Dreams of frail and fragile women, wielding Ingrams and katanas, wake me up at 3 am. The west-end window has grown out of its frame this monsoon. The periodic creaking was a sign of a breeze blowing outside, rocking the pane to and fro. Distant sounds of heavy vehicles rushing across the main road, tunnel rats scampering across the back alley and the humming sound of a low speed fan kept me wide awake. Counting sheep didn't stand a chance.
No coffee, a glass of pineapple juice would have to do. I sit down on the sofa, TV on mute, watching an episode of Friends I have watched a thousand times before. Moist winds bring the smell of earth to me, for some reason my hands are clenched, feet tensed. The new practice pad next door, looked dark, sounded Floyd and smoked grass. I could tell, it's my superpower.
Floating across time and place the enormity of the situation grasped me aware. A shared auto ride, a game of cards on the way back from office, a quick snack at the food stalls, forgetting birthdays or messing the dates altogether, failing to clear a level in a computer game, waiting for overseas calls, late night movies, four parties per salary, workaholic colleagues, dumb fuck Amenhotep et al. They define me, who I am, these and many more, too many to remember, to many to please. I slouched some more and changed the channel.
When very sleepy, red patches of blood clot venules appear on the corner of the eyes. The green skies outside rudely direct me back to the bed. Orange streets metamorphose into labyrinths of hell. White dreams entice. We don't flinch an inch. The set is ready to try and fall asleep. The show must go on.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
11th August 2010
Torrential rains in Delhi, by Delhi standards. Just another 11th August evening. It's been two years since I started walking in this path. The endless grey skies, the monotonous sound of rain and a pretty serious viral attack are reasons good enough to keep me home, limp on bed, counting crows. 43 no repeats.
Lets keep this simple. Black no black, Food no food, Home no home et al. The party has ended before anyone arrived, with the death of a poor water boy, while carrying the 7th 25 litre bottle into the house. The boy was always pale and frail. His angel walks the street corners jobless. On the ambulance roster his name read The Water boy, Market 2.
Lets get it straight. Black white, Food fast, Home away et al. The newly weds had spent a fun filled evening, the last on their honeymoon. As the cabby drove them towards their hotel, they cuddled up a bit. From outside people could only see a taxi screeching to a halt. The driver, screaming hoarse of moral values, rushed out and forced them out of the cab. In no time, the crowd that gathered for the show turned into a mob. The boy was killed by blunt shots on the head and puncture wounds below the ribs. The girl was raped and left for dead on the streets on west Delhi. The child to this girl would have been born fatherless. Some day he would have rightfully slain these men. A week later the girl died in a city hospital, reports said she succumbed to internal injuries and hemorrhage suffered in a mob incident.
Lets get it over with. Black grey, Food famine, Home footpath et al. Little babboo had come down to Delhi with his neighbour uncle hoping to make a living out of begging. The uncle had vanished at the station. Babboo had walked for three hours, stolen pakodas off street shops and finally at dusk arrived in front of a swanky new mall that he felt could fit his entire basti. Very happy to see the prospective clients, babboo made his way through the crowds. Half way through on the divider another street urchin held him by his hands and asked him why he is messing around with shifts. Like shadows a bunch of beggars gathered from nowhere, took him to the back of the mall, beat him like hell, while the loud rock music from the mall muffled his screams. Battered and bruised babboo gathered himself up. Unsteady but determined steps carried him towards his end. Groggy from blood loss, he made a dash across the road towards the park on the other side. He never made it across. Not many people know, but bodies unclaimed in Delhi are sent to top notch medical institutes for research and practicals. Babboo's face could hardly be recognized, his arms sprawled at an impossible angle. His tag dated 11th August 2010, was numbered 43.
Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust......
Lets keep this simple. Black no black, Food no food, Home no home et al. The party has ended before anyone arrived, with the death of a poor water boy, while carrying the 7th 25 litre bottle into the house. The boy was always pale and frail. His angel walks the street corners jobless. On the ambulance roster his name read The Water boy, Market 2.
Lets get it straight. Black white, Food fast, Home away et al. The newly weds had spent a fun filled evening, the last on their honeymoon. As the cabby drove them towards their hotel, they cuddled up a bit. From outside people could only see a taxi screeching to a halt. The driver, screaming hoarse of moral values, rushed out and forced them out of the cab. In no time, the crowd that gathered for the show turned into a mob. The boy was killed by blunt shots on the head and puncture wounds below the ribs. The girl was raped and left for dead on the streets on west Delhi. The child to this girl would have been born fatherless. Some day he would have rightfully slain these men. A week later the girl died in a city hospital, reports said she succumbed to internal injuries and hemorrhage suffered in a mob incident.
Lets get it over with. Black grey, Food famine, Home footpath et al. Little babboo had come down to Delhi with his neighbour uncle hoping to make a living out of begging. The uncle had vanished at the station. Babboo had walked for three hours, stolen pakodas off street shops and finally at dusk arrived in front of a swanky new mall that he felt could fit his entire basti. Very happy to see the prospective clients, babboo made his way through the crowds. Half way through on the divider another street urchin held him by his hands and asked him why he is messing around with shifts. Like shadows a bunch of beggars gathered from nowhere, took him to the back of the mall, beat him like hell, while the loud rock music from the mall muffled his screams. Battered and bruised babboo gathered himself up. Unsteady but determined steps carried him towards his end. Groggy from blood loss, he made a dash across the road towards the park on the other side. He never made it across. Not many people know, but bodies unclaimed in Delhi are sent to top notch medical institutes for research and practicals. Babboo's face could hardly be recognized, his arms sprawled at an impossible angle. His tag dated 11th August 2010, was numbered 43.
Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust......
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