Reaching for love

You stand before the door
and knock
Nobody answers
You knock again
only the knock hangs
on the chilly air
And you knock harder and scream
Nobody answers
There's nobody inside
Only dead flowers
memories of a dream
A wilderness
where nothing will grow
And you turn away
But you've left your soul behind
And that can never leave

The man who thought he smelled

'Ice and Spice', at the junction of the roads that split to Coonoor Club and St. Anthony's School was a great place to catch up, snack on delicious Beef Manchurian and sneak those quarts of Whisky that corroded the guts and made the joints ache, fun evenings nevertheless… Many a tale was exchanged there as the evenings wore on and ended in drunken singing in the park. Every day a man walked past, down the Anthony's road, head bowed, muttering something under his breath, sad and worried. I asked my friend if he knew anything about the man. A curious tale unfolded, an office worker somewhere, who started avoiding people and eventually became a loner because he thought that people were avoiding him because he smelled foul. This unfortunate delusion turned into a obsession and led to him leaving his home, job and the company of his friends. In those days, delusions and obsessions were looked upon as a character defect, or maybe demonic possession, and people avoided him like he was contagious, a self-fulfilling turn of events that caused him more despair. As days went by, his pain was even more apparent as he walked by, diminished, wrapped in a cocoon of his terrible thoughts, and his family forced him to see a Psychiatrist. That didn’t help.

One day, riding down the Gymkhana road at the curve near the bridge where the stream emerges from a thick cover of Lantana and broadens into a dank pool, where ghosts emerged, and people were warned not to walk at night, I saw a crowd straining to see the body of a man being pulled out, bloated and anonymous, as only the dead can be. It was ‘He who smelled', truly smelling now. People held kerchiefs to their faces as they hauled him out and took him to that dreary autopsy room. And thus he disappeared, into a cleansing fire. Perhaps, I hope, to a better place. 

The tap

There was a small clayey slope opposite the then Vice-Principal's office, that bore little toe holds for those who wanted a shortcut to the big tree out there, that fell in a monsoon rain onto the girl’s hostel, and ended up as charcoal probably in one of Woody’s grand scientific experiments. It had ivy and a wild rose, a peach tree, that seldom bore fruit and one day it was cut down for that very fault. Charcoal. 

The path behind the girl’s hostel had that remarkable sustainer of life, the water tap, that washed tiffins and faces and feet and jawwies from pockets, and marbles and jats and hand kerchiefs and had the best water you could get anywhere. So humble, self effacing, faithfully working for many years. Many tales were exchanged at that very place. Michael Lim Susai's gold watch being rescued from the toilet there, by Woody himself, the small landslide and a couple of wattle trees down, giggles and unholy glee of the bread jam conspirators, scenes of misery upstairs… and there came Aloysius and his little friend. Aloysius turned the tap a little too hard and a piece of history was made. The little boy, fear in his eyes shouted, “Aloysius! Don’t broke man!!! ”

The listening stones

The morning mists slowly lifted off the still rocks around me revealing a fantastic landscape strewn with what appeared to be large rectangular blocks of stone or dark hardened clay. They stretched for miles, glinting dully in the hazy light. Not a blade of vegetation grew amidst the blocks but the entire scene was charged with pulsating life; I half expected the blocks to rise and start moving as the massive orange sun rose above the horizon.

As my eyes adjusted to the changing light, I saw a growing spot emerging from the sun. It drew nearer and I saw it was a young woman, curly hair flaming above her and her lithe body swinging in tune with some inner rhythm as she gracefully stepped over the blocks. She walked with purpose and when she drew closer I saw she was making towards a block I had not noticed before. It was bigger than the other blocks around it and seemed to have been set at right angles to the rising sun. Its surface was crisscrossed with innumerable fissures, like an ancient piece of driftwood, and I felt that the block lay there through eternity, awaiting this particular moment.

The young woman stepped onto the block like she was stepping on hallowed ground. Her coppery face shone with light and a smile appeared and vanished as quickly as it had come. She stretched out her hands toward the sun and something glowed a luminescent green between her fingers. Its light danced across the surface of the block and the girl watched the surface with an intensity that seemed to exclude all thought. She took a few hesitant steps, the beginnings of a dance, then she stood still and uncovered the object nestling in her hands. It was a fruit, larger than an apple, shining as if lit from within. Her fingers gently squeezed the fruit and a few drops of milky fluid fell on the block. They sizzled on the surface for a moment and I clearly heard soft musical notes that seemed to come from all around me. She dribbled a few more drops over the surface and began to sway as pure melody filled the air. The music had no focus or theme, unformed like the early forays of a future genius and my body reacted to it with a pleasure that left me breathless.

An old woman suddenly joined her on the block. I had not seen her come, immersed as I was in the beauty of the scene before me. She looked older that the block she stood on, it seemed to me that they knew each other through time, through forgotten histories…She took the fruit from the girl and sprayed its surface with wild abandon. The juices sizzled on the block and waves over waves of music filled the air, rising to a crescendo, then falling away to the faintest of notes, gently probing the morning air, then rising again as the old woman danced like I have never seen anyone dance before, limbs weaving intricate patterns and feet beating a rhythm that was not of this earth. The young woman joined her, tentatively at first and then as she picked up the rhythm, in harmony so perfect that I could scarce suppress the aching sigh that escaped my throat.  Their dance spoke of pure joy, and beauty so great, that my soul seemed to leave the confines of my body and join the women in their ecstasy. They danced among the flowing notes, moving faster and faster until all I saw was a glowing orb spinning on the block. My mind filled with all the happiest moments I had ever had, moments I had forgotten over time – they came so thick and fast, I was overwhelmed. Tears coursed down my cheeks as my joy mingled with the whirlwind of music around me, spinning me around until I became one with the music, soaring through the divine universe.


Then it was evening and I could hear the last notes fading away in some infinite distance. I became aware of my surroundings once again. The air was clean and cool, wonderfully perfumed, as if washed with rain. Lush vegetation grew all around me in wild profusion and the sounds of birds and insects reminded me of the ecstasy of the morning. I looked around. I could see no sign of the blocks around me, or the women. I stood up, unsteady on my feet and made my way towards the setting sun.

The strange alchemy of hate

“Your viva is three days from now and I’ll see how you pass your exam”, the Professor said, in tones dripping with venom and deadly intent, nurtured through years of blind prejudice against the trembling student. Sick at heart, she returned to her hostel in tears. Terrifying thoughts of failing, after 6 years of effort and nerve-wracking encounters with the Professor, the thought of enduring another horrible year with him, and then failing again and again; the thoughts roiled her mind. On the day of the viva, she waited for her fate in the classroom. After a considerable delay another Professor, a gentle man with a lovely smile, arrived and said he was the replacement juror as her Professor had an accident. A huge rush of relief flooded her system followed by a searing pang of guilt. The viva went off splendidly and she spent the next weeks in a state of bliss. Nobody knew much about the accident and the Professor returned after a couple of weeks.

He summoned her to his office and she went dreading meeting him again.
She was struck by how sick he was, and the look of torment on his face scared her. He gestured at her to sit down. She was shocked to hear his broken voice asking her for forgiveness for his conduct over the years. The morning of the viva he said, he was in bouyant spirits, at the thoughts of his vengeance and her destruction in front of him; he bathed and reached into his cupboard for a crisp white shirt. He felt a series of sharp pricking sensations on his arm and when he withdrew his hand in pain and shock, he saw a large cobra coiled in the shelf, hood raised and hissing, unblinking eyes glinting at him with sharp intellect. 

He looked at the blood on his arm and rushed out of the room, falling over the center table as he did so, cut his forehead badly, and all bloody and screaming, called for an ambulance. He was admitted into a hospital. Through the weeks of his recovery the only thing he thought about was the student, the horrifying incident and the seemingly divine punishment meted out onto him for his evil intentions. Dreams of his student turned into nightmares that left him shaking with fear in the aseptic ward. He knew he had to meet and plead forgiveness of her. He broke down and sobbed like a man in mortal pain.
This time, her heart felt a deep sadness at what he had undergone, she knew that he had learned a terrifying lesson and was changed by it. He would never again nurse hatred in his heart. She forgave him and they parted ways, never to meet again. She passed the exam with distinction.

The shaking student

The Professor commenced her new class with an introduction to her subject while her eyes roved over the bright faces that always characterize the freshly arrived students, eager to take on the world, eager to exploit the sudden freedom from the shackles of home. She spotted the trouble makers immediately and filed their faces away for future reference. The eager ones, the brilliant ones, the apathetic ones, all filed away; years of experience meant she was seldom wrong. One boy caught her attention, spasmodically twitching and scrunching his face, mumbling strange words and jerking his limbs, much to the amusement of the boys surrounding him. 

At first she thought it was one of those 'disturbing elements' in class, as they termed them in those days. She went up to him. The students fell silent, pretending to read their notes. Suppressed sniggers gave way to dead silence as she reached the back of the class. To her surprise he continued his grotesque dance, eyes down, abashed. He looked so mortified that she didn’t say anything, knowing there was something wrong with him and anything she said may only shame him.. Later she asked him to stay behind after class to get to root of his peculiar behaviour. She suspected some possible neurological problem and wondered if he was on medication.

And, this is what he told her… In a hostel where he stayed, there was a boy who suffered from Tourette Syndrome. Every day our protagonist imitated him to the delight and revulsion of his friends. Whenever someone wanted a laugh that ended in hysteria, he performed for them until people collapsed in tears. With constant practice he imitated the poor sufferer to perfection and added his own fine touches, shocking contortions of the face, manic jerking of the limbs, grunts and obscenities; it all went down very well. After months of this, he realised that what was an entirely voluntary and controlled act started manifesting itself in his daily life. His friends noticed it first, and thought nothing much of it initially. The more he tried to control it, the more the jerking increased, and then he realized the jerking was no more under his control. His friends in their guilt, avoided him. Alone and desperate, he left for home, consulted doctors and psychiatrists…nothing worked. Nothing. He was completely possessed by the demon he had created, and became what he only attempted to parody. 

The Professor was stunned by this ironic and terrible justice, and unable to offer a single word of comfort or advice. For once she had nothing to say. The grotesque act continued until one day he left the college, never to return. He still may be twitching somewhere. As for the boy whom he imitated, he may be laughing his insides out, amidst his twitches. Or maybe he got cured, having passed on his terrible affliction.

God gosh, Miss. Molly!

It was a time of plenty, a time of need
Weed
Intense blue skies
Tweed
And little Miss Molly skipped the stones in a vacant way
At the quarters where the police stay
In her quint little pants
That foresaw the future.

Many years away, the to-be murderer
Lurked in the lantana
Gnawing his nails in feverish hunger
And the gold chain came into view
Glinting on feminine charms
That rode the day
A beacon of hope
And Molly whistled her song
As she tripped down the hillside
A carefree orphan
In red and khaki
Eyes glinting in the sun
Bearer of tales
Saluter of flags.

In a flash it was done
And rubies spewed across the leaves
Only a bubbling gasp
As sister Angeline walked up the hill
The tiny little lady, loved
Wrinkled face of immense grace
And resolute she was
Was.
The bloody scene, a face frozen in shock
The horror of it all
And Molly little dolly
Rooted to the ground
Screamed
Anger
Her policeman father, deceased
It hung on the air forever
And echoed in the hills
Witnesses abounded
At a moment in time
When no eyes should have seen
The confluence of fates.
Children and their fears
More parents on the roads
The air was thick with rumour
And he was caught.

Molly, she’s seen the world
Sister Angeline too
Idiot savant and saint
Sisters of the knife
Life.