence. Which city? I don't know. One much like any other you have seen. A very empathetic being, almost like a kaleidoscope, reflecting and augmenting the feelings of its inhabitants. The bleak find their lives bleaker, and the alive find theirs more alive. There, in an insignificant floor of a building, in an insignificant part of this city, I'm sitting cross-legged, with my back against a bland wall. The room and the walls and everything within it are silent, they say nothing about me. The room is dark, no candles lit, no screens flickering. I grow uncomfortable in this darkness. I support the chair beside to get up and walk to the balcony. The nights are not grey anymore, they now fancy purple, teal and yellow.

I've never liked cities very much; I find them overwhelming. Every moment something momentous is happening to someone you saw on your commute to work. How can that not bother you? Through one of these infinite windows I can see from up here, a man might have seen the stars for one last time, or maybe I might have been the last person he saw and I'd never know. I'd have liked to know... That would have dabbed some insignificance off of my existence. Below, the sodium lit street rests in a lethargic yellow. The street light is tired and dozes off every three seconds and comes back on with a click. Yellow, tchk... yellow, tchk.... yellow, tchk... It's been long since I've seen a firefly... there aren't any here. Fireflies remind me of Bangalore and IISc; the place was full of them. They hide in the bushes along the boundary path and come out just after those unexpected evening showers of July. Evening walks through this path were quite surreal with tiny flickering yellow lights floating all around you. The summer of '17 was about these moments, that I tried to save in glass bottles...

Every day after leaving the labs we used to take the boundary path to our PGs. We were in different labs and I used to finish early and walk an extra stretch to meet her at the crossroad where she used to wait. Then we'd walk back together. Those walks were real, yet so pleasant. We used to talk about things, I can't remember what, but they sure were profound. Mostly she'd talk and I'd listen. And then there were the fireflies to embellish these walks. They'd be all around you; so many that you can easily catch a few.  And that's exactly what we, two hopeless romantics, planned, to catch a few and keep them in glass bottles. Specifically in Keventers bottles, which we'd steal from the bin outside their outlet in BHEL road. The plan was perfect, with high potential of being a fancy story that you could brag to every other romantic you're yet to meet. 

The internships ended and we left Bangalore, without the bottle of fireflies. We didn't do it - I can't remember why. 'Bottling fireflies in Keventers bottles' became something we never did, but for some reason, it feels complete this way. The satisfactory ease of a movie ending on an unburdening bathos, waking up to the reassurance of realizing that you've leftover pasta bolognese from last night in the fridge, or maybe even the subtle bourgeois gratification of leaving your glass of lime juice unfinished at a restaurant; it's a feeling similar to either or all of these things. We were two lost souls stuck in a Keventers bottle full of fireflies. Pink Floyd had it coming. 

The street light gave up to the sleep and stopped blinking. I borrowed a series of fairy lights from my neighbour girl who asks me for a casual puff of smoke once in a while. And stuffed them inside an 'Amul Cool' bottle that I had washed and saved to grow some ferns. The room was still dark, yet I closed my eyes, plugged in the fairy lights, reached out to find the bland wall and sat down...

I tried to imagine Prateek's 'Tune Kaha' playing in the room, but couldn't summon the lyrics even after listening to it a million times. I hummed the tune and sat there...trying to decide whether to open my eyes...

[tsuede]

a moonlit lotus

The city had receded to the rhythmic tune of a snore-less sleep. Nothing breaks its silent tune but the occasional whistles of the pompous night breeze. The breeze whistles as it flows through the tiny holes aesthetically placed in intricate patterns on the stone separations in the terrace of my husband's home. It's an old sandstone structure with Mughal patterns lavishly carved on to the walls and the rosewood panelled doorway. The house is one among the many similar ones stuck together into a serial chimera, with no hints of a joint. It's difficult for an outsider to find where one house ends and the next one begins. Once you cede your ability to dream and become a part of these ghalies, you acquire a subjective skill to spot the joints; that's the trade-off you'd have to make.  

The ghalies take on a mystic glow in the night, as the moonlight soaks the sandstone walls. Not many have the privilege to enjoy it as most are burdened with sleep; such a waste. Saira and I would come and sit here every night, that is, every night except the new moon day when we'd find other engagements. She'd lie on the stone pavement, and I'd sit on the pedestal of the chapakal all night, till the aarti folks start to stir. Saira is my comrade goat; we bonded over our shared interests in moonlight bathed ghalies, a few years back. We'd stroll until we get tired and then come back here to rest, this had become a ritual for us.

Saira has a silent bell tied around her neck, which she tries to bite off often. I guess it's her way of getting rid of the past. I'm different, I still wear my burqa even though it serves no purpose; and also, I miss the things from then. I miss Ghalib bhai's Khabza, listening to 'Chan Kithan,' and touch...I miss touch.   I've been staring at a beam of moonlight on Noor's bedroom window for some time now when I heard someone coming this way. The shadows reveal a man chastened by his thoughts. He should definitely be a 'Shantanu,' probably a Shantanu Chatterjee. He had oily hair just long enough to look messy, a patchy beard and pale hazel eyes behind round-framed glasses. He was the rusty poet, the frantic romantic you can't afford, the guy who you can easily imagine drinking his morning Kulhadwaali chai - sitting with his bony legs crossed, and his plaintive face stilted on the other hand. He walked through Saira, ahead, with cautious steps. As he passed us oblivious of our existence, like any other mortal, I saw something familiar in his eyes . The familiar ache of seeing these moonlit walls and realizing that it's finite, that we can only take in as much - an aesthetic despair. We followed him as he spontaneously changed ghalies and skipped turns. Saira was fascinated by his sling bag that kept hitting his thigh as he made each step. I, on the other hand, was interested in his skewed fingers that lifelessly hung from the end of his sleeves. He stopped after 15 mins when we came to a dead-end, walls on all three sides. After a pause, he moved closer to the wall in front of us, and he started descending to the ground. When we came closer to the wall, we saw the stairs that went below the building and moonlight seeping in from the other side. The stairs opened into the Reewa Ghat. Shantanu sat four steps above the water and Saira climbed on a stone podium beside him, resting her head on the stone. I sat much above them, near the altars. A few students from BHU were practising bansuri in an adjacent altar. They were playing raga Yaman, that of the ghazals. I sat there listening. I could see Shantanu's fingers tapping the tune. Before us lay the dark expanse of Ganga, it's black waters lazily moving towards Illahabad, carrying the silver streaks of moonlight downstream along with everything else. The ebb and flow of life.

The pyres at Manikarnika were still burning, adding tinges of yellow to the black waters. The bansuri players have now changed to Bageshri raga, that of the calm nights and me. I climbed down the steps slowly and sat near him. On the other bank, the night breeze was sweeping over the shrubs. Shantanu rolled a joint, lit it with a match and pulled a few deep drags. He then turned to me and asked what my name was. 

"...Nimrah," I replied.

He exhaled a sigh and rested his head on my shoulders. I could hear the sound of his beard scratching against the satin of my burqa. I took his fingers in my hand and observed it's paleness. We sat there listening to bansuri and watching the back-eddies that formed and disappeared for us to see.

I conjured a white lotus bud to emerge from the dark water. We waited as it slowly opened its petals into full bloom. Shantanu laid there, on my shoulder, with a gentle smile, looking at the white lotus that bloomed just for us. We watched as the petals eventually withered, and the flow took them away.

[tsuede]

Perceive.

Perceive in mono-grey, no complex hues alluring you to a beauty that's so obvious. Your existence in a stance against the fluidic motion of everything else that moves past you with destined transience, you watch on as the streamline flow makes gentle beautiful back eddies, which are there because of your choice to remain.

[tsuede]

Reward system.

What this rancid society needs presently is an assemblage of individuals with a decorous craving for dopamine.

[tsuede]

A reaction.

Atoms must collide against all odds with the right velocity, energy, orientation, in commensurate quantities to undergo a chemical reaction to form a particular compound. How remotely plausible? 

Same goes for people, I guess.

[tsuede]

‘...with a zeal bordering on obsession’.

-Into the wild.

[tsuede]

The fall.

Lately I fell, not fast and hard, but slow and deep. I had stumbled before but I never fell. It was not accidental, not sure if it was conscious either. But her hands never came for over a year and now I've to climb up myself and pretend I’m not bruised, pulling down the sleeves over the bleeding wound. The red stain is soaking the white linen fabric, making a beautiful red blob. I can feel the sleeves wet and sticky against my skin. Hope it doesn’t drip, ‘cause that would be embarrassing, that would make her uncomfortable, seeing someone bleed. I asked why she never lent her hands. She said my fall was creepy... and inappropriate. How can a fall be all that? I don’t know. What is it that made her stand there looking down on me, reluctantly? I like any other stroller didn’t fall to find a hand, I fell and expected her hand. Now I would stroll cautiously, ensuring I don’t fall. The prospects of being with her always stood aside shy in the corner with the humbleness of being just a possibility. I don’t want it to drip, but it just might.

[tsuede]

POIGNANT CLARITY

tsuede

[tsuede]

If I could Yes, I would- let it go...

Bad, U2

[tsuede]

What have i become?

Sitting on a couch on a public space is never natural for me. It might've been but is not anymore. There is no more spontaneity in my mannerisms or demeanor. It’s crafted with manipulations and anticipations of a cold war. I’m so much concerned of how the ‘others’ perceive me and ‘am in this desperate venture to shape their perceptions into the idealistic ones that i want ‘em to be. Why can’t I be my honest self anymore? This obsession of mine is like a metastatic cancer taking down my faculties one at a time. So much of my mental faculties are consumed by this tumor that my thinking is not as vivid as it used to be, my smile became a more facultative feature of mine, my precious lone times are no more that relish-able. I realize this is some disease, i realize it, unlike many others for whom this is still not disturbing. But I feel helpless, that tendency to be conscious creeps in every second, every moment, every instance there is a window in the otherwise empty room I’m in. This rabid innate urge to impress everyone, even that pathetic soul of whom you otherwise won’t give a damn about. I hate to be this pretentious showpiece that i made myself into. When was this tragic transition? I ain’t sure. A casual talk with a girl is not casual, it’s preceded by meticulous screening of words and body language. It’s not just me, it’s the whole lot. You can see a very evident example of this in an elevator with a group of people ( I do acknowledge the ‘personal space’ hypothesis).  But many have sought resort in the depressing strategy of peering into the 8 inch bright lit screens of smart phones. Now they don’t have to deal with reality let alone the image problem. Their personalities are becoming so fragile eluding any possible encounter with reality, that they crack to the softest touch of crisis. But how did this issue pop-up, was it because of my mother’s obsessive mentor-ship on being the ‘liked one’, or was it with the advent of social media into the idealized life of mine? This self-centric perspective of my environment is sickening as it can get, always walking thinking you are being watched, you are being observed, analyzed and graded. Being conscious 24X7, it’s so depressing and with no doubt lame. This could also be the surfacing of a low self esteem problem or the infamous inferiority complex of mine. I keep shouting at my-’self’  that nobody’s watching, you don’t have to make people like you, just be natural, be ‘unconscious’. damn what others think, it never matters. But even this writing is a victim of this urge, I’m writing probably to impress a girl sitting near a window on the floor above with a view of the table I’m sitting on. This very blog would be the aftereffect  of the realization of the probability of someone going through it and getting impressed. But i’ll try, until i’m too tired to and eventual succumb to pathetic condition of the masses.

P.S. nobody gives a damn about you, so be thyself. 

[tsuede]

SELFIE SYNDROME.

The rise of narcissism. Did social media do this? Am I more self involved than I’m supposed to be?

[tsuede]

‘nostalgia’

‘In the end though, nostalgia is a sepia-toned refuge for those suffering a sense of diminished capacity’... ‘ It is a nursing home for those more comfortable looking back than looking forward.’

-TIME

[tsuede]

OBNOXIOUS PLEASURES

[tsuede]

oblivion.

[tsuede]

മധുരനൊമ്പരക്കാറ്റ്.

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