THE ROMANCE OF PAIN

“You know something you little prick,” he spat on me, though I barely registered it, “I’d love you see you recognize yourself in the mirror tomorrow morning!” His henchmen laughed out at that, one of them taunted me some more. Then I felt him come closer to me, pull my hair and hold my face up to look straight into my eyes.

“You really chose the wrong guy to mess with, the worst in fact.” He let go of my head, and took a step back, and I knew what was coming next – I just didn’t know where. I almost heard his arm whip across the air as it came and slammed into my eye. Everything went blank and dark, and all I could see was stars-

-stars, tiny shining by the million in the dark night sky. And her eyes, two diamonds with intensity to blot them all out, and for a long time, they were all I could see. She smiled, and raised her eyebrows, as if to say ‘What are you looking at?’, and I smiled back, shook my head, and finally managed to look away.

‘You see that?’ I said, pointing to a bright star in the distance, ‘I’m going to get it named after you. You can register these things these days.’

‘Oh, that? Why a star? Why not something I can actually reach out and touch?’ she said, resting her hand on my shoulder.

‘You know, if your hand went down lower, I’m sure we can find a suitable replacement.’ I smiled a mischievous smile, as she realized the implications. And she laughed in shock and surprise; she chided me, and shook me-

-shook me awake, back on to the dark alley, where his henchmen were holding my arms up, waiting for him to launch at me again.

“Tut tut, don’t you dare faint on me lover boy, not yet at least - there isn’t enough of your blood on the floor yet!”  One henchman snorted, I heard cracks as another flexed his muscles. There was no other sound from the alley.

“I hope you realize why I’m pulping you. It would be such a shame if you didn’t know. Truth be told, you’re lousy. Really lousy, and I don’t like lousy people, I really feel like hurting them. But you know what, all this showbiz tonight is not for your lousiness, it’s because I’ve decided I no longer like your face, and I think I’m going to set it right. Here’s how!”

This time it came round, his fist right at my temple, and my ears rang-

-my ears rang with her laughter, she could barely hold her glass, and I was too entranced by her face to notice much beyond. Why weren’t there more people like her, I caught myself thinking, why were the perfect ones always taken?

“Wait wait wait!” She somehow managed to say, gasping for breath. “There’s a flaw in your theory – New York Taxis couldn’t have been designed after giraffes, if anything, giraffes should inspire cranes. I think taxis were inspired by zebras.”

“In that case, the zebra would have to have jaundice or something like that, you can’t explain the yellow otherwise.” That was just too bad, I thought to myself a moment too late, after it had been said. And she just stared at me, for a good long moment, before she laughed out again. What the hell, I thought, thank god for the alcohol. She laughed, repeating ‘Jaundice’ to herself over and over, slapping the table top, and spilling her drink in the process. Seeing her glass about to fall, I stretched forward-

- stretched forward, the boot in my gut jolting me, making me cough.

“Now look here prick, this will not do. You ditching me like that, it doesn’t work, it only makes me angrier. Listen to me, and don’t faint. I hate it when I’m talking and people want to doze off. You hear me? Just focus, and let me talk. Now, where was I?” He turned to one of his men, this one was swinging a chain menacingly, but he’d been at it the entire time, and it wasn’t that threatening anymore, it was almost monotonous.

“You were saying something about stealing.” The henchman reminded him.

“Ah yes, like I was saying. Stealing is bad. Everyone said it, right from Moses to Sarbanes and Oxley. So when you stole from me, you should have thought a little bit about it. If you had, you would have guessed that I wouldn’t be too happy about it. Especially stealing a person, my person.” His emphasis on ‘My’ was spine chilling.

“So here’s your punishment. For stealing, and for coveting your neighbour’s wife.” He took the chain from his henchman’s hand, and swung it right at me.

My skin split in many places, my mouth filled with blood, and my tongue tasted-

-tasted like an exquisite wine, mysteriously warm yet playfully cool. I opened my eyes to see her smiling, looking at me for a response of some sort.

“Well, how was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What’s that supposed to mean? Was it good, not good, bad, or different? What was it?"

“What lipstick are you wearing?”

She cocked her eyebrow up. “You’re thinking about my lipstick? Really? You know what, you can get lost. I’m leaving.”

She turned, and all I did was catch her and kiss her again, the same way. And she kissed me back, and I smiled.

It was like a sense of warmth filling me up-

­

-filling me up, my lungs burning, my head spinning. I heard someone shout “There’s blood in his lungs, he’s drowning-

-drowning in your love. I mean it, it’s so much more than just falling-

-falling on to the road, as my legs gave way, and the henchmen released me, my arms thrashing-

-arms thrashing all about, trying to find her from behind the blindfold. She would tease me, come touch my arm and move away silently, and I’d turn and search and feel nothing-

- feel nothing, sense nothing but a deep numbness. The pain in my lungs was receding, as was my breath.

There was a cough.

There was a smile.

And there was silence.

FIVE SECONDS OF DUTY

The First Lieutenant couldn’t believe it!

There it was, right before them, than gigantic portion of food, dropped by the gods, enough to feed the community for days! All they had to do was rush forth, claim it, and make it theirs.

But the General insisted they wait.

“Why? Why? Why?” Screamed the First Lieutenant. “Why must we wait while our women and children starve? Let us capture the food before it returns!”

The General looked at him impassively, and said “It is the will of the Gods, and our tradition, that we wait before we eat. It is what separates us from other beasts.”

“And it is what will kill us!” screamed the Lieutenant. “This is madness! It always was.”

The General looked towards the High Priest, who was closely watching the time, and who would decree how long it was that they must wait. The Priest blew on a small horn once, indicating that a fifth of the required time had elapsed.

“I cannot waste more time with this foolery!” Said the Lieutenant, donning his helmet.

“Don’t you move!” roared the General. “If you so much as take one step forth, I will have you court martialled and whipped for insubordination!” the Lieutenant stepped back. Another blast on the horn indicated that two fifths of the stipulated time had passed.

It’s right there, all that food, waiting to be conquered, thought the Lieutenant. The entire colony can feast for at least a week. Only three fifths more, and they could move forward, lay claim, and begin the feast.

Once more the blast of the horn, only two fifths left. The Lieutenant lifted his axe, and readied himself for a charge. The General looked forward with tantalizing eyes, the other soldiers shuffled in anticipation.

But just then, the lights in the sky dimmed, and something seemed to block the sun out. The soldiers began to step back in fear, and the Lieutenant’s eyes widened – his worst fears had come true. The horn blasted again, indicating that four fifths of the time had elapsed, but it was too late and all was lost.

Two mighty pillars descended from the sky, caught the food between them, and hoisted it back to the sky from where it had come. The Gods had reclaimed what the races of the land had rejected. The Lieutenant fell on his knees, his mind spinning, thinking of what had just happened – this opportunity lost, no food once more, only the hunger, the starvation, the desperation once more. With accusing eyes he looked at his General.

“I know what you are thinking,” said the General, “that we could have had claimed that, made it ours, and eaten our fill. But our traditions do not allow for it, and as long as I am on watch, I will not let our traditions be insulted. It is the only thing we have that separates us from uncivilized beasts, and if hunger is that small price to pay in order to ensure our superiority, then I will pay it, and I will ensure the colony pays it too.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving the Lieutenant on his knees in the dust, grim tears beginning to flow down his face.

*

Modern Culture insists that germs follow the five second rule. Really now.

AB KE BARAS (THIS YEAR)

It is customary in Indian culture that a girl returns to her parents’ home in the first season of the Monsoons after she is married. Integral to the institution of marriage, at least in the northern Hindi speaking belt, is the arrival of the girl’s brother to the home her in-laws and he takes her back with him, with the in-laws’ blessings and token gifts, and with the promise that he will return her to them once the rains have passed.

What follow are the lyrics of perhaps one of the most touching, soulful songs from vintage Indian films. ‘Ab Ke Baras’, literally translating as ‘This Year’, is the heartrending plea of a girl calling out to her father, begging him to call her back for the season. A part of an old film ‘Bandini’ (Prisoner), the song is sung in a women’s prison, the reference being that the Hindi word ‘Sasural’ – though it meant home of the in-laws – was used as a colloquial slang for prison.

Slow, rich with emotion and plight, the words tug at the heartstrings as the song is enough to move one to tears.

Send my brother to collect me this year, Oh father

Send him for the rains have come.

My friends from my childhood have returned home and they call me,

And the letters they send are wet from the rains.

So send him, oh father, to collect me this year.

Let me play on the swings beneath the cloudy sky again,

As the showers pour around me.

And with me will return to your gardens, oh father,

The soothing, cool showers of the rain.

Tears splash from my eyes and I hurt

As I recount memories of my childhood

So send him, oh father, to collect me this year.

This life this youth stole the playthings of my childhood,

And I have lost my dolls.

Tell me, oh father, after growing up on your pride,

When was it that I stopped belonging to you?

Ages pass, and I receive no letters from you,

And I see no boats on the horizon coming for me.

Send my brother to collect me this year, Oh father

Send him for the rains have come.

So send him, oh father, to collect me this year.

NOT ME.

“I need your pants.”

It’s strange waking up to a line like that.

“Dave, I need your pants. Now. Please.”

What’s stranger is realizing that in order to comply with the request (read order), I was going to have to take off the ones I was wearing and hand them over, and then either get to washing the others or hang around in my boxers until Matt returned.

“Dave! I’m not getting younger dammit! Christie is leaving, I need those pants!”

Her name jolts me awake finally.

“What?”

“I messed up man, and Christie is leaving. She’s on some flight taking off in a couple of hours and I need to stop her.” I’m finally on my feet dropping the pants, and handing them over. He puts them on.

“What happened, Matt?” I try and ask as calmly as I can.

“I said something when I was drunk. She got upset. She said she would leave, but who really goes through with it? I thought she was kidding and just needed some time!”

He rushes out; I stare out the door after him. My ass of a flatmate. I catch myself thinking about how he should try learning treating his girlfriend better. That’s when I hear his footsteps on the staircase again, and he reappears.

“Dave, what should I tell her?” An ass indeed.

“That you’re sorry? How hard is it to figure that out?”

“No not just that, I need something more, something fancier. You’re the one with the words, tell me something!”

“Say something like ‘All the stars would lose their lustre, if I am unable to muster, the courage to ask you to stay.’”

“That’s lame man. Poetry and all that. We’re a century past that, and I can’t screw this up. Seriously, something practical.”

“Matt, practical is exactly what she doesn’t need. Trust me, it’ll work.”

“Lustre and mustard?”

“Muster.”

“Right. Okay. Bye.” He runs off again, repeating lustre and muster to himself. Ass.

I find myself thinking about his girlfriend. Christie. Matt’s girlfriend, not mine. I wonder what will pass when he meets her at the airport. She will know that the words are mine, as are the pants, courtesy the fact that there’s a line of verse written above the knee which she notices when I'm wearing them.

I know she will stay back. I know she is dying to stay back. I know that Matt will think he’s the king of the world when he brings her back home tonight. I know that she and I will exchange perhaps even less than a look, and share a small truth. For I know she looks for something more than Matt in this house.

The painful part is, that something is not me.

SMILE

A memory so clear, it burns.

You are looking away, your long silken hair covering your face. But I know how you smile behind that veil. A smile of freedom, of sublime happiness expressed with not a care in all the world. The sunlight dances as you turn to look at me, your hair flowing aside like drapes parting, and you smile at me.

The smile, the memory, so clear, it burns.

The smile becomes a laugh. You tell me to stop looking at you so, but how can I? You shake your head, your hair shimmering, dancing in the light once more. And you look away once more until your face is hidden behind your veil. But I know how you smile still.

Knowing that you smile is a memory so clear.

Like a view lost behind a fog set in too quickly on a cold night, you have faded. Like the ideas of a dream lost from waking up too suddenly, the things you did are difficult to remember.

But your smile, and the way the sunlight danced in your shining hair. They stay on, blurring my vision, burning me.


Smile for me, once more. Please just once, so the man that you see before you can pick himself up again.

OUTLIER, OUTFLYER

It was shortly after World War II that the British Overseas Airways Commission gave the go ahead for the prototype testing of the de Havilland Comet, believed to be among the first models designed for commercial travel. The Comet, designed a committee headed by Sir Geoffrey de Havilland, was put into scheduled service in 1952, and was regularly used by various airline service providers across the world until 1997. It was indeed a glorious model, and a visionary start to the art of aircraft design.

There was however, one small issue, which went unnoticed for a long time: Sir Geoffrey de Havilland, for all his grand visions, was himself a small man of 5’6”, and so, the planes he designed were designed bearing in mind humans of his dimensions. His company carried forward his legacy of building planes that were based on his earlier designs, and when the de Havilland Company was no longer at the forefront of aircraft design, its successors simply took its plans and tinkered around thereafter.

The result: modern day aircraft cabin are designed only to accommodate humans touching 5’6”, whether it be the default distance between two aligned seats, or the default distance between the floor and the overhead baggage storage units. A 5’8” being can squeeze about and manage, but anything taller than that is a marginalized outlier that the airline community really couldn’t care much about.

So whenever it so happens that I have to travel by air, a sense of cold engulfs me. At 6’3”, I get looks of disapproval from the lady at the check in counter as she labels me ‘Oversized’, and secretly wishes she could charge me extra. There is a genuine restriction in the seats I can occupy, for if I’m in the one by the window, I cannot compensate for the lack of space in front by stretching my legs out towards the side, and if I’m in the one near the aisle, my legs tend to obstruct traffic. I get equally dirty looks from the cabin crew that say “Every passenger around him is going to curse him, and I’m going to have to deal with it”.

And that is precisely what happens. Everyone does tend to curse me. The person sitting in front of me can’t recline, because my knees are jammed into the back of his seat, the person sitting beside me near the window cannot get out without having me get up and out into the aisle, and whenever that has to happen, the person sitting beside me toward the aisle has to get up too. When my knees begin to hurt, I have to shift around in my seat, and the rest of me is usually at odd angles after that happens, bringing my face uncomfortably close to the faces of one of those beside me (usually the one at the window, I get to see the view).

And don’t even get me started about what happens when there’s turbulence. That is a nightmare. For the poor bugger next to me.

If I’m lucky, I get a seat near the emergency exit, with a polite woman beside me who has a son as tall as me who also has to put up with similar discomfort and so she can completely understand the position I’m in and is willing to shift her legs to the left to give me some more leg space. If I’m unlucky, I get a window seat, with this gruff corporate man who is already in a foul mood because his company didn’t give him a business class ticket and is now placed beside a lamp post who will make clicking sounds with his tongue every time I have to move and wishes he could kill me with his stare when I ask him to get up so I can go to the loo.

But my troubles are not limited to sitting. While I’m standing waiting for a place in the queue in the aisle to exit the plane, the overhead bin is an obstruction, and I find myself bent so far that my head is either hovering precariously above the heads of those in the aisle already, or it dangling dangerously close to the person standing waiting in the seat in front of me. Either ways, not the best place for a head to be in.

So when I finally get off the craft, there is a sigh of relief on my part, and a greater one from my co-passengers. Apparently, tolerating me is a greater ordeal for them, than tolerating the craft’s dimensions is for me.

It is usually in the taxi ride from the airport home, when I’m nursing aching joints and a battered ego that I begin to wonder how much it would really take an airline to increase the distance between two seats. An inch here, a couple there, and life is so much simpler. And then usually my thoughts go on to higher planes, and more abstract notions, of how over-standardization never did anyone any good, of how people who don’t fit aren’t really allowed to say anything and what a helpless state that is, and of how best I should fire Sir Geoffrey de Havilland if I ever met him.

I finally get home, I’m greeted by my family, and in case there happen to be visitors who haven’t seen me in a long time, there are the usual expected comments about how tall I’ve gotten and how they have to crane their necks to see me and how that is uncomfortable for them. Really, someone’s got to start putting themselves in the shoes of the outliers and look inwards, and take a good look at how easy life is for them. Really.