Tupi whispers sweet nothings in her ears while she lies down on her tummybelly:
“The glitter fairy walks the pebbled path, suddenly she feels drowsy, everything around her shrinks. The stoned castles that towered over her, now stand tainted near her toe. The polka-dotted roses on which she would sit and swing onto the other side now fit right in the middle of her fist. The bunnies with the blue bow ties now scurry and slide down the rainbow chute of their burrows, scared to see her. She can touch the purple-pink horizon that seemed eternally distant yesterday.
Glitter fairy has grown up, walzing around tupi's sorrows...
Amidst:
the curling green envy,
Paris-Hilton on bail and calling her on TV,
rocky mountains of doubt,
shunning girls who are stout,
wooing only em’ who thrust n’ pout.
She is a lady when,
obtuse hip hip-hip plays in the background,
mavericks’ bound,
ritzy sirs blabber punchlines,
and offer her caviar and wine,
glitzy marketers sell,
when real from fake is hard to tell,
everybody, everywhere,
youth, muses n’ heirs’: all high,
And when Tupi, Fuppi, Choco die”
She listens to her heartbeat, dhaapdhaapplopglop. Tupi asks her “you want to listen to them go real fast?” She spits “Wesss!”. Beats zoom faster than the slate-gray downtown train: dhaap hits dhoop and leaves a trail of many-hued bubbles, tiny ones that she tries to slurp; dhoop strikes dhaap and releases the scent of sweet lavender talc, she waves her plump hands on the bumpy clouds of scent and tries to bite off her own arms; plop stumbles upon glop and Winnie the pooh pops up and declares “I love you blue eyed babe”, she tries to lie perched on Winnie’s back and nibbles on his check and eventually tries to eat him too. Gigiilygigity giggleybibble she quivers pouched like a joey on Tupi’s tummy. Tupi chants do’s and don’ts but she sits on the polka-dotted rose and slipsn'trascends to the other side;drifts away;eyes shut but moving around a little under her stubby lids..
Beats Tupi…
virgin-white snowflakes softly glide down, I grit my teeth, burry my mittened hands deeper into my coat pockets, look at my reflection on a shop display window to see how red my nose looks, not too red I see and smile. As I stand there and wait for the Q-38 bus, which only on its weak moments, runs on schedule, I slide my gloved fingers through my hair and ruffle it further, as I always do, to master that unkept, unruly, look…in this trying age, when people have something against traits they were born with and find chemical manipulation trendy, when synthetic pink takes over forlorn black, I have decided to present myself on private as well as public spheres, exactly the way I appear, when I completely unaware of the ways of this world, snap out off my bluish slumber. My way of coping! Resisting! Protesting! Rejecting! Looking away! Thank you very much!…
Near the curb this mom-daughter duet, laugh away the evening; in the smoky, barren cold, their giggles permeate the misty ambiance, like rain thudding on a tin roof, their bodies respond to their chuckles and quiver, fluttering like a butterfly about to be clipped and displayed in a glass box. They snuggle, all comfy under the same coat, dazed from all that Christmas shopping. The all white monumental Santa with the ever lasting smile glued to his mug jingles his bell transfusing his old-man’s charm…his white beard points to the white snow…I take off my gloves to agitate this virtuous whiteness..I add some melanin, tad novelty to the achromatic tableau..I smile to an alienating satisfaction. A leather jacket clad chirpy man light a cigarette, Marlboro red I notice, towing a meshwork of dislocated memories, some of them that bear no relevance at this time and place; evoking fractured recollections that take little jabs, at a time, when I have become a responsible adult, in a place, that is far away, leading a life, that can be called sane, unlike then….
… those night-blabbers crept into day with Swiss precision. I would draw the blinds unleashing the creamy yellow light that would blaze in, making us squint…us, the entire bunch….it was like the lights coming back after the last show in the theater downtown. After every show, we stand outside the theater, cupping a coffee mug, marooned in the blackness of the night, and say, “has it been this long?”, just like that, even back then, awe struck, as if the simple twist of fate failed us, we would blurt out at the streaming light, “hey! morning already?!” ….tricky were the puffs off a freshly lit Benson, the faded yellow of the filter, now faded yellow memories…nostalgia is sometimes too lucid..almost like chunks of sugar cradled on the crook of a spoon, delicate-sweet, dangling, vulnerable to touch…arent memories supposed to be abstract? less vivid? distant? bygones?
We grew up on a weekday, no? perhaps not, weekdays are too busy for anything else, it was probably a Friday with the promise of a leisurely weekend…I failed to notice when 'the sac of tales' spilled, the bubbly narratives plummeted all over the snow capped ground, which savored the last breath of our stories. The suggestion that, the patch work of stories that so many people, so many generations, so many races knit, had an end, escaped me..… it was supposed to last a lifetime, a lifetime of childhood, I didn’t know it could be any other way, I am sorry…And now only when we go under, at the bottom of that ground, we can get glimpses of that time, get our stories back, stand corrected.... okay, so yes, the apple was too tempting, the forbidden alluring, while eating the fruit I wasn’t guarding the sac...but later i heard that on that very day, in some faraway land a collage of colored mirrors broke into many-hued fragments, casting a bad-luck that would not leave us….…we were cursed for life? with an adult life? Too big a price to pay I tell you….and no repentance in our time? too big a price again…
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And finally,
what is it, this life?
Something you reek of? Something you loathe, despite, detest? A leach that sucks in that last drop of blood? A ball thread of thought whose mystery when unraveled brings forth a ravishing, consuming, breathless joy? Did you burn your heart from its smoldering beauty? You ache with so much love for it, that at times you contemplate slashing that flaky wrist of yours? does it have the taste of the deepest, blue-green sea, or the moss-green murky, muddy beach, with monumental tides: salty, fleshy, bloody, ionic.....that of human tears, that sometimes, maybe once, happiness too bring about?
And love?
It left you bare so many a times that you don’t want to do anything with it? It stripped you off all values, roles, faces, valuables, images you accumulated over the years? What was it really? A countdown of breaths, breathlessness? Light, night and half light? Everything? A manifestation of need? An intangible, out of reach, abstract idea? A compensation? convenience? Absoluteness? An adrenaline junkie? a feeling, that left you panting like an adolescent? Glimpses of a life that you long for but you reject because it makes no sense, because it generates no profit, because it is not logical, because it makes you blind? A utopian concept, an illusion, a scam, a fad? A blue package nicely wrapped with pain and sprinkled with rose-fragranced solitude? an indulgence? But didn’t you once, just once, get jabbed by its amorous charm, its scope, its shades of meanings, its overtones? And did you feel that pain, in the ribcage, that comes with loss, when it left you?
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She makes us ooze with energy one moment and devours all of it the next..
While the city is in her slumber, the sheen of her hair guide us, the gleam of her skin warn us of fractured glass, the twinkle in her eyes enlighten us, the fire in her soul keep us warm..her eyes are molten with love and pain...her hands, folded together under the driven nail...
She sheds waxy tears that sting us like that hallucinating shot: burn, churn, calm, nihility...
her tears on Sundays turn into relentless rain that sooth our bruised bodies, battered and stripped from life, off life...the one we leave behind...
She wheedles us into nothingness with freebies: a pouch woven with water lilies and strands of our hair grown inside her private-scarlet-cloister. She sighs and the zephyrs whisper, "your ancient blue black hair had an orange-yellow-golden tinge? And you wonder in your time how the sun gets it's warmth? It's magnitude? look inside the pouch.. see his rib that they say started it all? see the convoluting sun-beams: your fire-gold hair in a knot? See the grain of salt? Your first tear drop, crystallized, solidified, manipulated, gift-wrapped...and what about Them, you ask?
they weren't meant to stay, not for-ever and a day...but us? We are never to flee, we'll stick around longer than life, in that breathlessness we will strive...sickness and in health in emptiness and in wealth, in the silence of the night, in colors and in grey...
She stands by the river and sings us lullabies that ward off our stalking demons, her voice waltz with our minds, those sweet whispers emboss her reflection on our windows, she holds our hand while she writes our names on the foggy glass; when the night trips into day with Swiss precision she draws figurines on our foreheads with flighty fingers ... she strews our thoughts with the blue-green fragrance of that sole city-violet; she murmurs prayers in the half-light, and right then we smile in our sleep...the next morning we wake up recalling a tail-end of a unfathomable dream, where there was a river with scarlet red water, violent currents evoking orange ripples...and her, she was there too, strong and able to remember.
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Do you realize that I need that mug of tea? The first cup in early hours is the most crucial. I need that first sip to go on; to feel that warmth oozing out from the cup that leaves little beads of vapor on your face when you stare too close at the perfect blend of milky brown; I need to hold that mug, cupped in both my hands while the warmth slowly travel up your arms and pervade throughout. I need to walk slowly, alone, lost in my apartment, just knowing that I can, that there is no rush, and that there are no answers I owe. After work, after school, I need that stroll in the city, the chaotic city, with energy tumbling out from cafes, street corners, alleys, this city that I find impossible to be passed off as descent livable space, populated with obese people, populated with the most beautiful people, with ATM booths and chain stores popping up in a blink of an eye just like those museums, boutiques and theaters. I denounce it, it’s not mine, I have nothing to do with this murky ditch, but I am taken aback by its crisp charm, its chirpy handsomeness and its frivolous pursuits. I need to keep my dates, my rendezvous every week, with my most walked avenues, the corner café oppostite the curb in the neighborhood, that news-stand owned by the turban man, 14th St, Barns and Nobles. I deserve that papa-bear cup of hot chocolate the day it is officially winter. I need to run my hand on grainy stone walls while I walk, so that it leaves my fingers rough and tingly, studded with tiny silver dust particles. I long to look way up and watch high buildings while it snows for the first time before Christmas. I have to make that brisk jump every day from the fourth last escalator step, right when the talking machine announces for the very last time “to be careful and to hold on to the hand rail”. Do you know that honey?
I need to read atleast one peom every day that nips in the bud, that sort of tickles you but don't go deep. I need to come home late from work at times, even when there isn’t much work, just because I can. I need to be on and off in love with love, with you, with life, my life, all this which is my life. Babe, you know I do.
And sweetie now as much as I love lying here by your side, under the shadowy bed canopy with flowing lace, hanging ivy, purple grapes and white leaves, just as much as I love that occasional, reassuring squeeze of my palm, just as I need that out of the blue peck, as much as I demand to be questioned at times to feel cared for, I also need to get up, get up for my cup of tea.
I need to read atleast one peom every day that nips in the bud, that sort of tickles you but don't go deep. I need to come home late from work at times, even when there isn’t much work, just because I can. I need to be on and off in love with love, with you, with life, my life, all this which is my life. Babe, you know I do.
And sweetie now as much as I love lying here by your side, under the shadowy bed canopy with flowing lace, hanging ivy, purple grapes and white leaves, just as much as I love that occasional, reassuring squeeze of my palm, just as I need that out of the blue peck, as much as I demand to be questioned at times to feel cared for, I also need to get up, get up for my cup of tea.
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"......What peaches and what penumbras! Whole familiesshopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in theavocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, whatwere you doing down by the watermelons?......"
Weekday story:
Too many shoes lying around in my pigeon hole room, mugs containing yesterday’s remaining tea. Stale bread slices. Too many wires/cables running along from peepholes and corners, webcams, microphones, headphones what have you cabled to my laptop. In the dark gape under the bed, stock of toilet papers, bounty tissues, and lamp bulbs. In neglected corners, make-ups, toiletries, body splashes lined in a row, books racked and stacked. Oh and hair accessories, umm too many. My study table, scarps, folders, coffee stains, stains, residue of strains, books, book marks, pizza box, pizza slice..
I move and continue to function through the chaos, the filth, my random mess, your trifle mess, that riddled mess, haphazard zigzagged uncertainties…
Over the weekend:
the floor is squeaky clean, vacuumed; the bathtub, snow white; on the mirrors, my face too lucid, too apprehensible to settle and like; no soiled laundry tumbling out of wash-baskets; clean sheets, ironed covers, bright pillow cases, smelling the way the sun would if it were a lemon without losing its warmth. Freshly cooked food zip-locked and refrigerated for the following week. Order, Symmetry, Geometry, Straight lines, Rearrangement, Black & White…looming insanity.
Then again, I get so tired of living in this bell jar overlooking this psychotic city, that I at times in the middle of it all, take a walk. It drains me dry sometimes. I try to take in the details, the daily adornments, the love stories written and not written in the mundane…
Oi “Aicha, Aicha” what do you see?
Plenty of faces staring back at me…
A poncho clad evening…cloudy, chilly, dark all around yet crisp and clear when you look ahead.
A Puerto-Rican man tosses colorful leaflets like confetti. I frisk slightly in a tiptoe, to catch one: “Horoscope Reading by Sarah Ashley. An advisor known for her Honesty and Integrity. She can help you with any and all of life’s problems and will suggest which reading best helps you. Spiritual Psychics. Tarot Card Readings. Crystal Rock Reading. Tea leaf and Crystal Ball Reading. AVAILABLE FOR PARTIES. $15 Complete Life Reading with this coupon for only $5. Ph#/Address...”
I contemplate calling Ms. Sarah Ashley and making an appointment. This coupon will buy me a complete life reading for $5. And perhaps with another $5 she can, like she promised; solve my life’s “any and all” problems. Ashley’s leaflet caught while floating down from the sky. Talk about signs…I save that thought for the weekend and move on…
A peacock blue haze from the sky casts on the dust freckled, stone graveled road, a multi-color oil slick from some careless zoomed past car slithers down, wobbly, emulating the peacock blue tinge.
A beautiful woman walks a beautiful dog. Both of them grand, monumental, walking straight and high, no melting , bending or sticking out. A little girl in a yellow sweater yells out, “Ma, that doggy eat me!” The dog instead passes by her in majesty. The little girl frowns, stamps and decides to chase the doggy, her toying terror.
I slide in through the super market door; the automatic doors rush open as if awaiting me. The central AC gush an abundance of indifferent, teeth-chattering air that lands on my face like a hard punch. I scurry along the aisles, cold: Cereal-commercial-families on the cereal aisle, gently pushing their trolleys along with their pretty children. Men, women, queers, queens, children, laughter, cackle.
Buying in frenzy: credit debit flowing, swiping click clack, rummaging for cash, digging for cents, this, that, those, looking for that refuge, that need, that feeling of good. I hurry to ‘my’ aisle, get my cheesecake and wait at one of the sections that say in large print “Cash Only”. By this time I am seeing double. I see “cash only” every where I look. It takes extra long for the girl to tap at the cash register with her extra long, manicured, painted nails, with stars and gems glued on them.
Meantime, I try to ingrain fractured images upon my memory: Pretty girl, gemmed nails, Super-Market ID card, logo imprint apron, Irish accent, bleached smile, register tilt, “cash only” signs, spree, binge, cheesecake, cold, refuge, doggy, terror, your life readings for $5, fortune-telling available for parties, survival, purple-blue haze, the lingering trailing tang of chicken broccoli, road side Chinese take out, angels, Song Liling……somehow, along came Bruce-lee and lanky boys kicking and punching under florescent lights….
I oblige and pay in cash only…
I come back home take out a plate from the pantry with stars and gems on it. I procrastinate eating a slice from that cake.
I Walk by it, walk past it, walk around it, stare at it, mull over it, while it lies right there. I decide to wait for my right moment…..
Weekday story:
Too many shoes lying around in my pigeon hole room, mugs containing yesterday’s remaining tea. Stale bread slices. Too many wires/cables running along from peepholes and corners, webcams, microphones, headphones what have you cabled to my laptop. In the dark gape under the bed, stock of toilet papers, bounty tissues, and lamp bulbs. In neglected corners, make-ups, toiletries, body splashes lined in a row, books racked and stacked. Oh and hair accessories, umm too many. My study table, scarps, folders, coffee stains, stains, residue of strains, books, book marks, pizza box, pizza slice..
I move and continue to function through the chaos, the filth, my random mess, your trifle mess, that riddled mess, haphazard zigzagged uncertainties…
Over the weekend:
the floor is squeaky clean, vacuumed; the bathtub, snow white; on the mirrors, my face too lucid, too apprehensible to settle and like; no soiled laundry tumbling out of wash-baskets; clean sheets, ironed covers, bright pillow cases, smelling the way the sun would if it were a lemon without losing its warmth. Freshly cooked food zip-locked and refrigerated for the following week. Order, Symmetry, Geometry, Straight lines, Rearrangement, Black & White…looming insanity.
Then again, I get so tired of living in this bell jar overlooking this psychotic city, that I at times in the middle of it all, take a walk. It drains me dry sometimes. I try to take in the details, the daily adornments, the love stories written and not written in the mundane…
Oi “Aicha, Aicha” what do you see?
Plenty of faces staring back at me…
A poncho clad evening…cloudy, chilly, dark all around yet crisp and clear when you look ahead.
A Puerto-Rican man tosses colorful leaflets like confetti. I frisk slightly in a tiptoe, to catch one: “Horoscope Reading by Sarah Ashley. An advisor known for her Honesty and Integrity. She can help you with any and all of life’s problems and will suggest which reading best helps you. Spiritual Psychics. Tarot Card Readings. Crystal Rock Reading. Tea leaf and Crystal Ball Reading. AVAILABLE FOR PARTIES. $15 Complete Life Reading with this coupon for only $5. Ph#/Address...”
I contemplate calling Ms. Sarah Ashley and making an appointment. This coupon will buy me a complete life reading for $5. And perhaps with another $5 she can, like she promised; solve my life’s “any and all” problems. Ashley’s leaflet caught while floating down from the sky. Talk about signs…I save that thought for the weekend and move on…
A peacock blue haze from the sky casts on the dust freckled, stone graveled road, a multi-color oil slick from some careless zoomed past car slithers down, wobbly, emulating the peacock blue tinge.
A beautiful woman walks a beautiful dog. Both of them grand, monumental, walking straight and high, no melting , bending or sticking out. A little girl in a yellow sweater yells out, “Ma, that doggy eat me!” The dog instead passes by her in majesty. The little girl frowns, stamps and decides to chase the doggy, her toying terror.
I slide in through the super market door; the automatic doors rush open as if awaiting me. The central AC gush an abundance of indifferent, teeth-chattering air that lands on my face like a hard punch. I scurry along the aisles, cold: Cereal-commercial-families on the cereal aisle, gently pushing their trolleys along with their pretty children. Men, women, queers, queens, children, laughter, cackle.
Buying in frenzy: credit debit flowing, swiping click clack, rummaging for cash, digging for cents, this, that, those, looking for that refuge, that need, that feeling of good. I hurry to ‘my’ aisle, get my cheesecake and wait at one of the sections that say in large print “Cash Only”. By this time I am seeing double. I see “cash only” every where I look. It takes extra long for the girl to tap at the cash register with her extra long, manicured, painted nails, with stars and gems glued on them.
Meantime, I try to ingrain fractured images upon my memory: Pretty girl, gemmed nails, Super-Market ID card, logo imprint apron, Irish accent, bleached smile, register tilt, “cash only” signs, spree, binge, cheesecake, cold, refuge, doggy, terror, your life readings for $5, fortune-telling available for parties, survival, purple-blue haze, the lingering trailing tang of chicken broccoli, road side Chinese take out, angels, Song Liling……somehow, along came Bruce-lee and lanky boys kicking and punching under florescent lights….
I oblige and pay in cash only…
I come back home take out a plate from the pantry with stars and gems on it. I procrastinate eating a slice from that cake.
I Walk by it, walk past it, walk around it, stare at it, mull over it, while it lies right there. I decide to wait for my right moment…..
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2
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The Den!
a chilly 4:00 pm, the sun about to call it quits
8:00 am-beginning of another work day and me already tired!
8:29 pm, back home!
12:39 am-the nocturnnal city
......
8:00 am-beginning of another work day and me already tired!
8:29 pm, back home!
12:39 am-the nocturnnal city
......
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You’d want my ‘tear-drop’ pendent
To lie right on the pit of my neck,
Right above the collar bones,
“your prominent collar bones” you’d tease.
when I swallow,
you say, “the ‘crystal tear drop’ ripples down the hollow of softest skin.”
When I tie my hair into a high bun,
Strands would fall down my nape,
You’d ruffle them, run your fingers through them, entangle them and say
“baby’s hair, so soft”.
Late at night, while driving back home,
When the car windows are embossed with tiny rain droplets,
You’d smile and say “your ‘crystal tear drop’ splintering down from above”
One hand holding the steering wheel,
The other resting on mine,
Fingers intertwined, hands click into a lock,
Right in place, a perfect fit. Though you'd say,
“My God, your hands are tiny, I am afraid I’ll squish them!”
And I wouldn’t take off my eye make up till next morning,
Smudged khol,
black eye-shadow smeared,
teary eyes peering behind mascara thick lashes,
And you’d laugh hard…
I’d listen,
listen to your laughter become a cackle
while black tears from sleepy eyes, roll down my cheeks
youd’ tuck my dampen hair behind my ears, kiss my forehead
and whisper
“black ‘crystal tear drop’ slithering down field of gold’
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Was listening to some oldies today...
"Would you know my nameif I saw you in heaven?Would it be the sameif I saw you in heaven?"
scribbled alongg...
He would polish his shoes on Sundays. He would sit in front of his little black cabinet and polish them; a frown creasing his fore head, a line of sweat glistening above his nicotine stained lips, delicate hands caressing footwear, time ticking away, not a care in the world, clean white cloth running over black leather, brown suede, veins bulging in and out, strong dark arms stroking the pumps, gentle touch, intimacy with “Cherry Blossom” black polish….
Each shoe box was labeled, the first letter always a curlicue. He would also methodically label the bottles of all his auyurvedic medicine-I don’t remember if he also had a day for labeling.
If anyone at home was looking for anything at any time of the day, they would go to him. He had it all, under labels: boxes of paper Clips, different sizes of scissors, band aid boxes, various kinds of ointments; my favorite one was the magic syrup that would melt a bone stuck in the throat. The handy man was always equipped for the ceremonial healing of old and new pains.
I remember running to him even for the tiniest of scratches. I would jump on him, show him the place I claimed was hurt and say “now I need a band aid’. He would say, ‘were you fighting with the tiger, on the secret tunnel, on your way to save the princess held hostage by the naughty pirates?” I added aliens and giants and pixies to the story. And he too helped me with the details. I went back to my room, healed and proud.
He would oil his hair right after taking a shower. He parted it with the thin comb like chiseling a sculpture. He buttoned the cuffs and collars of his shirt, wore the trendiest of pants and carried his fashionable umbrella that he bought back from England during his college days. Then he would knock on my door and say, “would you like to go and look for the Aladdin’s lamp? We would then go to places which I don’t remember and he knew so well. He would buy fabrics, tools and shoes with the cheapest of deals. We would walk for hours and then he would smile and ask me on our way back, “we got some very good deals today, did you notice, my little princess?” I would still nag about the Aladdin’s lamp till I got what I wanted. How could I have not? My genie was right next to me…
I still remember his morning chores….his ritualistic ‘shave’ “Sokinaaa, the water is not warm enough. I told you I want Luke warm water.” “Did I ask you for boiling water, I said LUKE WARM, L-U-K-E-W-A-R-M. Don’t you get it? Why does it have to be like this every morning? Can’t you do something right for once?” Poor Sokina would run to and fro with the bowl of warm water, until it was perfect according to the standards of the perfectionist.
Then he would bellow and scream for a little while because of the disarrangement of his shaving tools; the razor had to be on the left hand side of the sink, followed by the shaving foam and the brush. His tooth paste and brush had to be on the right hand side. If anything was different from the way he wanted, Sokina had a rough morning, and a rough morning is what she had on most days. But she never seemed to learn, she was in some ways, a bigot and as rigid as him.
He would then have his regular breakfast like he did since he was in college, dress accordingly and go out in the streets of Dhaka looking fashionably crazy.
At night before going to bed, he would rhythmically move his Rolex watch from left to right and tell me “you know what its like with good chronometers, that don’t run on batteries, right? They have to be treated right.” He would treat his right by moving it from left to right thirty six times. I grew up watching him move his watch thirty six times, while I waited helplessly for my bed time story. But who could rush him? He would do what he had been doing all his life. He would keep his spectacles on the bed side table, beside the glass of water. Then he would set the alarm clock without which he could just as well wake up.
I fell asleep while he read about the far, far lands that he believed I'll one day see and the vast ocean he knew I'll cross. He had a sac full of stories that lasted till the day I finally grew up. But first things first; first he would have to move his watch thirty six times while I waited impatiently for my story...one, two, three, four, five, six...”once upon a time....”...I could see Sinbad being lashed by the princess because he smelled like garlic....the smell of garlic lingered the next morning...
He was my father’s father, with his nicely parted hair, stylish umbrella, arrogance and polished shoes, who lived in his time when the time was actually ours.
"Would you know my nameif I saw you in heaven?Would it be the sameif I saw you in heaven?"
scribbled alongg...
He would polish his shoes on Sundays. He would sit in front of his little black cabinet and polish them; a frown creasing his fore head, a line of sweat glistening above his nicotine stained lips, delicate hands caressing footwear, time ticking away, not a care in the world, clean white cloth running over black leather, brown suede, veins bulging in and out, strong dark arms stroking the pumps, gentle touch, intimacy with “Cherry Blossom” black polish….
Each shoe box was labeled, the first letter always a curlicue. He would also methodically label the bottles of all his auyurvedic medicine-I don’t remember if he also had a day for labeling.
If anyone at home was looking for anything at any time of the day, they would go to him. He had it all, under labels: boxes of paper Clips, different sizes of scissors, band aid boxes, various kinds of ointments; my favorite one was the magic syrup that would melt a bone stuck in the throat. The handy man was always equipped for the ceremonial healing of old and new pains.
I remember running to him even for the tiniest of scratches. I would jump on him, show him the place I claimed was hurt and say “now I need a band aid’. He would say, ‘were you fighting with the tiger, on the secret tunnel, on your way to save the princess held hostage by the naughty pirates?” I added aliens and giants and pixies to the story. And he too helped me with the details. I went back to my room, healed and proud.
He would oil his hair right after taking a shower. He parted it with the thin comb like chiseling a sculpture. He buttoned the cuffs and collars of his shirt, wore the trendiest of pants and carried his fashionable umbrella that he bought back from England during his college days. Then he would knock on my door and say, “would you like to go and look for the Aladdin’s lamp? We would then go to places which I don’t remember and he knew so well. He would buy fabrics, tools and shoes with the cheapest of deals. We would walk for hours and then he would smile and ask me on our way back, “we got some very good deals today, did you notice, my little princess?” I would still nag about the Aladdin’s lamp till I got what I wanted. How could I have not? My genie was right next to me…
I still remember his morning chores….his ritualistic ‘shave’ “Sokinaaa, the water is not warm enough. I told you I want Luke warm water.” “Did I ask you for boiling water, I said LUKE WARM, L-U-K-E-W-A-R-M. Don’t you get it? Why does it have to be like this every morning? Can’t you do something right for once?” Poor Sokina would run to and fro with the bowl of warm water, until it was perfect according to the standards of the perfectionist.
Then he would bellow and scream for a little while because of the disarrangement of his shaving tools; the razor had to be on the left hand side of the sink, followed by the shaving foam and the brush. His tooth paste and brush had to be on the right hand side. If anything was different from the way he wanted, Sokina had a rough morning, and a rough morning is what she had on most days. But she never seemed to learn, she was in some ways, a bigot and as rigid as him.
He would then have his regular breakfast like he did since he was in college, dress accordingly and go out in the streets of Dhaka looking fashionably crazy.
At night before going to bed, he would rhythmically move his Rolex watch from left to right and tell me “you know what its like with good chronometers, that don’t run on batteries, right? They have to be treated right.” He would treat his right by moving it from left to right thirty six times. I grew up watching him move his watch thirty six times, while I waited helplessly for my bed time story. But who could rush him? He would do what he had been doing all his life. He would keep his spectacles on the bed side table, beside the glass of water. Then he would set the alarm clock without which he could just as well wake up.
I fell asleep while he read about the far, far lands that he believed I'll one day see and the vast ocean he knew I'll cross. He had a sac full of stories that lasted till the day I finally grew up. But first things first; first he would have to move his watch thirty six times while I waited impatiently for my story...one, two, three, four, five, six...”once upon a time....”...I could see Sinbad being lashed by the princess because he smelled like garlic....the smell of garlic lingered the next morning...
He was my father’s father, with his nicely parted hair, stylish umbrella, arrogance and polished shoes, who lived in his time when the time was actually ours.
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"And it rained all night and washed the filfth away Down New York airconditioned drains The click click clack of the heavy black trains A million engines in neutral ......"
People scurry down the dark chute that will eventually suck them in and devour their energy. There is a bright glint of light coming in through the grille-teeth and the gaping mouth up the stairs. Bank of two escalators and a very sunken staircase in the middle vein down. The staircase makes midgets out of people when you look at them from the elevated escalators. I have a $76, monthly, unlimited pass that I swipe in the multiple-hand turnstile and with a metallic beep, it gestures me to go inside it.
Several exits, too many entrances too, yet the jostling. They won’t let you walk in your time. They want you to hurry, to rush, to move-it or they’ll find their ways through you, push you down/away, trip you and when you fall, they will crush you with their high heeled Manolo Blahnik, flat soled Nikes or Payless slippers, nonetheless batter you till you succumb. And sometimes offer you hand after they make you crumble….
NY subway: 63rd ST, Lexington Avenue, Manhattan.
People pocketed portions of the scorching sun, hovering like a bad omen outside and dumped it haphazardly in this underground tunnel. Passengers awaiting the last train sat at the plywood seats and left them warm from human-contact; now the bench bolsters four people, two hours prior to the evening Rush, the high of getting home, marking the end of another work day and calling it quits till the next morning...
The woman next to me has this upper-east side air about her with her pearls, beaver hat, French manicure, and elongated fingers fanning with a hand-painted fan…. The fall air has no way of getting down here, yet the woman exudes the fragrance of autumn flowers, probably the tinge of maple yellow. The sweaty man on my left reads the NY Globe…Sweat and Sweet talc merge.
The monster sized rats bustle in between the tracks, nibbling on the scraps, wrappers and plastic bags. One can’t figure them out if they don’t look long enough; they are camouflaged by the dark underground earth. Silhouetted against the blackness of the black iron tracks breed the mutated subway mice that dont know natural light. Right before rush hour, when the local trains run slow, sits beside me a woman who smells of autumn, a sweaty man who causes a ripple in that diffusion of scent and right ahead of me, in burrows and in between the track are, mice; dashing past one another, knocking each other down, some bleeding and others feeding on that blood.
Man and Beast coexist below ground level in striking resemblance and harmony….
NY subway: 63rd ST, Lexington Avenue, Manhattan.
People pocketed portions of the scorching sun, hovering like a bad omen outside and dumped it haphazardly in this underground tunnel. Passengers awaiting the last train sat at the plywood seats and left them warm from human-contact; now the bench bolsters four people, two hours prior to the evening Rush, the high of getting home, marking the end of another work day and calling it quits till the next morning...
The woman next to me has this upper-east side air about her with her pearls, beaver hat, French manicure, and elongated fingers fanning with a hand-painted fan…. The fall air has no way of getting down here, yet the woman exudes the fragrance of autumn flowers, probably the tinge of maple yellow. The sweaty man on my left reads the NY Globe…Sweat and Sweet talc merge.
The monster sized rats bustle in between the tracks, nibbling on the scraps, wrappers and plastic bags. One can’t figure them out if they don’t look long enough; they are camouflaged by the dark underground earth. Silhouetted against the blackness of the black iron tracks breed the mutated subway mice that dont know natural light. Right before rush hour, when the local trains run slow, sits beside me a woman who smells of autumn, a sweaty man who causes a ripple in that diffusion of scent and right ahead of me, in burrows and in between the track are, mice; dashing past one another, knocking each other down, some bleeding and others feeding on that blood.
Man and Beast coexist below ground level in striking resemblance and harmony….
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When faceless fears dwelt a father's heart
She arrived, as bright rays of light that rend
Dark clouds covering the sky in whole or in part,
Glad tidings, dissipating darkness as a start
Of promises, of hope renewed at despair's end.
A joyful child was she, a bundle of pure delight,
That gladdened every heart by her sparkling eyes:
Softly did she grow, a slender sapling out of sight,
Till the day came for her to say goodbyes
To the nest, where for long she was the living light
As the Nightingale took flight to the boundless skies.
She pursues beauty and truth that's inscribed
On timeless parchments hewed by great minds
Of ages old and new, that are thus described
All that is noble, and the glory that she finds
In her art, in wondrous words so subscribed
To lift her aloft, sans the earthly grinds.
I pray, my sweet Nightingale sings on as ever and ever so sweet
Long gone since, yet shall I hear the melodies,
though we no longer can meet.
ABBU
15th July 2007
note: A welcome home present from my dad this summer.
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a very hot summer
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He conjures up miracles and magic,
While I sort out reason and align logic;
he clutches me tight incase I fall from this high,
while I sit back and this rotten life passes me by...
I see fairies, cupids, haloes,
I walk chocolate mountains, dive lemonade fountains,
bask in moonlight pouring mellow.
In the distance of our star,
magnetism of the sun so far;
in the wind’s swirl,
in our daughters' dresses when they twirl;
in scarlet, claret red,
in the ivory sheet of our bed;
in the contours of faces that smile,
in that extra mile;
in everything I feel lost without you
what do I do with this feeling now? it's so blue?
And while poets congregate,
as we walk the mazes of our fate;
while lovers bleed steadfast,
as the story teller sighs that breath, his very last;
while Cezanne on the wall plays with my perspective,
as our beasts continue to live:
I love you-
even when I curse, die, live, hurt and sore,
I love you, a bit more,
everyday more.
For the sake of passing years
filthy fights, silent nights, irrational fears;
Just wanted to drop a line,
to tell you what, I can't quite define.
Stay well, that's all I can say,
Will love you always, forever and a day...
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| Who Should Paint You: Alfred Gockel |
 All American yet funky, you inspire an artist's imagination And while not everyone will understand your portrait, you will! |
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Inscription....
I had a notebook for as long as I could remember. A notebook where I used to write down words that had a little edge to them, words that I liked to play with, whose rhythms and connotations evoked something deep inside. As a person who claimed to write, dared to make that claim, I remember always loving to play with words, listen to their overtones, dance to their rhythms, crack them open and stick my thoughts into its core. In there I mustered jolly good words I picked up from somewhere, some book, some billboard, advertisement, journal, life as it passed by.
I remember writing down paragraphs from books that spoke to me, magnified my ambiguities, made me ruminate, made me the most intense shade of blue, sent sensory impulses to the brain which opted to rush adrenaline to my being. One of those few things that remained with me for a very very long time.
I leafed through that 2000 paged notebook with my empire of outpours since the time I concluded that I grew up. I leafed through those pages with different phases of handwriting, with different tastes for authors, genres, that marked my childhood, adolescence, time periods in my life that has no name and to some extent no significance either. It was chiseled with care and details which canvassed my ‘nows and thens’, spasms, denials, relapses..... I would record events; rearrange them, have control over them; have them my way; and on the process rearrange what I had: my life, my reality in being. It wasn’t a private journal, where I recorded daily chores and events, that would be a different impulse all together. It was a testament for a chronic re-arranger who was afflicted by some pre-sentiment of impairment....it had stapled pages where I had written something and found it relevant enough to go in that scrap book, it had pages from notepads with airway’s letterheads I had written on when waiting for planes at airports or just plain notepad pages jotted down on when just plain waiting for plain nothings, it had napkins I had shed ink on, in cafes, parks, classes, and places with no names...some of it made no sense at all when I later read them, thus found a way in that book, my book of my very own non-sense...
It was my consultant when in need to re-find myself, when writing , to amaze and amuse myself, to be awed by the beauty of the shades of words, to leisure, to produce, to fight something, to fight ‘the nothing’....
Today....
When I was in need to do all that today, I realized I lost it. I realized a few minutes back that I have it no more...while preparing and getting ready to lunch, I realized I HAD LOST IT. Seconds back life just changed in the instant....
Today....
When I was in need to do all that today, I realized I lost it. I realized a few minutes back that I have it no more...while preparing and getting ready to lunch, I realized I HAD LOST IT. Seconds back life just changed in the instant....
" Life changes fast,
life changes in the instant,
you sit at the dinner table and life as you know it ends"
...thsts' all that is coming to mind....
life changes in the instant,
you sit at the dinner table and life as you know it ends"
...thsts' all that is coming to mind....
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