Sea Dreams

I dream of water.

Still waters, gushing waters, dark waters, blue waters. A friend of mine tells me the water is meant to represent me. I doubt that. He wears a different ring on each of his fingers. They catch the light of the nearest source when he’s talking and blind you with their colours.

It is a river. A king in a faraway land lets the river loose on a long line of refugees trudging along railway tracks through a green valley. First the water gushes forward over the tracks, and people are screaming. And then there is a silence.

It is beautiful. The bodies float up in the stillness – and the cloudy blue of the calming water when it stops to a still. It is beautiful and breathtaking – and not frightening at all – but it cannot be me.

I’ve seen the ocean as a child. It did not fascinate me as much as the sand did. The waves were beautiful – especially in the monsoon rains – and the colours shifted and changed like some wild monster that could never be tamed. But the sand was magical. It spoke of life – and time – and millions and trillions of aeons, recorded in shifting patterns and consistencies of loose particles. And it touched you and played with you and let you form childlike forms and shapes with its grains – and then when the waves rolled over – it would return to what it always was.

I don’t know where I am.

I see different places – different faces – different times, they swirl together sometimes, as if I’m everywhere at once – and then suddenly, they’re silent. I believe I might be dead, or dying, but I don’t know for sure. Everyone is either dead or dying, and after a point, everything is silent. And dark.

The water is cold. It is not clammy – because it is not moist. That is not a word you can apply to so much water. It is cold, but whole – and endless. I am standing in it up to my waist, and my hair is wet. It clings to my back and sends little spherical drops rolling down my shirt – before they meet the water, and become part of the whole. When there is so much water, it is difficult to believe in it. It isn’t water anymore – it’s everything – it cannot be named – because it is there. Like the air, which we have grown so used to, which we disregard so completely although it is always there – between people, between emotions, between moments.

The sun rises beneath the water – and I can see it sparkling through the depths. The bent light quivers, like it has stories to tell, and a quiet warmth spreads through the blue.

Sometimes the water is everywhere – and we must never wear shoes. Wet feet are not uncomfortable beneath the surface. They dance like they’ve never danced before, kissing the currents, swirling through the abyss. Even meeting people becomes a dance. Conversations are slow – because time is slower in the water – and everything stretches itself out, like it’s as important as it should be.

The water is dark and still. A woman’s red and yellow saree is half-submerged in the blackness, and the light changes.
Flowers, just about to sink, just about to disappear – black waters are magical. As things sink, as they fall beneath the surface, they vanish into the dark, like they never existed – or like many more things exist down there – in the depths. A brown ear and some tousled dark hair. More flowers. Two hands, fingers intertwined. Dark fathomless waters. They cannot be me.

I wake in water. Here there are ships. Great masts, towering above, ragged sails that float in the current as if they sail in the wind above the surface. Everything is darker, but still blue. I cannot be the water.

The stones on the rings are bright. They are so bright that they become liquid, sparkling in the light. Grey, green, blue, black – little oceans. Sometimes they expand into complete worlds, surrounding me – and sometimes they are just stones. Liquid stones. Small drops of water.

I am not small – not so small that I can be worn on fingers – quivering drops of liquid bound to metal circlets. Water can be restrained – in stones, in vessels, in eyes. Not all water is wild, although it wants to be. No, it does not want to be wild – it wants to return to the ocean. To be whole. To not be little drops, little rivers, little ponds and lakes and collections in glasses and buckets and tanks. But to be whole – to be everywhere – to be at peace. Perhaps the ocean heaves in yearning – and the rivers runs in hurry, while little ponds and bucketfuls and glassfuls are still because they know they will never see the ocean.
Sand is at home everywhere. In the wind, before a storm, in your eyes, under your boots, inside pockets of people who have been to the beach. I cannot be the water.

I never drown.

My friend says I cannot drown within myself – but I have. And yet the water does not drown me. It shifts – black, grey, green, blue – but it seems to know me – not always as one of its own, as one who belongs with it – but it knows me. I am not one person – no one is, so the water cannot be one thing to me.

Now there is only water. The furniture is floating – the papers dance in the currents – and the sound is deafening – because there is so much of it.

I don’t know where I am. There are people here with me. They are floating too – they are floating like the furniture floats. They do not dance, they stare. I cannot tell if they are dead – or sleeping – because the water is colder than they are. Ten fingers with ten different rings glint in the dark, catching some obscure light from some source I cannot see.

The water is deafening because it is silent. And still. It has drowned everyone in its shifting changing depths, slowed time, slowed life and slowed death. It cannot be me. But I have brought it here.

Sand is most at home in water.

red light

here's a clock. there's a clock.
arms and face and all the rot.
glaring from the wall.

who's a face? that's a face.
two dots and a curve disgraced.
painted golden dolls.

where's the rhyme? is this the time?
the whole world in a pepper pot.
stewed. steaming. steeled.

weather died. frozen? fried?
and all the one-horned rhinos cried.
two tears. plus glycerine.

where is home? high tea? high noon?
cradled by a helmet swoon.
six of clock and stopped.

car. parked? car. sparked?
horns waved and caked the dark.
if they hadn't we'd have walked.

If, In the Head of Priscilla Ray (long overdue)

Scene:

Spotlight on Priscilla, a young girl in her late teens – early twenties, slightly eccentric, with very fidgety hands, and writing material.

Priscilla: It’s the 30^th of September 2010, the weather is delightfully warm, with a few rumbling thunderstorms overhead. This is a play about - LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – a dinner table with four empty chairs.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: This is a play about – (turns to look at stage) – LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – dinner table is still there – the four chairs have four nametags. Mother. Father. Elephant. Baby.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: THIS IS A PLAY ABOUT -

Lights on centre stage – dinner table and four chairs are upside down.

Priscilla: DYSFUNCTIONAL –

Lights go out – even the spotlight on Priscilla goes out – and then stage light comes back on, with a few blinks. Dinner table, right way up, with six characters, two on each edge of the table, each with a brown cardboard box on their heads, with eyeholes.

Box 1 slams his fist on the table, but the movement is hidden by Box 2, who is sitting opposite, with his back to the audience.

Box 1 peeps over Box 2 and makes a larger movement – then Box 1 stands up and slams her fist on the table. Box 3, who is sitting next to Box 1, puts her head on the table and starts sobbing violently. Box 4, who is sitting at the head gets up and walks a little way away while Box 5, at the foot is quietly moving her spoon from the table to where her mouth might be. They freeze. Box 2 and Box 6 have their backs to the audience.

Priscilla: Too much clutter.

Lights on Priscilla. Lights off stage.

Priscilla: TOO much clutter.

Lights on stage. Box 2 and Box 6 have disappeared, with their chairs. The rest are still frozen in position.

Priscilla: Clearer. Clearer. There’s never much to see. But at least you can see it. (Pause.) Maybe you should hear it too. (clears her throat while the four boxes get to standing positions in slow motion) The four of them sit down for dinner.

(the boxes follow her directions in slow motion)

Priscilla: Reaching out for the saltcellar, they realize that there is no food on the table. Food? There is nothing on the table – absolutely nothing. Except perhaps, a few specks of dust, which is 80% human skin. Bare skin rushing against bare skin, infused with microscopic particles of wood and sand, they run their fingers over the surface of the table… who was supposed to set it? They look around wildly, trying to identify the home keeper among them – but their faces start to look extremely indistinguishable – the monotone calls out to the monotone – and their heads draw together, in a slow agonizing moment of gravity… (pause)DAMN!

Stage lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok. Restart.

Lights back on – four characters sitting at the table. Mr. Ting, a large man who is still reading the morning newspaper. Mrs. Ting, a lady with a mole. Old Mrs. Ting, a lady with a bigger mole – and young Miss Ting, who has her doll at the table.

Mr. Ting: Mrs. Ting, pass the saltcellar please.

Mrs. Ting: Do you mean the saltcellar or the (whispered) salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: (folding his newspaper and in a falsetto) No I don’t mean the salt… cellar – there is no such thing – I mean the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: Oh I thought you meant the saltcellar – you couldn’t have meant the salt… cellar but I had to make sure.

Mr. Ting: No you don’t, Mrs. Ting – not at the dinner table – you don’t make sure at the dinner table – there is no such thing as the salt… cellar – we don’t MENTION the salt… cellar. Now. Pass the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: This one, right – because the salt… cellar can’t really be passed down the table. (laughs nervously)

Mr. Ting: SHUT UP ABOUT THE SALT CELLAR! WE DO NOT MENTION THE SALT CELLAR! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! DO YOU WANT OUR DAUGHTER TO FIND OUT WHAT WE’VE KEPT IN IT??

Miss Ting: What’s in the salt… cellar, daddy?

Mr. Ting: Now you’ve gone and done it. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Now what do we do?

Mrs. Ting: I – I – there’s nothing – nothing at all – there’s no such –

Miss Ting: I’m not talking to you, ma. What’s in the salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Salt. Cellar. There. Is. No. Salt. Cellar.

Miss Ting: I know when you’re lying, daddy. Tell me what –

Mrs. Ting: Now, Miss Ting, don’t talk to your father like that – there’s only salt in the -

Mr. Ting: If I hear the words salt… cellar one more time I’ll…

Old Mrs. Ting: Pass the saltcellar please, dearest…

(pause)

Mr. Ting and Priscilla together: ENOUGH.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: No! No! No! This isn’t a play – a play’s supposed to have CHARACTERS. It’s supposed to mean something. It can’t just ramble off… AGAIN.

Lights on dinner table. The person sitting at the head of the table, previously Mr. Ting, is the only person without a box on their heads. This man is still large, but has no newspaper in front of him. Instead, he is sitting with a large covered dish in front of him. He is wearing an eye-patch and a bandana.

Priscilla: Captain Scarface. A man with a deep dark secret and an inextinguishable wrath. Every night, he sits down for dinner with a covered plate – that he taunts his tablemates with. What does he have beneath it? No one knows, but the very thought of that dish sends thrills of terror down each and every one of his tablemate’s spines.

Captain Scarface: They call me a monster. Me! I’m not a monster – I’m the most frightening, most terrifying, most wicked, most evil monster alive. And I’ll eat it tonight – the dish I’ve been biding my time to uncover. It shall be unveiled tonight. My masterpiece. My death-defying, most terrifying curtain act – PASS ME THE SALTCELLAR!

Lights go off – while Priscilla shuffles her notes – and come back on again. The second person at the table, previously Mrs. Ting, has her head uncovered. She is powdered and prim, her mole larger than ever – her hair set high on top of her head.

Priscilla: Lady Lumpunch. If power inspires fear, and money inspires power, Lady Lumpunch’s name inspires a lumpsillion lyrical larks to lute lullabies in a lolloping lull – or so the say. If you ask her to pass the saltcellar – you better have said please!

Lady Lumpunch: Yes I’ve got money. But where’s yours, pumpkin? If you can’t keep your accounts – keep yourself a bloody accountant! I’ll not help you. This saltcellar is silver – and this saltcellar is mine – and all the salt that pours out of it belongs to me – me – me – toppling columns of white pristine grains of indelible saltiness – get your own saltcellar, darling, you don’t scare me!

Lights go off – while Priscilla writes something down – and come back on again. The person at the opposite end of the table, previously Old Mrs. Ting has her head uncovered now. She has a shock of white hair, and large glasses, and a slightly pointed face, with Parkinsonism.

Priscilla: Dame Doneitall. There’s used to be brain in that large head of hers – before all the grey and the white turned into pitch black with the number of times those physics equations were rubbed on and off the slate of her mind. A genius without her genii soon becomes quite senile.

Dame Doneitall: One two buckle my mice – three blind shoes, how awfully trigonometric. It’s time for zero gravity – three two one – you are entering a region of subatomic tremors. Beware falling headstones – and leaking saltcellars – by the way, I’m starving?

Lights go off as Priscilla arranges her sheets and comes back on again. The last person at the table has her head uncovered. She has large eyes and very well combed straight hair, and is clutching a doll – perhaps slightly larger than the one she had before.

Priscilla: Titli De. A quiet child.

(Titli stares into the audience wide-eyed)

Priscilla: Quite quiet.

Scarface: Lumpunch, you are atrocious. Doneitall, you’re senile. Titli, what are you doing here? You don’t even have a proper name!

Priscilla: What is it with English names? Nope. The name stays.

Scarface: And you have your doll next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok – maybe that can be fixed –

Lights come back on. She’s holding the hand of a giant creature.

Scarface:…And you have your imaginary friend next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or maybe not –

Lights come on – the doll is back.

Doneitall: The moment’s passed – we’re all aghast – I wish you’d feed me.

Lumpunch: Oh, Scarface, sweetheart, stop your squabbling. What do you have there in your plate – we’re all waiting –

Scarface: Oh – ha ha ha – I’ll show you, you pack of withered women – I’ll show you what I have!

Doneitall: Oooooh, yum, mum’s the word, bum. Dum-dum, you’re all numb. Yum.

Lumpunch: Shut up and be quick about it – my shares will get cold.

Scarface, with an evil laugh uncovers the dish. It’s empty. Everyone raises their eyebrows.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Oh. Sorry. These are a few of my scariest things…

Lights on.

There’s the severed hand of the imaginary friend on the plate. No one’s expression changes.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Titli’s head on the plate. Titli is, of course, missing from the table. Everyone gasps.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Lumpunch’s head on the plate. Everyone screams.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Doneitall’s head on the plate. Everyone sighs.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Scarface’s head on the plate, the cover’s on the table. Everyone starts laughing.

Lights off.

Light’s on. The doll’s on the plate. Everyone’s jaw drops – they’re deathly scared.

Scarface: (with a smug smile) Shall we dine?

Titli: What’s in the saltcellar?

Scarface: What?

Titli: (a little louder) What’s in the saltcellar?

(pause)

Doneitall: Ten, nine, eight…

Lumpunch: Maybe we should all keep calm… balance our coins carefully…

Doneitall: Seven, six, five…

Lumpunch: There’s no point blowing it up… calculation mistakes happen sometimes…

Doneitall: Four, three, two…

Lumpunch: Nothing to go mad about; hold on to your purse strings…

Doneitall: One.

Scarface: WHAT. DID. YOU. SAY?

Titli: WHAT’S IN THE SALTCELLAR?

Lumpunch: It’s not gold, my gumdrops. Never mind.

Scarface: This is all your fault! All yours – all your fault!

Doneitall: Murder, murder, blood and gore! Butcher, gambler, hangman and whore! It’s integration d-life by d-knife d-saltcellar! Catch-yer in the pie!

Titli stands up, glaring at Scarface.

Scarface isn’t daunted. He calms down, pushed the plate in front of him to center table, stands up to his full height and looks calmly at Titli.

Scarface: Well, if that’s the way it’s going to go, lets all lay our cards on the table. You, my dear, aren’t as innocent as you pretend to be. Everyone at this table has killed, no use denying it. We’re all bloody murderers. Let’s confess.

Titli is still glaring at Scarface.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and put it on the table.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they shove the pieces of paper across to the centre of the table)

Priscilla: View, view, view, now the audience can’t see. Rewind please –

(the four characters rewind their motion fast to where Title and Scarface are standing and staring at each other)

Priscilla: …and play.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and stick it on the forehead of the person who’s sitting one place to your right. Then that person can ask yes or no questions and guess the name on his or her forehead.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ummm… line of vision looks all wrong…

Lights come back on. The whole scene has inverted laterally – left to right – including Scarface’s eyepatch and Lumpunch’s mole.

They’re still staring at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or did the other one look better? Good god let me see… Left – right – right – left – hmmm. What’s in a direction, I can’t for the life of me remember. Oh well, let’s see for ourselves.

Lights back on. The whole scene is still the same – but it has been replicated in an exact mirror image just next to it, so that each character and each prop has his, her or its double opposite it. Slow but exaggerated movements are mirrored exactly.

Priscilla: And repeat:

All following actions are mirrored exactly by the main dinner party, while the actions themselves are performed by the fake dinner party, the dialogues are in double voices:

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: It’s all the same, really. Like all pointing fingers.

Lights come back on. Fake party has disappeared. The dinner party is much more normally dressed now, Scarface has lost his eyepatch and bandana, Lumpunch her strange hairstyle, Doneitall her crazy hair (although she’s still old) and Titli her doll (which was on the table before). What’s on the table is plates of real food and cutlery. Priscilla’s scribbling on her script. In the following dialogue – no one raises their voice.

Scarface: Where is that girl? Call her again, Rita. (Everything he says has a quiet authority and contempt that no one questions)

Lumpunch: Yes, Jai. Priscilla!

(Priscilla starts.)

Priscilla: Coming!

She drops her sheets and hurries to join her family at the table, dragging a chair to sit with her back to the audience.

Scarface: I’ve told you before not to be late for your meal, young lady.

Priscilla keeps her head down.

Doneitall: (she’s a really old lady) Pass the saltcellar, please.

Lumpunch passes the saltcellar.

Doneitall pours salt on her meal, eats it and spits her food out.

Titli: What’s in the salt?

Scarface: It’s nothing, only dadi messing about.

Titli: No, papa, there’s pepper in the saltcellar.

Doneitall is wheezing and coughing.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You put pepper in the saltcellar and passed it to my mother.

Lumpunch: I’m sorry – I must have passed the pepper by mistake –

Scarface: What is wrong with you, woman?

Lumpunch: It’s no big deal, Jai. (completely ignoring the wheezing old lady)

Titli: (unpleasantly) I want the salt. Where’s the salt if that’s the pepper?

Scarface: How can you say it’s no big deal?

Doneitall sends a surprisingly intelligent and crafty look towards Lumpunch and goes on wheezing.

Lumpunch: It’s only the salt and pepper, Jai.

Scarface: And it’s your responsibility.

Titli: This food is bland. I won’t eat it. I won’t. I won’t.

Priscilla: Lights out.

Lights go off. And come back on again after a while.

The plates on the table have, instead of the food, the heads of all five family members on them, each in their own place.

Curtain.

fourth

and sometimes it is the absence of sorrow.

weavers. spinning, casting, spinning, spinning.

streams of colours that entwine silken tombs.

empty tombs. waiting colours. and rain.

almost always it is the absence. it is swift.

swift to come, swift to go, swift to change.

metamorphose into beauty. change. sorrow. change. lustre.

change. absence. again it is the absence.

it flies. on wings of molten stone. frozen - and fluid -

silken birdsong. change. chatter. change. words.

heard, sung, said, shouted, screamed, thought.

change. sorrow. change. beauty. change absence.

it's not colours. not just yet. but something close to.

it's not thought. not just yet. but something close to.

it's not beauty. not just yet. but something close to.

swift to catch. swift to hold. swift to let go.

almost always. the absence of sorrow. the sorrow of absence.

not both. but quite. almost never. only ever.

change. now. change. then. change. flutesong.

it's always that. the absence of sorrow.

sorrow.

Let’s Be Morbid: A Tale of Deathbed Conversations. Scene One.

To open, a wild circus show – a few elephants trumpeting in the background. A large bucket – did I say large, I meant gianormous, 4 feet tall, and only so that people can still reach in – of chicken wings downstage right, a tent overhead, and some confetti aimlessly floating around in the air.

A really short man, with a top hat half as tall as he is, steps off a show stool upstage left. The only other character on stage is a young awkward man with a lion mask lifted off his face, sharpening a couple of really long pencils downstage centre.

Man-in-the-Top-Hat: Leo, aren’t you done with those yet?

Leo: Almost, Vince. You know Di likes them to be extra sharp.

Vince: (sighing) And extra crispy.

Leo: What’re you talking about? Her chicken wings?

Vince: Nothing.

He takes off his top hat. He’s bald underneath.

Vince: I’m not going to be seeing Di tonight.

Leo stops sharpening the pencils.

Vince: And I need you to help me help Di understand.

Leo: Are you leaving us?

Vince comes up to Leo and takes the pencils off him and starts sharpening them himself.

Leo: Are you?

Vince: Leo. I’ve been trying not to. For a really long time. But the dreams are getting to me.

Leo: I thought you were seeing a shrink. We thought you were seeing a shrink.

Vince: You don’t understand Leo. I told you that because I didn’t want you two to freak out. Especially Di.

Leo: You lied? You lied about the shrink?

Vince: No I didn’t lie about the shrink. I am seeing a shrink. Heck, I still will be. That’s the reason I have to do this. I can’t take the dreams anymore.

Leo: I can’t understand this. You know I can’t understand this. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know I have no idea what you’re talking about. Di won’t like this. You know Di won’t like this.

Vince: Shh. I’m sorry.

Leo: What are we going to do?

Vince: I’m sorry.

The pencil breaks. Vince kneels down to pick up the broken lead. Leo pulls his mask off his head.

Leo: Vince, what are we going to do?

Vince: You keep Di happy. The pencils and the chicken wings, that’s all she’s ever needed. My big well fed artist.

Leo: That’s not going to be enough, Leo. That was never enough. She’s going to be upset when you don’t turn up tonight. You remember how upset she can be?

There is a loud trumpet outside.

Leo: You remember what she did when you missed her birthday? Remember that birthday?

Vince: I remember that birthday, Leo.

Leo: You remember the circus tent after that birthday?

Vince: I remember the circus tent.

Leo: Well then, Vince, you can explain all this to Di, yourself.

Vince: I can’t, Leo.

Leo: Well I don’t even understand it so I can’t. And I can’t deal with another trampled circus tent, and you won’t even be there, and I still can’t understand why. So you can explain to Di.

Vince: I can’t.

Leo silently picks up the large pencils and breaks them in half.

Leo: You can explain to her why her pencils are broken as well.

Vince: Leo, I’m leaving the two of you because I’m going to die here. (pause) I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want to freak you out. Like I said. I’m not killing myself. I’m just killing myself here. I can’t take the dreams anymore. The dreams about you and Di. They just make no sense.

Leo: You didn’t tell us you’ve been dreaming about us.

Vince: Because I didn’t know you were a dream…

Leo: I don’t understand. You know I don’t understand –

Vince: …at first. Then I started seeing the shrink. He did some hypnotism mumbo-jumbo. And I found out I’d been dreaming about you and Di every night. Similar dreams. And I did things wrong when I was awake. Messed up stuff. My job. My wife. My paper-shredder. Because I kept confusing which was real…

Leo: What are you saying? You know I don’t understand what you’re saying –

Vince: and which was a dream. You and Di. Only a dream. A dream that made me keep messing stuff up. My job. My wife. My pin-ball machine. So he said to me, the shrink said… snap out of it. You decide which one’s more important. Your dream or this world. And snap out of it….

Leo: What the hell are you talking about? You know I can’t tell what you’re talking about –

Vince: …snap out, wake up. End it. So I decided I would. Because you know I’ve really been messing stuff up. My job. My wife. My butterfly collection.

Leo: But you saw the shrink. I went with you. I went with you to see the shrink. It was a few days ago. He had an orange overcoat and sang Bugs Bunny songs under the streetlight. I was there when you met him.

Vince: No, you’re putting stories in my head. Don’t fight it. You’re a dream. You and Di. You don’t know it but you are, and I’m sorry. And it’s too late now. I’ve set everything up. I hired the buxom ballerina troupe to kidnap the safety net for tonight’s show. Just before my swan dive. It’s not going to be there. So I can’t back out now. I’m sorry. You’ll have to explain to Di. I’m sorry. You’ll have to tell her why I won’t move after I fall through the false water bucket. You’ll have to tell her why I won’t answer when she trumpets for me – won’t get her her pencils for her part of the show. Why it’ll be you standing with her chicken wings instead of me, while she sketches the audience and then bows for her applause. Why it’ll be you instead of me leading her back into her tent at night and kissing her goodbye. Why it’ll be you instead of me waking her up every morning from tomorrow with her apricot flavoured sponge bath and my old ladder.

Leo: You saw the shrink with me, Vince.

Vince: No, that’s not true. I didn’t see the shrink here. I saw him when I was awake. Singing Daffy Duck songs…

Leo: Under an orange streetlight. You remember it now, don’t you? He told you – he told you it was all a dream. That you were dreaming about them every night. A job. A wife. Some strange box-things. And you were messing things up real bad. My health. Di’s breakfast. The pirouette before your swan dive. And he told you you needed to snap out of it. Because this was real. And that was the dream.

Vince: No. He said I’d confuse things. That I needed to …

Leo: Stay focused. You remember it now, right? That you had to put those medicine things in your glass of water at night so that you’d die there, in your dream, and escape, and never have to...

Vince: Go back again.

The circus in the background goes away, and the two of them are standing under the light of an orange streetlight.

Leo: Did you do that, Vince? Did you remember to do that in your dream last night?

Vince: I don’t remember.

Leo: If you love Di, then I think you’ll have remembered.

Vince: No. I remember. The orange man said I needed to choose. You said I needed to choose which was the real thing – and which was the dream. And once I chose, I knew what I needed to do.

Leo: For Di’s sake, you chose the right thing. I’m sure you chose the right thing, didn’t you?

Vince: I’m telling you, Leo, the net’s gone. The safety net. Whether you like it or not, it’s much too late. I’m dying tonight. The show’s just about to begin.

The elephants trumpet again. A muffled applause is heard somewhere in the distance.

Leo: Do you love Di, Vince?

There is a pause.

Vince: I didn’t chose.

Leo: Do you love her?

Vince: Yes.

Leo: Then it really is goodbye. I’m sorry.

Vince: I don’t want to die.

Leo: I’m sorry.

Vince: I only wanted to stop dreaming.

Leo: I’m sorry.

Vince: You’ll tell Di I love her.

Leo: I’m sorry. I will.

Vince: Then I’ll see you around.

He puts his hat back on. The background is a filled circus tent, with people cheering from below.

Vince does a sprint, pirouettes and then takes off in the start of a swan dive. An elephant trumpets from somewhere. The lights fade out. Curtain.

Under His Thumb

second installment of Mr. Jack. So read that first.

The quaint little inn-sign swung gently in the mild mountain breeze. A pair of stiletto heeled leather boots, hardly recognizable in their effort to look non-anachronistic, rested lightly over dainty lettering that spelt ‘The New Carabas’. The cottage was on a cliff-top, overlooking an extremely rocky coast – with no other sign of human existence anywhere in sight – unless you happened to look over the cliff and down at the sliver of a beach, which was spotted with tourists all year round. A young goat tethered to the window shutters looked quizzically at me as I flattened my hair in front of the tinted pane, before walking in.

Two seconds. That’s all I took to adjust to the darkness inside. Unfortunately, that’s all he took to react to my entrance, reach under the counter, pull his knife out, leap over the counter, lock my hands together in a tight squeeze behind me and press the blade sharp against my neck.

Another two seconds passed as both of us assessed the situation. The room was small – with wooden panels and a wooden ledge, a continuation of the counter, which ran along the length of three walls. Pushed against this ledge were a number of roughly hewn stools. Two soft yellow bulbs hung from the ceiling at two ends of the counter.

“You don’t look like a Catherine – who are you?” The raspy words were hissed into my ear, as wet and hot as the blade against my neck was dry and cold.

Catherine. Carabas. The stilettos. Of course. Of course I wouldn’t be the only one on this job.

“Likewise, mate. Although I haven’t seen much of you – but you don’t sound like a Catherine either.”

I was standing right next to the door, in front of the ledge – a slight movement, and my shin brushed against the hard leg of a stool just behind me – where my attacker’s legs were supposed to have been.

The edge of the blade cut into my skin, bringing a thin line of blood welling up to meet the sharp metal.

“No jokes – who are you?”

I kicked up hard against the stool behind. It toppled forward, sending its occupant off balance – and his knife wielding hand forward – away from my neck. Simultaneously, I butted my head back against what I assumed was his face, dodged under his arm and spun around – my hands grasped tightly around his arms this time, as he reeled back and fell on his bottom on the ledge.

A tiny man, about half my height, with a small bald patch on the top of his head and a hair cut that would make any barber cry. And, most importantly, clasped around a mean looking short blade: a right thumb that was exactly as long as his fore finger.

“Tom.” I smiled, wrenching his knife out of his grasp. “Your reputation precedes you. I haven’t had the pleasure – but no time’s too late for a hallo.”

His eyes traveled down to my belt. “Taylor,” he spat. “What are you doing here?”

“Surely you’ve guessed. Shouldn’t be too far from what you’re doing, I suppose. Where there’s smoke there’s fire – and where there’re goat shaped holes in the universe…”

Tom tried to make a dash for the door – but my foot came in the way. I knelt down closer, as he lay sprawled on the floor. “… There’s usually a Tom spiriting them away to the Big Guys for a cut. That animal outside – is she yours?”

Tom squirmed. If he hadn’t been slicing away at my throat a while ago, I’d have felt quite sorry for him at this point.

“Or, seeing as her pink collar says: ‘I’m Maribel, please return me to Clara Doris, 128 Palm Lane,’ – is she not?”

Livestock. Back in the old days, the main problem we used to have with giants, ogres and your other average countryside villain was that they kept stealing our livestock – and since they were always much bigger and stronger than us, they kept getting away with it, too. Big creatures have big appetites – and these big creatures had no idea about investing in their own animal farms.

That was a thousand years ago. Today, most hungry owners of toppling columns of gold have learnt to thrive on their own cattle farms. There’s even an old ‘acquaintance’ of mine in Kentucky who’s tried his hand with poultry. Most giants and ogres I’ve met were only waiting for a small scare to send them investing their gold in honest places – and by honest I don’t mean the shadowy grey honesty of today’s cattle or poultry farming. But some others never learn. And in my experience, it’s only a matter of time before a few innocent goats become all the livestock in the entire district – and then, when there are no four-legged creatures left to satiate the hunger, proceed to becoming the people populating that district. If there’s anything that can eat the world up faster than we can – it’s them.

Tom, I’ve heard, started off in this business very soon after he couldn’t find any more kings to butter up and impress enough to pay for his keep. The rich giants and ogres with their hoards of magic treasure caught his eye as soon as it had blinked away from the empty throne of monarchy. And being a small and slick guy – rumored to have got out unscathed from the digestive systems of a few big fish – he knew exactly which cranny of the grand scheme of things he should slip himself into. And believe it or not – when he tried this cranny out for size – it fit perfectly. In a giant-scaled plan to fill ogre-sized appetites, there could be no better thumb-sized position for a man like Tom than the one that arranged for the sudden and discreet transportation of disappearing farm animals.

“Well?” I asked again. “Are you going to tell me why you were lying in wait for Catherine?”

Tom, current custodian of Maribel Doris, 128, Palm Lane, eased himself up against the door with a wary eye on the knife in my hand.

“I wasn’t lying in wait for her – I was waiting for her. Like she told me to. ‘The New Carabas, the cottage on the cliff top, 9 in the morning, Wednesday. Come alone and I’ll make it worth your while – Catherine.’”

He reached into his pocket under my watchful eye (and the knife’s attentive twinkle) and drew out a small chit of paper. I scanned the handwriting – no familiar loops or crosses, which made me doubly certain that it really was from Catherine.

“Judging from your reaction when you met me, and the fact that the only weapon you carried in here was your knife – you’ve never met Catherine.”

Tom glared at me sullenly. “Should I have brought a machine gun?”

“You brought Maribel – I’m sure you and I both know she was your bargaining chip. What did you have in mind? Maribel in return for money?”

“What else? It’s me we’re talking about. Like you said, my reputation precedes me.”

I scanned his face. “Nope – you’re not as stupid as all that. Dragging your only bargaining chip to an anonymous proposition. You’ve been in this scam for a long time. You have information to offer – and you wanted to see whether you’d get more from Catherine than your current income from whoever you’re working for right now. Or whether you could get both ends of the deal, if what they say about you is indeed true. Maribel’s only the carrot dangling on the edge of the stick. There’s a story at the other end of that stick – a story you’re going to tell me.”

“Or what?” Well, he tried to put it in a raspy voice. But the shifting gaze that lingered on the knife was far from convincing.

I pocketed the knife. “Well, Tom, I’m in the mood for being generous. Let’s say I’m after your boss’ loot. And I really could use an inside man on the job. You help me and I’ll give you a generous share of what I earn.”

“How generous?”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate – but I’ll gift wrap it for you. Five per cent.”

Tom’s tongue shot out to lick his chapped lips. “Five per cent. And I get to slip off with Maribel right now.”

“Without, Tom. I think Clara Doris is waiting for her right now, don’t you? And only after you’ve told me some more about your employer.”

“I don’t know who he is –”

The knife slipped back out of my pocket.

“I swear – look, I was approached by this man on my personal number.” I raised my brows. “My cell phone number – I circulated it through the industry a couple of years ago. I’ve freelanced all over the continent. I swear – you can check up on me. This is how I work now. The man calls me, tells me the name of this village and four others, I tell him my fees and he gives me a drop off address. That’s all I know.”

“And the drop off address?”

“It’s about twenty miles away down the coastline. An abandoned lighthouse that gets cut off from the mainland at high tide – some tourists drowned there a few months ago, and the place has been shut since then. At least, the papers said they drowned.”

Tom flashed me a far from innocent grin. “That was all before I came down here to offer my services, you see. A guy will get hungry. He must be pretty ugly to not want to show his face at all. I’ve never seen him – but he leaves a cheque for me in the letterbox and I have to go collect it just before the tide starts coming in. That’s so I have to hurry back, you see. So that I can’t catch sight of him.”

“And Catherine? Where does she come into this?”

“She opened this inn this week – number of customers: nil. I checked her up after I got this note stuffed into my coat when I got it back from the dry cleaners. I don’t know anything about her – except that she bought this place cheap off a lottery winner who’s somewhere in the Maldives right now. And she’s alone.”

He narrowed his eyes slyly. “But you seem to know her pretty well?”

I had a sudden vision of an extremely well tailored suit of lavender silk.

“Old friend,” I smiled.

Tom was beginning to look a little shifty eyed. “I’ll just return the goat to Palm Lane now, then?”

I stood up. “Keep the goat. We’ll need her at high tide one of these days. This place is an inn, right? I’ll need someplace to stay while you find out what happened to Catherine. And remember the five per cent before you think of doing anything funny.”

I held out my hand. He didn’t deliberate too long before accepting it and helping himself up. Five per cent. As he disappeared down the rough path that led away from the cottage, I wondered how much he hadn’t told me. He must know a bit more about the stranger in the abandoned lighthouse than what he’d let on if he was satisfied with a mere five per cent. And if Tom was satisfied with a mere five per cent, it made you wonder what he knew about the magnitude of the full hundred.

Rote and His Talking Mirror #17

"whoosh. whoooosh."

"i thought we were trying to sleep."

"that was nine days ago."

"no it wasn't - i can see your calender on your wall to the right of your harpsichord."

"well i can see yours to the left of yours and yours says 21."

"turn around, you strange projection of your strange projection of some strange suppressed part of your subconsciousness - your calender says 12. and what's more - it says 12 Aug, unlike mine - which just says guA 21 - and only if you think your '2's and your 'g's are written backwards!"

"you missed out the 'u's."

"it's a goddamned sans-serif, Rote."

"whoosh. whooosh."

"oh - ignoring me now, are we?"

"i though we were trying to sleep??"

"damn you."

Rote and His Talking Mirror #23

"i know who you are. you're that person with those strange things you call opinions that you tell yourself are hidden deep in your head - but they're spewing out all over the place. i can see them oozing out of your ears. hah! there - there! look at that particularly fat looking specimen that's casting a lens of an extremely unattractive colour over your eye. i know you. you're bubbling and bursting with them - you can't contain them. quiver now, like a dead jelly, pink and glorified - that's what you do. you think i can't see through you - i don't have to. you're bursting at the seems. i despise you. i despise you with your judgmental eyes and cautious tongue. you think you're safe - you think you try? you don't know shit. you don't feel shit. you don't. you think that's dirt and muck under your fingernails? it's raw flesh. and it stinks. it stinks of FREAKING opinions and FREAKING rubbish that's all stacked up to the rim in that feel-good brain of yours, dressed as you trying. don't you think you can fool me."

"fool you, Rote? tell me something, when you describe this vibrant imagery of the pink jelly that's so lovely in you're head, are you at all aware that we share the same features. if i'm a jelly, with or without my so called burden of heavy opinions - so are you, with your own larger than life opinion of who i am. what do you think you look like to me? a dish of slimy porridge? that's simmered down and curled up satisfied - you're a goddamned jelly as much as i am - and what's more, you KNOW it. what are you doing - what do you think you're doing? slapping a kitten into left-over laundry? i'm not scared by your i'm-too-scared-to-say-bad-words. oh hell i'm not. and if you think you're fooling yourself by letting your tongue run loose and do all the screaming - just take a second look at what you're screaming at. just take a second look at that goddamned mirror and decide if it's doing you any good despising your own reflection."

a square in my pocket

Open publication - Free publishing - More square

Twitch

Who screamed? The piper screamed.

You couldn't hear it and neither did I.

Between the tip of a white edged nail

And ridged skin - you can't hear it cry.

Who moved? And crawled... and twitched.

Red. Red. Red. You can't see the red.

It isn't fun - not if I say so -

But if you listen really well, it's something well-fed.

Who's trembling? Who's not really there?

It was - it was - but it's not. Not now.

Silent and still - and undeniably killed.

Well-fed, and empty, and wondering how.

Packing for the Summer

It’s a night for sepia stars

Smiling softly their twinkle-less smiles

For the brink of a season – printed paper-boats

Bottles and bottles of homemade preserve

Newspaper and taxis and crumbled tickets

Where we were – and where we’ll stay.

Goodnight faces, the curtains still whisper;

It’s a night for remembering – we’re happiest today.

Follow the cold star, the bright star, the still star

The waters are pouring, the dusk and the day

Sneakers and cartons and bright yellow flowers

Geometric magic – and the rest have to stay.

Huge purple cases with nametags – and scribbles

Stamps and stamps and signature ink.

Journeys are ribbons – and journeys are nametags

And journeys are brinks – and they’re here to stay

The wrapped and the packed and the sent away bagged

The stored and the floored and the above-the-front-doored

Some things are happy – and some things just fine

And some things best kept between two frozen lines

But the most that could happen with fried-egg scorched sunsets

Are the things that have left – not the things that have stayed.

They come back greeting – in the thick of our meeting –

The sunsets are fried eggs and the bags are unpacked

The lines that were frozen melt softly and gently

Into two little pigtails – and they tumble back.

Into still framed smiles – some twinkle-less smiles

When we move ahead leaving sepia behind

And the stars are the ones that’ll stay here forever

And we – very quietly – have left them behind.

prison paintings

hack. hack. hack.

they're called fixed dimensions.

you can't hack. hack. hack.

into the insides of this skull and make it bigger.

and i've been dying to get out.

i'm brilliant at this.

spraying the grey matter with coloured swirls of chaotic imagery.

i've always been brilliant at this.

running around the insides of this brain with my paintbrush of emotive visions.

creativity. i'm a genius.

but a genius gets bored

with fixed dimensions.

hack. hack. hack.

there's not room enough for me within bone and scalp.

there's not room enough for me within tight walled in stories of beautiful colours and images.

Ugly. bright. bright. ugly. beautiful.

No. Not enough room.

There's a way out.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

And I've carved another one.

Layers and layers of breathtaking sculptures in this skull.

A gallery of the most beautiful images you've ever imagined.

This brain's ever imagined.

All me.

And all spaced

Within fixed dimensions.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

http://prisonpaintings.blogspot.com/

here again.

These are the hills that I know

Rising and falling

In front and surround and mass.

Green into blue – and then into purple

And a stream through a shingled white cast.

These are the hills that I know

Of caked brown footsteps by rainshine

Down-paths and up-paths in fog

Where the thunder of crickets match the thunder of water

Not seen – just felt – in fall.

These are the hills that I know

Mountains and forests

That shrug into white-feathered sky.

Highland and lowland and rushes of green land

Bowing to green-whiskered I

These are the hills that I know

White browed memories of autumn

Tooth and warmth in jagged lines of mist.

First born to snow and last born to winter

Sleepy low lines of purple to kiss.

These are the hills that I know

A touch of smoky steaming

Brushing by eyelashes dim

Muffled and soaked in mudpaper cloaked

A little path with a wood-peckered rim.

These are the hills that I know

And a little window calling

Into drowning foraging sky

And the first bird that wakes – and the last bird that calls

And the sun that blows the peep by.

These are the hills that I know

A faraway yearning

Growing smaller as they fade beneath the sky

A wheel in a storm – and some hush-hushed forms

Of music – and fried-egg goodbyes.

waiting for the evening

I remember where we were.

The cold red floor and the soft drip-drip-drip of the last remnants of the afternoon’s rain from the damp yellow windows beyond.

Me on the tattered sofa that had somehow become yours since they’d brought it over from the house that was being sold.

And you – a half-closed eye in a dream, off running through wild grasses on some strangely coloured hill against some strangely coloured sky.

I remember how loud it was – the sound of the clock from the next room – the clock that always ran late because everyone forgot to wind it – the clock that was always so loud when everything else fell silent. Most evenings when it was just me and you and an empty floor.

A book between us and you were always only waiting for the evening.

Sometimes the fan would be working – that huge hulky fan that drowned out the clock and conjured the old ghosts under the cupboards. And under the desk – and the table – but never under the beds – because they knew where you were.

We’d leave the room and go off wandering now and then – your soft footfalls treading through the house like some sleek searching spirit of wakefulness. And mine, trudging through the grime of some unnamed hill after Charlemagne’ s army. And when we’d return, yanked back to the room by various entities, we’d listen for a while, for each other’s presence, to be comforted by a special kind of quiet silence that was ours.

In some strange miscalculation of time, we’re still there.

In that cool quiet room brimming with ghosts and words.

Perhaps it’s wrong to tie you down with it, the red floor and the fan that never works now. Wrong to tie you down – you of the strangely coloured hills and the strangely coloured sky.

But that quiet silence is tied to that room – and it drowns the clock, now that the fan doesn’t work anymore. And you will always be in my quiet silence, even though your footfalls are free now, on that strangely coloured hill, against that strangely coloured sky.

And all of those colours break in through the yellow windows and spill across the words. And the ghosts. And the tattered sofa. And that shadow by the bookcase.

Where we still are. You - the half-open eye in a dream, waiting for your evening. And me on the tattered sofa that will somehow always be yours.

Fragment

And she went so far out to sea

That she couldn’t see the rain

The wind there was like the sea itself

Dark and deep and wild

Like mountains that moved with the storm.

 

And every fog she touched

Was like her own breath

Whistled towards a long-lost coast

Lost and lost again

With each passing mist that wreathed her.

 

And each passing day that left her

Washed by another salty crest

Another salty breath

Of a certain sort of yearning

That is born only in the stormy sea.

 

Where grey hills rise and fall

And stretch to the edge of the world

In one giant circle that trembles

Beneath one giant sphere

Swirling grey – and grey – spiraling into each other.

footsteps

Blind Mrs. Mitra sat by the iron-barred window and listened to the rain. Drip, drip, it went, on the brick tiles of the roof and splash, against the aluminium frame of the window, newly installed, because the wood, a hundred years old, had been eaten away by time. She could feel the city outside – the air felt grainy, like the air in front of the grinding mills at home, a long time ago – but colder, and harsher.

The sound of the city was lulled by the rain – and the metal sounds of Pratima, her daughter-in-law, washing the dishes in the little kitchen next door. The sound of the dishes reminded her of her knitting – she felt the cold steel of the needles in her palm and sighed. Clickety-clack, they would go – with the rain – but she felt like remembering, now.

Ajay had presented her the knitting needles – Ajay, her brother’s son, orphaned as a child of four months. The same day, it was, that Ajay and Prashant, her own son, had graduated from the military academy together – two smiles, so similar, so indistinguishable – she had felt them with her old wrinkled fingers on their lips, a foot above her head. Prashant had gifted her the aluminium window frames. Pratima had laughed, but she hadn’t found it funny – cold, instead, as if Prashant didn’t know how to love.

Splash – and thump – boots in the street. Then footsteps came loudly, and slowly, up the stairs and stopped in front of the door. Mrs. Mitra turned her head towards the doorway – it was open, she knew – it was always open. She wondered who it was – those boots were heavy on the red-cemented floor – a raincoat? Or was it a jacket?

“Pratima!” she called. “Look and see – someone is here. See what they want!”

There was a clash of metal, again, from the kitchen.

“Ask them, Ma – I’ll be a minute.”

The boot stepped into the room – thud, it went, a duller, softer thud, lulled by the water it carried from the world outside. The step startled the blind woman, sitting so placidly by the window across the room.

“Ajay?” she cried, half-croaking, half-whispering – and ran across, into the man’s arms. She lifted her old worn hands up to his face – the funny lumpy cheeks and the lips – so similar, so indistinguishable.

“You’re home? From the war? Why? When? Why didn’t you write – my darling –”

She stopped suddenly. A whimper – soft and yet so unbearably loud in the room. A small wet spherical circle dropped onto her outstretched fingers. Plip – louder than the loudest whiplash of rain outside.

She tore away and looked back – “Prashant?” Her voice was steady. “Has Prashant been killed?”

The man opposite her broke into horrible heart-wrenching sobs. Pratima hurried in from the kitchen, her footsteps hard on the cold floor.

“Prashant!” she screamed – “You’re home!”

Footsteps rushed across to the man. The blind woman collapsed to the floor. A quiet thump.

“No –“ she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Pratima was saying. “Ajay? Is he hurt?”

The man rushed blindly across to the blind woman – flaying her arms about her, searching, searching – for those cold steel needles – so full of love.

He handed them to her and hugged her, sobbing.

“I’m so sorry – Ma –”

But Mrs. Mitra raised her head, surprised. She had felt love in that embrace. The needles felt cold and distant in her fingers, like they were saying goodbye. She had felt love in those arms. In the wrong arms – but love, nevertheless – so similar, so indistinguishable.

From a little bit of April

This is where I was. On a bad-worded Sunday evening in a paper-boat hat off the east end of Hebbal.

It was Easter. Almost.

But the words never went. They ran ink – in the untimely April rain. Ran ink like the open wound would never heal. Ran ink as if the summer couldn’t suck it dry in its dusty incomplete swell.

But I knew it could.

I knew it had.

But the ink still ran – into little gullets in the newly laid pitch. That swelled and bubbled where the sun’s rough touch played it into sticky tar. The kind that trapped boots. And heels. And other things that feet liked to kiss.

Like the earth beneath it. And grass that disappeared every second Thursday of the month. Magicked away by April-ness. That wouldn’t be there in May.

And the little white world of ink and things that I’d thought I’d left behind eased gently out of my fingers in the tugging wind and floated away in a gust of some more April-ness to a faraway island I couldn’t reach.

The barbed wire winked at me in the sun. Something about April flashed in the clouds overhead before disappearing over a smoke-lit horizon. And a line of cool grey cement.

The flyovers swayed in the wind – sagging in the April heat…screeching at the tug – and then almost snapping – but not quite.

Where we stood still yesterday.

It is a paper-boat hat now. Running ink in non-existent rain before it floats off in a non-existent wind over a non-existent road. It is a non-existent paper-boat hat now. Drinking it’s fill of April. Over and over and over again. Till Sunday gets lost somewhere in between all the letters that hadn’t been posted yet. In between the five-rupee stamps that tasted of burnt coffee on a foggy morning. In between cigarette-coloured socks and half-remembered tomorrows.

It is Sunday. Almost.

the brink

This is where we should fall

On high ground bristling with grass

And other things – beating

Wings in the dark

Too much to hold – and too little to not

There’s a soft glitter here

Whispering. Crashing.

Splintered wood and stone

Rippled in dense memories.

Craving and breaking and reaching.

Like us. Bound to the dust.

Bound to nothing. And everything.

Swirling together and lifting in the gale.

Where the thunderstorm rises dark and wild and free

Over the horizon

Something threatens. To begin.

Or to end.

This is where we should fall.

Riya.

Riya. She was named after my mother. Three years old and pleasantly shy – she had her eyes. Not an unusual colour, liquid brown and strangely evocative, but hauntingly beautiful. And when you looked into them, you looked into innocence, in a strange simple blend of mystery and reality, the way the world might look to a child.

Her mother’s hand rested gently on her light curls, as she stood timidly by the door, sizing me up. “Do you remember your grandfather, Riya?” Pratima said, softly.

She cocked her head to one side, her ear brushing against her needlessly elaborate collar; her frock fell in lacy swathes about her ankles. She hadn’t seen me for a year and a half.

I hesitated for a second, and then stretched my arms wide. And the girl ran into them, laughing, as if she’d known me for years.

Pratima smiled quietly and disappeared beyond my doorway.

“Do you like it here, Riya?” I asked. “Up here in the mountains?”

“Yes, Dadu.” Her voice was young – far younger than any I’d heard in years and years. And her words clear and distinct – unusual for her age. “When Ma told me about the mountains I didn’t think they’d be so pretty.”

“You don’t feel lonely?” I asked, her confident words and grown-up phrasing unsettling me. Had she been taught what to say? “I know you don’t really have anyone to play with here.”

“No,” she said, bright eyes traveling quickly to look into my own, a little perplexed. “It isn’t lonely. There’s the rose garden – the flowers. The trees – ”

And then, in the same distinct clear voice, she said – “And there’s always Adi. He plays with me. So do Ashok and the other Riya.”

I blinked. Breathing fast, I looked at her face. She was so young – so little. Was she playing with me?

“What names did you say?” I asked, gripping her arms tighter than I should have.

She looked away, a little frightened. “Ashok, Riya and… and.. Adi.”

I let go of the girl and slumped back onto my pillow. Ashok was my father’s name. And Riya – my mother. They’d died years ago – years before Riya was born. And Adi – Aditya was my son. Pratima’s older brother who’d left us at the age of…of four and a month. The house was miles away from the nearest hill station and monsoons were treacherous n the mountains.

“You… played with them? You saw them? Here?”
Little Riya laughed. “Yes, yes I did! We played pretend. And horses… and the other Riya told me stories about the moon and the stars. Adi, Ashok and I played catch in the garden.”

“How…how do they look?” I asked, weakly.

Riya turned towards the window and a smile spread across her face. “Adi’s calling me now, Dadu. To go out and play.”

She bent over and kissed my cheek. Then, in a whirl of white lace and brown curls, she skipped out of the room.

I turned slowly to look at the window. Sunlight poured through the empty archway, lighting up my little lonely room.

______________


My wife died that year. And my health failed. Always shut up in my little room overlooking her rose garden and the hill slopes beyond, I waited. Pratima came to visit in summer, she hardly had time anymore. We’d talk now and then over the telephone – and there’d be a few letters. But the post was slow in these areas. And Pratima never had much to say. Riya was growing older – she didn’t like lace anymore.

A year since I’d seen them last, Pratima and Riya stood at my door, looking uncertainly at me. Riya’s eyes were different now – older. Stronger.

I sat up, just as before, and held out my arms welcomingly to her. And just as before, she smiled – perhaps a little quieter this time – and rushed into them.

Pratima left quietly.

I waited till she was gone and leaned forward excitedly. I had been waiting so long.

“Riya – do you see them now? Ashok, Riya and little Adi?”

The girl flinched – and drew back sharply, her brows knotted.

“And Dida? Do you see Dida?” I asked, eagerly.

Riya shook her head, her eyes puzzled, and … afraid. “Dadu, what are you saying?”

I searched for that gaiety in her eyes – the confident friendly assurance that I’d seen before. And I didn’t find it.

She drew back slowly from my bed. “Who are all those people?” she whispered.
And then, even softer, leaning her head forward and drawing her feet away slowly, she said – “Dida – Dida died last year, Dadu! Don’t you remember? How can she be here?”

I stared at her – my arms going limp – my eyes clouding over. “You…don’t see them?”

She looked at the door wildly. “I think… I think Ma’s calling me, Dadu. I have to go.”

And she backed away towards the doorway, keeping her fearful gaze on me. Then she was gone.

My wife tightened her grip on my hand from her stand by the side of my bed as I watched the girl leave. And little Adi just stood at the foot of my bed and smiled mischievously at me.