Daily Mantras and Such

And    

When did you morph into that sensualist,    

chasing instant thrills and shiny trinkets?    

When did fleeting gratification come to define your days?

When did you turn into that self-sacrificing martyr,    

burying your true desires because they weren't "trending"?    

You've even mastered the arts of manipulation, negotiation, and strategy.

When did you dominate the rat race,    

achieving all you never truly desired,    

but attained as a matter of course,    

only to find emptiness awaiting your triumph?

I want to pinpoint the exact moment you went astray,    

when your soul became so drained that you sold it,    

and turned into a shadow.    

What did it feel like?    

What does it feel like now?

You smile so much more these days,    

and you’ve grown to like people.    

What became of the solitude,    

the silences that spoke to you most?    

How did you extinguish that flame?     

Do petty luxuries and stupid company make you forget it all?    

Tell me.

© Ayesha Rahman

Daily Mantras and such 

Goodbye

In the beginning, there are mere words:

sharp,

cutting,

soul-piercing.

Words that wound,

that penetrate like daggers

flung aimlessly.

Caught in that moment of consumption,

the sole intent of the words

is to shatter,

to devour.

Then arrives the breaking point.

Excuses crumble,

justifications dissolve.

Anger surges,

turning once-harmonious worlds

disposable.

As you approach climax,

memories tiptoe,

peeping into your everyday,

in the stirring of your coffee,

whispering through TV screens,

echoing in your favorite songs.

They clink on plates and cups,

sink into pillows,

cling to walls and carpets,

and hide 

within receipts.

Amidst the chaos of scattered bills,

memories persist,

splashing reminders of shared lives,

now seemingly meaningless.

Yet, in the face of lingering memories,

the sharp blade of hurtful words

prevails like a falling silk scarf.

So you lock those memories away,

concealing them in shadows,

afraid to reveal your vulnerability.

In this silent battle between what is

and what was,

the hurtful words 

emerge triumphant,

casting a shadow 

over the love

that once bloomed in spring,

leaving you 

to say goodbye,

weighed down 

by the burden of memories.

Ok! Done with my hybernation! A lot has happened since my last post which I will blog about in a more elaborate and detailed write-up later. I promise. This post is to just let everyone know, I am alive and kicking and ready to blog again! So bear with me a little bit longer!

Older generations, quite unmindfully brand young people as socially irresponsible—it’s their favorite pastime to mull over the bygone glory days when the student body/youth in Bangladesh were socially more responsible. It is somewhat true that the youth loved taking charge in less complicated eras e.g. when somebody in the neighborhood fell ill, it was common for the next door youngster to rush her/him to the hospital. It would always be the band of young people who’d run the errands or do the chores whenever there was any kind of occasion in the neighborhood, be it a funeral or a wedding.

There has been a significant decline in social responsibility in the youth but it would be quite unfair to blame young people alone for this slump. A group of 20-somethings feel that the 21st century mindset and all the subtle and gradual changes that took place since the 90’s (starting from the way houses/apartments are designed to the education curricula) are mostly responsible for this downtrend. The new and transformed landscape (pigeon-hole apartments with no yards, gardens or parks keep people indoors most of the time) don’t bolster that kind of a communal feeling anymore. There is simply no space where people/neighbors can bond. Needless to say that the stringent academic curricula of schools and universities, the scramble for jobs, the rat race and hum drum of everyday life wear the youth down—make them too busy and too self-absorbed to think about social responsibilities. Researchers say a more highly competitive world has forced young people to become more individualistic. They care less about things that don't affect them directly.

I have a slightly different take on the issue which I will elaborate with personal anecdotes.

This girl sitting next to me at a wedding the other day was telling me that she along with a group of university friends turned vegan a few months back. She says it is not easy being a vegan in a country where meat, milk, eggs etc make up people’s everyday meals. But, the vegan diet she thinks can only validate her undying love and respect for all sentient beings. She politely refused the wedding food and told me that online vegan groups, workshops, vegan facebook friends from all over the world are a huge support and help with vegan information and recipes. Then there was this university club/group I ran into last week who were out on the streets raising awareness on recycling and going green, a movement they feel is vital for Bangladesh’s development. And my teenage cousin (19 years old), I heard just came back from Aatigram, Manikganj where she teaches English to preschoolers, a voluntary job she finds rewarding in more ways than one. And of course who can forget the numerous facebook groups, online student websites etc who came together in times of crisis— after the sidr, Aila, fire at Old Dhaka etc and tried to help in every other way—sometimes by raising relief and at times by talking to the victims, listening to their stories and helping them cope with the trauma.

The 20 something generation may be less radical than their predecessors who, say, took part in the1971 war or the 1952 language movement and became flashpoints for their times. But thanks in large part to the Internet, this generation is much more aware of the world. And because historical tragedies such as the 9/11 terrorist attack and Hurricane Katrina have scarred their youth and adolescence, experts see signs these young people are creating their own brand of social consciousness.

Social network users feel that the emergence of web blogs, Facebook awareness pages, donation websites/SMSs, online petitions etc changed the ways one would express political views, volunteer in community work and be socially responsible.
Yet, Curtis Gans of American University's Center for the Study of the American Electorate says that measurable declines in civic education, newspaper reading and knowledge of current events are other signs of a devaluing of civic involvement. Harvard public policy professor Robert Putnam, whose 2000 book Bowling Alone is about the decline of civic engagement and social connection, says volunteering is class-driven. "This whole recent spurt is largely concentrated among kids of the upper middle class. ... The have-nots are actually more detached than before. “Thus the very term ‘social responsibility’, is debatable in this age and time.

On the other hand, the role of the media must not be underestimated in its positive and negative influences on the youth. Advertising agencies, corporations and manufacturers all seek youth attention. The youth are the target audience/consumers of most producers. Even though satellite, cable TV, news paper, magazines, websites etc bring a plethora of news— it is of little wonder that young people choose to watch music channels, read sports news and visit celebrity websites instead—as these sources cater to all their entertainment needs and are designed keeping them/ their needs in mind. Hence, if mainstream youth culture is indeed irresponsible is it because they just happen to be that way or because they are given a choice between esoteric social responsibility and ceaseless, adrenaline gushing entertainment?

"Dhaka, Oct 1 (bdnews24.com): “The government has started working on a detailed data bank for people aged over 50. Quamrunnessa Khanam, secretary for the social welfare ministry, said on Thursday the World Bank will fund the scheme, and officials have started doing the groundwork for the study. Khanam said the government would also build one house for elderly persons in each division."


According to the United Nations, an influx of senior citizens is seen in Bangladesh in recent years owing to a decrease in fertility rates and improvement in life expectancy. In the last two decades Bangladesh has experienced two major demographic changes: the rapid population growth in urban areas and the demographic transition having lower fertility and higher longevity.


Rapid growth of urbanization and the growth of population in urban areas mostly occur due to rural-urban migration—young and young adults are prone to migrate to the city/abroad for better career opportunities, resulting in an increase in the number of aged people in the rural areas.


In Bangladesh, the population above the age of sixty has reached over 7.2 million. The life expectancy is increasing on account of improved health care, education and technology. Senior citizens are becoming a subject of concern for the national planners dealing with socio-economic programs in Bangladesh.
Source: http://www.novartis.com.bd/news_current_CPD2008.html


A lot of people feel that the intolerance among young people coupled with their inability to adjust with the elderly may have also contributed to the soaring number of public and private old age homes in the country. Some blame it on the 21st century lifestyle and its demands; others feel that the past was never quite the golden age of happy families either—there was always this insurmountable gap between generations so much so that e.g. grandparents/parents and children ate(had dinner/lunch) at different times to avoid confrontations and conflicts.


But the extended family was always regarded as the amulet to ward off the ultimate horror of growing old alone. In its decline, the family’s potency has become even more mythical.

The families of the past do deserve some credit as they, regardless of miscommunications and repressed anger did take care of the elder family members. The modern family is suffering in doing so. Examples of the strains are manifesting themselves in the rising levels of elder abuse that ranges from confining the elders to a room with no one to speak to save the house helper to insults and negligence.


It is hard for the parents to adapt to these changes because Bangladeshi elders have always looked upon their children as an investment. They believe that taking care of their children when they were young, paying for their education, marriage etc give them the right to depend on them solely. This has given rise to a culture of dependency. You will see many elderly couples waiting on their sons for going to the bank, paying bills to doing day to day things. After a certain age, parents start depending on their children for emotional support as well—their happiness, sorrow, anger, frustration, aspirations and.. fate lie in the hands of their children.


Children who usually have to give in to the pressures and demands of the 21st century fail to cater to these needs…thus the birth of the mantra, “my children do not have enough time for me”. The traditional family structure has fallen prey to the inevitable changes that this century has dumped on us. Children cannot always manage the time or the effort that it takes to take care of elderly parents. The balance of power in the household has also changed over the years. The common scenario of a working class family would include a working couple, their children and the in-laws. The son and the daughter in law are usually the bread earners who are responsible for taking care of the parents. Which is another reason for parents to feel increasingly squeezed out of their home. It seems that the solution for many people these days (parents and children alike) is nursing homes/old age homes/retirement communities.


Many a time, children who do end up taking care of the parents, do so out of obligation, which can be very demeaning for the parents As a result quite a large number of elderly people choose to live in old age homes, where they think they can live in peace without being a burden to anyone. Thus the concept of old age home is gradually emerging as the most viable option among the senior members of society who are financially independent. While we Bangladeshis love to talk about family values, sadly, a considerable percentage of parents-children relationships of this era are mediated more by duty and less by love. Many senior citizens feel that these care facilities are the answer to some of life’s hard to swallow problems like insecurity, loneliness, negligence and lack of companionship.
Whatever the reason, the breakdown of the extended family has become the arch villain in the story of growing old in Bangladesh. The fear of growing old all alone has become a part of the cultural zeitgeist of the age.


Another point to note is that these old-age care facilities did not appear overnight, out of the void— they are the outcome of thorough research that has confirmed that these facilities have become a necessity in this age and time. Old age homes are very much a part of our lives now-- they aren’t some ‘western’ thing that has nothing to do with our culture where disrespecting the elders is a cardinal sin. Old age homes have stemmed from demand from children and parents alike, and there is no way one can deny that.


Having said that, a lot of elderly people also feel that old age homes or anyplace where they will be robbed off the opportunity to spend time with their children and grand children can never be a solution. And there are children who still believe in extended families and feel it is an honor to be able to take care of their parents. It is very hard to be judgmental when it comes to the concept of old age homes as different families function differently and we can never know what is good or bad for them unless we put ourselves in their shoes.

You may have mixed feelings toward disciplines such as contemporary art, architecture, media, literature, politics etc with their border-crossing,
de-colonization,deconstruction and other cryptic postmodern traits…but one fact that you have to agree on, is the accelerating rate at which their significations/meanings change. If anything is constant about the ‘contemporary world’, it is ‘change’. What is ’in’ this instant may turn into history in a split second…Linda Hutcheon puts it perfectly when she says, “It is easy to see that we are living in a time of rapid and radical social change. It is much less easy to grasp the fact that such change will inevitably affect the nature of those disciplines that both reflect our society and help to shape it “(Hutcheon 1989: vii).

In order to remain a part of this planet, Bangladesh has to participate in this ceaseless circle of change that has become symptomatic of life in the 21st century. Yes, change has seeped into the social fabric of Bangladesh and as a matter of course, it has affected the way we speak, dress, think and act. In this globalizing era of shrinking borders, satellite television, the internet, seamless fusion of different cultures, it would be way too ambitious to claim that we Bangladeshis been left unaffected by it all.

Now, English, needless to say is the language of this ‘change’, the lingua franca of the 21st century. It is the language of most popular TV shows, magazines, social networking sites, books, satellite channels, podcasts, blogs etc. The majority of Bangladeshi people, especially the youth, are bombarded with it every second. It has crept into pretty much all disciplines and in the process, intermingled with spoken bangla and produced a language (an atrocity to many) that goes by the name ‘Banglish’--a mutant, 21st century offspring of Bangla and English.

*[Indian media culture has a bigger influence on Bangladeshis and hindi words have bled into our lingo as well (e.g. ‘maasti’, ‘yaar’, ‘josh’, ‘dost’) but English remains more dominant as English is a mandatory subject in almost all schools in Bangladesh].

A lot of people, especially academicians detest Banlish and feel Bangla language is going through its worst phase and decaying right before their eyes. For years there has been a growing panic across the nation that our language is deteriorating into something unrecognizable, and quite frankly, bad. Those who bewail the loudest that the sky is falling apart are concerned that English words, slangs and abbreviations have contaminated Bengali Language and turned it to something decrepit and twisted.

Yes, it scares me at times....but after giving it some thought, i feel that this anxiousness isn't really about the obliteration of Bengali or Bangla words, it is stemming from this deep rooted fear of change--the belief that anything new is bad-- the bigotry sentiment that Bangla is best in its purest form and that languages should not change.

I mean isn't it the fate of languages that things will change, blend, and mesh together to form different breeds and hybrids that become the language of future generations?

If we look back, we will see almost all languages have undergone major changes. English has been changing since there was such a thing that we could even call “English.” Old English was a conglomeration of Germanic and Celtic dialects. Middle English was a cross between Old French and Anglo-Saxon. Though we recognize Shakespeare’s words, the way his English sounded would sound nothing like our own. And eventually, English will move into a new stage beyond our own.

All that is fine.

Now, seeing as the English language has a suspiciously larger vocabulary than the Bangla one, some words will and should cross over. There are certain English phrases that convey a meaning that can hardly be replaced by a bangla equivalent. But at times there exists a Bangla word that means the exact same thing. Not a little different, but exactly the same, e.g. the chanting of the youth: ‘you know’, ‘awesome?’, ‘whats up?’, ‘yo’ can easily be replaced with bangla equivalents that convey the same meaning, flavor and context…yet the English words are more popular amidst the youth. No matter how much I appreciate the interrelationship between languages to better express one’s self, in this case, to me, this reeks of laziness. Yes, I know that almost all developing nations especially the countries that were once British colonies are growing more bi-lingual (for their own benefit) every day. And I also know that trying to fight this is ridiculous, but this usurpation does seem to indicate that in some time some bangla words will totally be replaced by English equivalents.

Needless to say languages progress by changing. But I am not sure if I would be comfortable calling the eradication of once up and running words exactly…."Progression”. Some people say that the eradication of words/ languages is a natural process. It filters words that have become hackneyed/obsolete. Tbe death of a word gives life to new words and in the process rejuvenates language.

And when we look at English, can we really say that change makes a language weaker or worse than it was before? English has undoubtedly undergone some major changes …it has embraced the changes that SMSing/Text messaging and chatting has brought forth, it has accepted the internet lexicon, it has endured the television jargons…but can you put a hand over your heart and say that English is spiraling downward? Or would you rather say because of these changes, it is the melting pot of a language, the voice of numerous people all around the world, the language of the press, internet, television etc and it is pretty much chugging along at the same pace it’s been going for the past two thousand years?
You decide.

My concern? When talking (or singing) in bangla, people should really lose the American accent (what’s with that?) and use bangla words instead of English equivalents…. Bangla will survive. Bangla has too much history, baggage and a bloody carnage behind it to just die out like that…..

Bangladesh is a hopelessly romantic nation (at heart). Bangladesh’s art, culture,literature, celebrations/festivals, cuisine..everything ooze with romantic ideals. It is believed that an average Bangladeshi person (male in most cases) has written at least one romantic poem/letter, at some point in life —for the sole purpose of wooing someone ( in most cases) he barely knows. Hand written letters spouting flowery language, mushy love quotes are something every one of us (mostly women) had to deal with. These letters at times came from someone next door (a complete stranger) or a random person who spotted you in some public place (already imaged your wedding day, decided on your kids to your pet dog’s nick names) and fell in love with you instantly. Whatever the case, these verbose love letters were inevitable even 10 years ago.

The mighty rivers (depleting), lush greenery (no more lush) and frequent torrential downpour—all of which were parts of Bangladeshi life in the past contributed to a deep and age-old relationship between Bangladeshis people and nature. Bangladeshi music somewhat reflect this ‘in one’ with nature state of mind— and is often, ecstatic, romantic and throbbing with sappy emotional undertones. Apart from the few heavy metal bands in Bangladesh, most bands (starting from Shumon (from Arthohin), to Tahsan to Arnob) have topped the charts with their mushy love numbers. Classical, folk, Rabindra Sangeet, Nazrul Getti, Bhatiali songs also boast romantic lyrics—even when the lyrics are not romantic in a lovey dovey kind of way, their passion and emotions make them Romantic nonetheless.
Kazi Zazrul Islam—the national poet of Bangladesh is best known for his romantic lyrics. Although his fiery, militant, anti-colonial patriotic poems inspired millions of Bengalis—the patriotism or idealism conveyed in his poems are somewhat Romantic.

Bangladeshi food is also full of romantic innuendos. At weddings the bride and the groom are fed with sweets (believed to strengthen/ sweeten the love between the newlyweds). A mother’s love is often expressed via food—it is believed that the more the mom cooks for you (especially sumptuous meals like Biryani, Polao, sweets etc) the more she loves you. The general and common assumption is—a mom who never /seldom cooks for her child/children cannot be a good caregiver.

But slowly these little quintessentially Bangladeshi sentiments are withering away. People just can’t afford the time that it takes to woo somebody. Long, flowery love-letters have been replaced by alpha-numerical texts such as “A/S/L (age, sex, location?)”, a heart shaped emoticon or a ‘send friend request’ tab. The expressions of love have also changed with time. It is no longer cool to sit by the lake or the university and munch on peanuts. Hangout places evolved—the things that are in right now are quite different from the things that were in a few years ago. The Bangladeshi cinema scenario also matured over time. Even though legendary romantic film couples like Kobori-Rajjak will live forever, Bangladeshi audiences now demand contemporary and relatable elements in films. Working moms have resorted to short-cut, survival food recipes as opposed to the gastronomical marvels of the past. And with the emergence of technology—the internet to be precise, numerous TV channels to choose from, night life, etc people no longer find solace in the elaborate and time consuming ways of being romantic… these days, it seems, instant, right now gratification is becoming more and more popular..a good thing? maybe..but experiencing the transition, the change first hand sure feels eerie!

Table 10
10:38 PM.

Co-workers and friends of coworkers hover over her. Intern girl 1 sits to her right and intern girl 2 to her left. “your hair looks fine, wait lemme ruffle it a little’ says intern girl 1. “Promiscuous Girl” blares from the speakers. Intern girl 1 pulls her chair closer to her and ruffles intern girl 2’s hair. They mess each other’s tresses. she sits in the middle. they giggle away….

She is sipping diet coke from a stem glass.

Post Dinner.
11:42 PM.

The day stumbled into night rather abruptly.

She is slouching on the corner couch in one of those parties, where everybody, every single body is better than you. Where beautiful girls swirl around gracefully…drinking something (surely vintage) from champagne flutes….Blood red lips delicately talk about haute contour, European film directors, some London hot gig. Oohs and ahhs at just the right places; perfect inflections…each word uttered significant, relevant.
Manicured nails tap on table tops..blinding gems, designer labels, suits, pointy shoes, chicness walking around….posh accents puffing, moaning and sighing over politics, the legalization of gay marriage, soul food, trendy ashrams, religion…..

“Have you ever been to a masque…masquerade? “She asks the head of marketing and communications.

“No.” she says, eyeing intern girl 1—Her gaze, a wriggly serpent cascading down intern girl 1’s body…starting from her carefully ruffled hair to her painted toes….slithering around every crevice, curve and nook. “No. I haven’t.” she repeats still eyeing intern girl 1 like a vindictive scorned woman. But then she suddenly realizes that she is looking, recovers, looks at her and smiles with exquisitely bleached teeth.

“Okay. You look nice.” She says.

“I got this dress……” She stares at her lovely face as her voice becomes a muffled monotone…. She looks like one of those Picasso’s monumental women—big bones, wide pelvis…ideal for child bearing.. .And with the utmost grace she takes out a miniature perfume..she squints…”Joy” she sees , from her Prada handbag and with the hand movements of a dancer dabs a drop of it onto her pulse points. She extends her forearm….. offers her to take a whiff of her. She leans forward…her dancer hands brushes against her nose and her upper lip.

Some girl she can’t quite recognize finishes making a joint. Men and women who, despite their heights, always tower over you, sit around her, over her, on her lap…and take tokes.

The fragrance of Joy…swirling and blending in with smoke, liquor, mint, food and the echo of buzz words.

After midnight. Lounge.

Ravenous sleep washes over her. She takes off her heels…she gently rubs her soles. She pinches the ends of her toes. Massages her feet. She slowly places her feet on the soft, plush carpet…she sinks. Deep deep into the whiteness.

“what do you like about winter..snow?” she asks a man whose face is obliterated by the smoke.....or mist..she can’t tell.

Its so cold in here her breath steams.

“I haven’t noticed you before beautiful. The men’s room is a good place to talk about winter stories don’t you think… get warm, familiar?” says the man behind the smoke.

She slowly gets down from the couch.
sits on the floor….consumed by the softness of the carpet.

“its okay to give in to sleep.. To let it take over you” she whispers.

“you know, I get so wary of words…of everything… sometimes. “ she tells somebody..a silhouette, who is stroking her hair..her face…whispering “its okay baby, don’t be scared”.

She is lying in a fetal position—rocking a little to a music that’s blaring from the speakers…U2? She cant tell.

The silhouette is constantly reminding her that everything is going to be alright. She is wary. She feels the urge to tell him..umm her, she cant tell…that “amidst the chrome tinged chores and run of the mill humdrum, she is slowly drifting away from something important, vital...” But she just mumbles something incomprehensible instead that the silhouette is in no hurry to decipher. She tells the silhouette, “this place reeks of umm, remember that plasticky odor that new toys right off the box used to exude? Synthetic well ummm plasticky? Like baribie’s hair?” the silhouette just says its okay and everything’s fine and that she is beautiful…..

Its cold. The silhouettes hands are cold. Her mother has kept all the toys from her childhood. Her barbies..she has packed them in Styrofoam boxes and kept them is the storeroom….so that her children can play with them. the alarm will go off at 7. Her feet are throbbing with pain. High heels are bad for you……she is weeping.

9:30 AM the next morning.

She recalls

Smoke. Cold. Red lips. Joy. Silhouette. Sleep. Men’s room. White plush carpet. Someone she cant recognize, dropping her home. Barbies……
Her mother opens the door. Shards of sunshine seeping in, making kaleidoscopic patterns on her mother’s night dress..on her face. Her mother’s effortlessly beautiful face…in her eyes that tell you stories of yesteryears, a thousand battles….lost.

Her mother sits on her bed. She curls up, lies in a fetal position, next to her. She silently weeps. Her mother strokes her hair…and tells her everything is going to be alright.

The monsoon is here.
The singing winds herald the rains,
sating the parched grounds,
fulfilling verdant dreams.
Laden boats will carry, once again,
cargoes of life
on swollen breasts of lactating streams.
Dark pathos of the sky is pierced
by fiery arrows of cognitive lightning.
Rivulets down my windowsills
flow to the sea.
The heavens weep.

You arrive
with the softly falling tear drops
to meet me in the deep.

clouds of a receding monsoon ride on the
soft whisper of the South Winds.
Petite ballerinas in white dance,
pirouette and turn, in tandem
to the music of guitars and violins'.
Time ticks away. The ocean yields
in the deep to a continuum
of space-time. Souls flow to a
confluence of non-dimensional fields.
Forces meet, stress and strain,
and dissolve in an equilibrium, unseen.

Unsung, a wild flower blooms
on a sunken grave in a waste land.
Symmetry of cascading sand
leaves no trace upon the surface.
The passing shadows merely reflect.
The grave-stone remains unmarked,
innocent of an epitaph.

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…

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?

The red-blue tinge seeps in through the window and the first birds sing…and I plan to call it quits, leaving the world alone for a while to mourn its private sorrows, go about groggily about its chores, applaud to its triumphs….but I leave a myriad of gaping, gnawing question marks, pretty and ugly ones, black, white and some in grey……that on dark, weary interlaced hours dawn on me….and perhaps on you too

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.

"......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…..