Cockroaches:

Eeeekkks!!!!!!!!!

A scream woke me up from my slumber; I got up lazily put on a T-shirt and walked slowly towards the kitchen from where my wife was ceaselessly wailing and brawling. I know what you guys are thinking, why wear the T-shirt when someone could easily have been raping my wife and she needed my help? The answer is pretty simple, having married her for more than seven years now, I knew my wife. She would have preferred being battered by the rapist than be shattered on a stranger looking at my hairless bare body. I still have the mental scar of that warm February morning when I was frolicking in my towel and the maid had walked in. I had just wished her morning and had continued to ramble around in the hall. That was enough for my wife to banish me from my own bedroom and I had to stay on half rations and sleep with my son on the bunk bed with my legs dangling dangerously from above for an absolutely long time. That was four years ago and till today my body has no longer seen the sun and may be will never. Am sure she would buy an embroidered spotlessly white chikan kurta straight from the Manish Malhotra boutique to wrap me around when am laid in the pyre. Anyways, I walked to the kitchen half sleepy, to find me wife screaming silently in one corner at the cockroaches which had taken over my kitchen. Some of them were huge and some even smaller than houseflies; some old enough to be grannies with no strength even to move their whiskers and some born just the other day in the corner of the old pressure cooker; and all of them were rambling around like they were in some street Marathon waiting for some African to win the race while they were gleefully frolicking around complaining of roads and taxes. I took my slipper and started smacking these randomly without malice, without any preferences. I don’t even know how many I killed; I just rounded the dead after the massacre with my wife watching from a distance and then picked all of them together by their whiskers and threw them in the dustbin.

I walked back to my wife who had made some tea and we sipped the hot tea while I read the morning papers and she complaining about everything under the sun, particularly everything dealing with me, the way I had thrown my shirts on the chair in my bedroom, “Chairs are for the visitors who come to the bedroom, they cannot sit on the bed”. I hadn’t argued back, I had my inhibitions to visitors in my bedroom while we were on the bed, but then I had thought better and had kept all my doubts and queries to my heart. She had continued taking me to task about the way I had brushed and had dirtied the wash basin, the way Mrs. Singh looked at her when she found the toilet seat up, What she was doing with Madame Singh in the bathroom, I didn’t dare to ask. To speak frankly, it had stopped bothering me for long, I, after a pretty long training on surviving my wife, had become immune to everything about her. I snore and she raises a commotion even after her plunging a pillow in my mouth; she snores and I plunge the pillow on my ears. I said “yes” when she wanted anything, “very nice” when she ever wanted my opinions on something I cared or didn’t care about and “Amazing” to all queries on her looks, her professional life and her family, which obviously excluded me. But I think the last words were redundant, at least for all married men, they all know by rot that a family consists of the Wife, Her children, Her parents, Her siblings, Her in-laws in strictly that order followed by friends, colleagues, relatives and then maybe You standing very, very far away in terms of affection and love. I while nodding to my wife’s banter couldn’t help noticing a cockroach with huge whiskers sneaking around near the kettle without the slightest concern of me, the terminator, sitting nearby. It maybe had forgotten the bloodbath that had happened just minutes before, maybe had forgotten all the kith and kin, maybe family, maybe husband or wife or children dead in that tragedy, if that was a tragedy for it. People will laugh if I raise questions about a cockroach’s feelings, it has none they will scream and shut me up. Maybe they are stating facts, I personally have never seen a cockroach lighting candles at places where another cockroach had been killed, never seen it depressed and avoid food on another’s ill timed death. I had no choice but concur with the million others that cockroaches, unlike humans have no heart, they don’t care if their wife is dead, they don’t have a wife for that matter, they have sexual partners. They have children but they don’t rue the fact that the children are not doing well at school, or are boisterous and spoilt or have already abandoned them altogether. Their parents dead and rotting in some garbage dump and they care least about it. I smiled, I was human, I had feelings, and I cared for my family and the society. I cared if someone spoke ill of me, I fight back if I am hurt or so is my family. I love my wife and will have a tear even if she had a cough. I looked at her with the loving cum goofy smile still pasted on my face. She looked at me and asked me to cut off that smile, which she decided, was only there to irritate her and I was punished with the task of cleaning up the utensils. That moment washing those damned utensils how I wished to be a cockroach, carefree with least care and responsibility. A small cockroach winked from behind the dirty utensil, stroking its trimmed whiskers. A smack and the winking cockroach lay with eyes shut.

I had to get ready for my work or else my manager would have a field day pointing out my inefficiencies to whoever had ears. The clothes were neatly placed on the bed, no not mine, my wife’s; mine were still rumpled and I had to iron them which I did and ironed some undergarments that my wife had asked me to do with a smile and a kiss blown randomly. I had become good at ironing my wife’s cholis, seven years! I needed to have something to be a master at. I washed myself in the guest room, my wife occupied the main bathroom and she needed more time; obvious since she had to look good at work. No one cared of my looks, whoever noticed a man; that too married anyways. I don’t even know if my manager knew my name, it was always a “hey man!!” he greeted me with. Either it was because he wanted my gender being reaffirmed every time he saw me or he had forgotten my name. I, for obvious reasons, preferred the later to be true. My son had woken up and was doing his homework without being supervised; I went to him and gave him a sandwich, which my wife had prepared for breakfast. Yes, she does that, she thinks I am messy in the kitchen and am a horrible cook. I wish her views to remain that way for long.

I was already late to office; the man-eater would be on his prowl. I climbed down into commotion, some one had died and there were fifty people discussing the saintliness of the man who had just departed. The dead man was a great guy who always had a smile and kind word for everyone, or so I heard Mr. Gupta say. Mr. Shrivastava seemed to agree violently giving instances of his kindness towards the dogs that used to nestle at the gate and bark all through the night. Both my neighbors concurred on the winning qualities of the dead person till the point I asked his name, Gupta thought it was the old man on the 4th floor while Shrivastava thought it was the watchman’s father. Anyways, the name was immaterial; the person who was dead had been a very kind man and that was established. Both of them mourned and I joined them. I actually least cared who had died; all I cared was the cadaver to be removed for my car to pass through. I called up my manager and informed of the situation. My manager seemed happy for some incomprehensible reasons, he condoled the loss without even asking, who it was who had died, persons dead were just dead anyways. He spoke some kind words of the unknown dead and signed off.

I had time to spare and I called my relatives spread all over India, I had to call them, it was a month and I hadn’t exchanged pleasantries. Their responses were typical and my reactions were straight from the book. Those residing in cities were either “fine” or were “great”; the people residing in towns were “surviving because of my blessings” and those in the villages were “just living” with “life going on”. The questions for me were on similar lines either querying about my wife’s health or my son’s new mischief. I couldn’t dare to say she was becoming fat or senile with growing age, which were both true to the core, for the fear of further repercussions. Her health had to be duly reported as good, the expected answer and then a dead end on that front. So as always, it was my son to the rescue and I giving wind to my fancies invented a few mischief s that I had attempted before, to keep the folks all over the country happy and excited. It was getting late and the neighbors, having buried the dead and their own feelings for him, had already receded to the background of their own personal desolate world called life and I drove to mine.

If you ask about the roads and the colors of the houses marking the roads, I may have to bluff. The roads and the passing fancies of the outside world had long ceased to interest me. I now shut myself in the air-conditioned car for the fear of dust and heat, the same way as my house is locked with burglarproof gadgets or my room in office with double locks. These personal spaces that I so create are spaces that are away from the inhospitable world although being part of it and these spaces are locked with care in the same way as the past fancies locked in some corner with the keys to it buried somewhere deep. As a child I had wished to be a train driver, the driver is still lurking somewhere, maybe with the guy who wanted to marry Juhi Chawla or the one who wanted to buy an island or escape to the mountains. I honked the horn, furiously gesticulating at the dreamy cyclist cutting my path and my space.

My office was in a corner of the city, some half an hour from my home, if I can call it so. The office was drab with people giving a smile that stunk of indifference and ill will. I gave a few similar smiles and hurried to my workplace to check some mails and plan some nuisance for those reporting to me. Today was like any other with my eyes glued to the monitor looking busy while I was preparing some reports about efficiency and performance. The hours passed as they had to and I with tea breaks, cigarette breaks, lunch, coffee and meetings whiled away my time. I had a few “one on ones” in which I tried convincing my teammates why they were worthless and had to put on more hours than the ten per day that they were already putting in. The clock ticked and I was on my way out of the place back into my car and to my house. My wife was already back and so had my son. My son smiled, my wife didn’t and I without a word went to my home and changed.

The TV was switched on with the same channels that we watched every other day. The news channels were reporting random deaths and equally random awards given to some nameless people. Some terrorist shot dead while some other politician found with crores of money. The news was no different from the one I had seen yesterday or maybe the day before or maybe the day before, but yes the names had changed. I crouched on the sofa eating whatever my wife had placed in front of me with my eyes still glued to the TV. It was no longer the drab news but some saas-bahu serial, which was in the same point that it, was some many years ago. My wife was softly sobbing and stopped for a second to rebuke me, “Eat slowly and chew the food properly” she said adding, “You are becoming a kid by the day”. Déjà vu, She had done the same thing two days back with a similar angry look as she did today while my son was playing on the carpeted bright floor with the train his uncle had brought him.

I was becoming nauseated with some strange sensations in my stomach. I gave a look of pain and help at my wife who did look concerned maybe partly because of the love for me and partly because of that tragedy in the serial, which had happened some years back. I burped loudly and a cockroach jumped from the inside of my mouth. It turned back, twitched its whiskers and ran away. I gave another loud burp and millions of cockroaches kept flying from my mouth, as I lay crouched on the sofa, with my wife, looking with disgust at me, shrunk far away in the opposite corner of the sofa and my son gleefully smacking away the cockroaches that piled in from myself.

My son, at the least, gave me hope.

A Father's story

Note: The style of the story is the same as Crime and Punishment(My previous blog). Its not actually a sequel or something but part of the series.

Punishment:
My son was coming back in an coffin and all I could do was wait. I didnt even know what I was waiting for.. the dead body emblamed with some chemical for him to look presentable to us, his deep cuts sewed togather, his imposing height cut in half and he, all wrapped in some hospital post mortem clothes. What was I waiting for.. my son? but the person coming back with the half shut eyes, half open torn lips and the broken nose was not my son whom my heart longed for. But I kept on waiting. Maybe just waiting to kill all my hope with that one glance of the dead.

Sometimes I wished they never even told me that my son is no more.. an insolent son may be I could have accepted, a dead son was difficult to bear. The house was abuzz with friends whome I had last seen some years ago at some other funeral.. with relatives, whose display of sorrow, never stopped them from asking for some more tea and salt biscuits. All dressed in white, they were ready and presentable for the occasion. I kept on looking at my wife who was sitting at some corner sorrunded by ladies, some wailing, some wiping away their tears and some others silently stealing glances, looking around.

Who can fight destiny, a learned friend of mine opined. I stared at him with not a comment. The same friend, long long ago, had praised my luck and had predicted of me going places because of my glorious destiny, now my destiny was taking me to the graveyard to bury the dead. I had laughed then, I couldnt do the same now. I looked at my wife again, she was sitting quitely now.. she had maybe got tired of crying for her young son, the youth who would never be old.. a la peter pan. I remembered the day when we had all gone to the resturant, and saw that bald but sauve married man with kids. We all joked that my dapper son would turn up like him after some 10-15 years. Now there was no way of finding that out.

People were now getting impatient, they had expected the dead man back soon... they had better things to do than wait for the dead. Some had to catch the saas bahu serial where the heir to the viraani family was to be born... some other had an appointment at the pub and others just wanted to relax with a book. I envied them and looked at the blaring TV which was running some ads of some cola.I kept looking at it without anything being registered. I could instead see the small baby in my arms, mumbling something incomprehensible, cooing something, laughing the heavenly smile. I had tears then with happiness. I remembered the moment when I saw him for the first time, so small lying near my wife , with tiny hands, tiny fingers and feet. He tried to clutch my fingers and I had promised myself that I will always love and protect him. Maybe Today I had failed my promise.

There was a commotion downstairs, my son had arrived in an ambulance.. His dead eyes maybe wandered around clutching all the views he could see and filling his eyes with them. We folowed his ambulance to the graveyard racing with the settig sun. The trip was uneventful with desolate empty roads, and long trees providing a picturesqe twist to the landscape. I could see some kids playing in the hot sun and their watchful mothers looking from the shade of some tree. I stole a glance to look at my wife who had finally slept on my shoulders, her shut eyes were swollen and the dried tears had marked her still beautiful face. I not wishing to disturb her disturbed sleep looked ahead with my son flooding all my visions.

My shut eyes had him riding the bicycle, my open eyes could see the ambulance ahead with his body lying on the strecher. I closed my eyes again to look at my 8 year old son trying to cycle with me holding the seat tightly. I had released my hands from those and he had fallen down on the grass. I had picked him and had asked the crying child to be brave. He had stopped crying, but now I didnt have the same courage. I remembered the day when I had come home after a long stint abroad, he was a small kid of 4 and he had refused to call me father inspite of my proddings and bribing(with chocolates). I also cannot forget my delight when he had uttered those word so lovingly, that I had my knees going weak. He had uttered the same word, "dad" million of times there after but that voice, that utterance still echoes in my dreams. I could see him growing up again in front of my eyes. The shy lad walking unwillingly to the play school, the mischivious kid kneeling down in front of the principal, the willful teenager disobeying me to go for the movie and the chivalrous youth who still had his eyes low when he came semi drunk from some party. A gallant and sauve guy ,he was popular with girls and I was so proud of him. But now what? All I had of him were a handful of memories being played in front of my eyes, again and again and again. The car braked in front of the graveyard.

There some distance away in the midst of thousand other graves was the pit where I was supposed to bury my kid. My son climbed down from the ambulance, carried by friends and relatives alike, dressed in white hospital bandages. I didnt look at him, didnt want to obliterate my image of him, the smiling dimpled image with a torn unkind one. I held my wife with one hand and the lamp in the other and we walked down to the pit. My wife followed me, half dragged half carried by me with tears and wails. The place was bubbling with graves sprung everywhere, somekind of memorial to the dead, or maybe the living. These 6 foot long, 3 feet wide and 10 feet deep graves were the only reminder of these once existing life forms. I kept on reading those epitaphs etched on the black granite.. some had died young and some very old, some others were kids, some of them even had died without a name. I kept on looking for a damsel among those black stones for my son to atleast have a married dead life.

We had reached the pit and my son was laid on the earth.. dust to dust the priest had proclaimed. I looked down at him. He was adorned with flowers and garlands, a waste of those beautiful flowers i thought, laden on those who appreciates them least now. But then maybe the flowers were not for making the dead feel narcissious, maybe it is about those alive getting themselves to be used to their loved ones being dead. Its maybe just painting the picture of death with bright colors instead of the usual hue of black and grey. I knelt at my sons feet presenting a picture of desolation maybe, but did I care. I had dreamt of this moment before, dreaming of touching my sons feet, but always like Jacob bowing before Joseph, always like Suddhodhana washing the Buddha's feet but never as a old father burying his young son. I looked around, the friends and relatives were wiping their silent tears. Far away, in some other corner of the graveyard, there was a dog strewn over someone's grave, lying on the shade of the "krishnachuda" tree. He was looking at me with his doggy eyes, maybe surprised and disgruntled having being woken from his slumber by wailing banshees. He loked at me with his buttoned eyes and went back to sleep on the forsaken grave cluttered with the brilliant yellow krishnachudas. My son's sleep was undisturbed by wailings and tears. All his life, He, following what I had tought him, praying for the world's happiness, had forgotten to pray for himself. Maybe that is where I had failed him. I stared at my son's blissfully serene dead face, wiped away the wandering flies and wetted his clothed feet with my tears.

Crime:
Sometime in the middle of summer,1948 I was born. Or is it that some three decades later My son was born.

A dog's day out

It was july 3rd, considered to be the hottest day in the northen Hemisphere, a day marked by the ascendant of sirius in the sky, a day called by most as dog's day and a day which incidentally is day of my birth too.

I was sipping cold cofee that day in the first floor table of the cafe, the coffee was bitter and the musings of the person in front of me was no better. I was looking in her eyes but my mind was shouting mercy, I tried to look intrested but dont know if i managed it right. I was looking around for more interesting faces when I looked at a dirty old dog on the streets. The dog was not even worth a glance and i just looked through it and returned back to hear the uninspiring talks. The lady in front of me was blabbering around and all I was thinking, was a means to escape. God must have heard me for the lady execused herself and I had a moment respite. I looked back at the road and there was the dog still standing where it was with a puzzled look as it looked ahead at the tar road.

The dog's look was interesting. If I can quantize emotions then possibly I will give it as 30% irritation,20% puzzled, 30% anger, 10% hurt and 10% resignation. Just kidding, In a single word the dog was absolutely world-wearied. It tried to move forward when suddenly a motor cylcle with a macho guy and coy girl zipped through. Poor dog didnt know that they had more important work and they were getting late, the dog was just happy may be that he was not run over. He was back at the same place. Now he looked to his left from where the motor cycle had crossed, (he may have thought of it as the dog remover, but sadly I dont understand a dog's language), he found that it was empty. He gave a winning smile, with the dirty gums visible and I responded with a burp. Now he steadily moved forward.

In the middle of the road he realized that now there was a big car coming from the right, he may have been dead but for the heavy honking and he just froze where he was. The car stopped with a creeking break and the driver gave a mean look and a loud curse cursing the dog, its dead mother, her father and also the father's sister.This done the car left and our dog was hurt but still looking ahead.

Freud should have been there to analyze the dog's determination but on 2nd thoughts he would have also commented on my being interested in the dog crossing the road. The lady had still not come but the waiter had and he was asking if I needed something else I just gave him an order for something which was the cheapest and continued with my dog watch. The dog hadnt made any more progress but its look had changed. It was no more disgusted, no more hurt it was just plain determined. I kept on looking at him pining for him to cross the road and there it was looking forward to run his last lap.

The road had become pretty empty with sporadic movements of the odd cycle and rare bikes. The dog gave a look towards the left, turned its head towards the right , made a computation of the time it needed to cross and then dashed ahead. It kept on running as if there was no tommorow and crossed the road in less than 3 seconds. It must have been a record of sorts but there was no one to take notice save me. It was now at the other side, I was smiling and so was the dog. It looked back and saw the mighty road, the great obstacle that he had tackled. He was just enjoying his moment standing below the unfinished building which some say is another shopping complex in making.

The dog just stood there with the content smile and the twinkling eyes. He was in a world of his won enjoying his victory, the world passing along his wide eyes. The gum was still visible, the eyes had a drop of tear or two. he didnt hear the continued traffic, he didnt hear the people shouting, he didnt hear the rock falling. There was no sound, none at all, just the thud of the rock, the silent whimper of the dog and the swish of the life passing around. The workers were angry because now they had a dead dog on the stone. They lifted the stone removed the dog and threw the body in the dustbin on the other side of the road. The dog was back to the place where he had started from, but it was unaware. He remained blissfully unaware that his dash had been a failure. He remained on the top of the garbage pile waiting for the corporation workers' garbage trolly.

Meanwhile, my lady had come back, the idle chatter had resumed and I stayed pretending to listen.