The ceiling is leaking and the tea is too cold

It's the middle of the night,
I'm not sure what time exactly because
I haven't kept time or kept up in a while.
This bed is yet another strange bed
I have gotten used to waking up in.

Making friends with silent lobbies
and leaning on indifferent walls has
its own nuances, though.
I had never before wondered if the
bell boy sleeps at night when the guests do,
though his eyes droop under the weight of sleep too.
Or if the silent gardener who is barely spoken to,
misses having a workplace romance.

There is sameness in strangeness.
The people I meet, they're all weary.
They don't want me to know but their words let it show
that they've hedged on what tomorrow might bring.
Their lives are consumed by mere habits,
and passion is just another thing they read about
and marvel at, between their forced highs.

They're all home but seldom at home,
and if given a choice, they would all rather be
elsewhere.

Elsewhere, that promised land.
Where roots run deep,
Where homes stand,
Where there is comfort in a lover's hand.

This place, this strange place,
is strange to everyone.
The bell boy, the gardener, the smiling musician,
they would all rather be elsewhere.

Years ago, a writer told me through the hazy air
of an afternoon, heady with the pretense of art,
"why do we even need roots?"
I gleefully agreed.
After we said our goodbyes, he went home
and wrote about his charming wife and the dog.
I read it much later on a humid night
in a smoky hotel room.

I couldn't help but feel betrayed.

I don’t sleep much these nights

These days, every day comes with a fear

of the impermanence of meaning

in your shape shifting words.

 

Hold my hand as an act of pity, lest

I sink deeper into the quicksand

of our conversations.

 

Talk to me like you would to a child;

explain every sound, every phrase.

Break it down so I don’t wonder

if your laugh was the idiom

or the veil.

Don’t trail off with a look,

I can read words, not vacant faces.

Don’t leave it to me to discover

the codes and the subtext.

I wish I had the sanity and control

to tell your art from your lies.

Don’t leave me holding on to a mangled mess

of masked expressions. 

It’s slow death.

A cheat sheet to 'getting functional again'

Those spaces that she lived in,
fill them with things.
Lay a rug over her footprints
Repaint the walls she leaned on.
Move that bed around, change the sheets.
Blacken the windows,
And memories of her sun-kissed smiles.
Drive down a different road,
Take the longer course so you don't
see the coffee shops and bars she loved.
Change your number, delete the playlists.
Pretend you never loved her taste anyway.
To those asking, offer no more than a smile.
If they ask another time, never see them again.

Fill your spaces with things,
for no person can.
Come morning, if you still wake up in pain
Make that call, plead, and undo it all over again.

Don't come to me for the calm in me.
I can't envelop you in cool assurances
and the gentle music of peace.
I can't caress you and wash you ashore.

Come to me with your madness
Show me the glint in your eye that
tells me you will plunge headlong into me
and embrace the darkness and fears of the swirl.

Bring me the frenzy of a dervish.
Bring me the hurt of a thousand unfulfilled loves.
Love me like I'm flight, I'm the fall.
Love me like I'm a raging whirlpool.
Tame me, chain me and take me home.

Reconciliation

One day, we all end up on the couch

Letting a stranger in on our fears and angst.

Paying someone to assuage our pain because

those we love are beset by their own.

One day, we all stop fighting

We tire of building an imagined future

and sharing them with people who

never stay.

The journeying stops too, one day.

We realize the roads can only carry us so far.

We never get far enough from the questions.

We never get close enough to the answers.

We speak little, as conversations lose to conceit.

We accept defeats and let them find a home in us.

We wear our scars and learn to love them.

We finally concede that life isn't entirely ours to live.

I'm flying at 38000 feet above sea level.
I've been higher before, of course.
I've soared and glided and seen
A bird's eye view of an obtuse world.

It's a rather pleasant evening except
For intermittent bouts of turbulence
That threatens to jeopardize my carefully constructed
Cosmetic peace of mind.

I don't want to rock back and forth and get thrown off by
Surprises out of thin air, but
I will be, says the weary stewardess, unless I heed
To her third reminder to wear a seat belt.

She is rather unfriendly, she spilled a drink on me.
I like her still, I would rather she sat down
Next to me and spilled her guts out.
A sign of pain, a sign of life, would be
Welcome in the programmed hum of this machine.

Manufactured heat so we can eat our food warm
Controlled temperatures too, our comfort comes first.
Seats that recline, tray tables that fold
Belts that keep us from straying,
Oxygen masks to help us breathe, should something go wrong
Life jackets to keep us afloat when we're all at sea.

Everything imaginable to keep us unharmed
To feed our illusions of flight.
Man didn't discover flight.
He tamed it,
So we would never have to fear a free fall.

Maybe science is progressing well.
Maybe one day, we won't need to fear
Falling in love either.

There is nothing left to do

His name is Selva but you called him Chinnu. Or at times, just an aii. For two years, he has been showing up at your doorstep unfailingly with a cup of tea, brewed just the way you like and served just when you want. You have taught him a few English words. You have always had plans to rescue him from the unending cycle of penury that afflicts people like him because there aren’t enough people like you. And one morning, Selva is gone. Just like that. A day passes, you think he is unwell. A week passes, you think he has gone home. A month passes, you think he has run away. You keep an eye on the papers, what are they saying? Is there a missing report? An abduction? A murder? A trafficking case? Or burglary? A brown boy, maybe 12, maybe four feet, maybe frail-ish, what are the papers saying about him? You take a moment and consider the number of ‘maybes’. Yes, the boy who showed up at your doorstep every day for two years. Your losses mount.

This season isn’t like the others. It isn’t raining as much. There aren’t half as many rainbows. Sure, that means fewer traffic snarls but also much lesser hope in the mornings and much lesser consolation in the evenings. Your mind harks back to the summer which wasn’t like the earlier summers either. And spring neither. The winter had been tepid too but at least you were younger then. When you look around, you see fields that are unsure whether to sway in anticipation or droop in despair. The lakes which once gurgled are now barren and wrinkled, punctuated by little pockets of water that look like open infected wounds. The monsoon of romance and memories? It has passed, with no word of a return. Your losses mount.

The gates are rusty, the paint chipped and the only personality it carries is due to the red ants who solider along on them, in a strict rank and file. Could they possibly believe that there was work to be done and that things could be set right? Delusional. The solitary teak stands at the far end, watching over the house. He’s the only one who has survived your journey from a boy to a troubled man. Every time you looked at him in the past, he seemed to be saying, ‘don’t worry boy, go on, I’ve got this.’ Now he is old, no longer useful, and must be made to step down from the watch, however he may resist. In a few hours, your mercenaries arrive and you watch them hack into every pore of his body. They pull him by his hair, stab him, puncture wounds into him, and dismember him. Aged and feeble, he goes down without a protest. You stand there as a party to the successful obliteration of your childhood. And your home. Your losses mount.

He barely speaks to you these days. You hear him when he is annoyed that his bath water isn’t warm enough, or when there is no salt in his food, or when the Communist Party wins an election. He blames your mother for all of that, of course. Every time she exits his room, she has a mischievous grin on her face like there is an inside joke. Yes, he doesn’t share a bed with your mother any longer. Their marriage is firmly tethered to the bare essentials that constitute the smokescreen of a happy family. You realize where your fear of commitment comes from. When you see him try to get up from his bed and struggle to walk, you want him to stop clinging on to life. Just let go, you want to tell him. This isn’t the same man. The father you know, has been dead for a while. Your losses mount.

You have always lived with losses. You lost what you had in the past. You will lose what you have right now. Unlike some people you know who possess, nurture and create something beautiful out of everything that matters to them. You fumble awkwardly, say the wrong things, allow your darkness to pervade everything you touch, and mourn its loss later. You are neither a mother, nor an artist. You’re not even a creature of habit. So you don’t know how to get used to this unending spiral of losses. Nothing prepares you for it.

Nothing prepares you for the goodbye. As she gets into the taxi, you know promises are lies. That was the last embrace. That was the last kiss. That was the last time she lied to you. She will speed away in that black taxi and then on a plane. She tells you this is not the end and that she will give it her all. You say no such thing because you know better. A new life awaits her and it has very little room for you. A new life awaits you too. Of piecing together moments from the words of a song. Of beginning to say something but stopping midway because it reminds you of something. Of finding a person in places. Of laughing at the things she said, laughing at yourself, laughing at the four walls and the cobwebs and the mirror because, there is nothing left to do.

The losses mount and there is nothing left to do. 

Serendipi-tea

She keeps waltzing in and out of rooms. I try to keep up with her for a bit, then give up and station myself near the kitchen platform. It’s a Sunday afternoon, I’m sleep-deprived and haven’t had a half-decent cup of chai in a week. Maybe she senses my deprivation. Or maybe that’s how she is, always coming up with the right things to say at the right time.

Would I like some tea, she asks. I nod with the excitement of a boy scout. Would I like some tea? Would the dying like a little serving of life? I follow her into the kitchen. A pack of ginger-lemon tea bags comes out of nowhere. She throws me a few other options but my heart is set on the thought of ginger tea. The aroma of potent ginger that wafts in with a sting, the tang that numbs yet soothes the throat, my mind starts dusting off the afternoon daze. She keeps talking and moving around in a gentle unrehearsed dance. I could get used to this.

‘Should I let it boil some more?’ She asks.

I pretend to be in control as I murmur a yes. Beads of steam form in the water. I’ve been here before but this time, I feel at home. In her busy chatter. In the promise of what’s brewing.

Should she leave the tea bag in the cup? No, I say. She picks it out with a spoon, winds the thread around the spoon and gives it a tug to squeeze out the last bit of goodness. She does that with a deftness that catches me by surprise. How did she do that? And how had that never occurred to me? I’m embarrassed but fortunately, no one needs to know.

We sit back on cushions and talk. A long-forgotten memory revisits. It involves tea, conversations and promises. I brush it off and return to the now. We talk art, cupcakes, school romances, piercings, and her flight the next morning, in no particular order. I feel the tea coursing through my spirits. I forget the revolting heat outside. I think of all the ways I had imagined this afternoon would end. And then I think of my being here, drifting happily in the heady sips of her tea. She smiles at something. She asks me if I’d want to carry a few tea bags with me. I refuse.

I decide I’ll keep coming back to her for more.

Scrub. Flush. Repeat.

Poop stains. So many of them that the toilet bowl looks a dirty yellow. I stare at it for a minute and feel vomit rising from my stomach, through my throat. This is no place to live in. I dart out and lean on the window sill. The towel-clad obese dude from the bext room nonchalantly walks past me and pats my shoulder with a smile. The bathroom door clicks shut. I stand still, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I feel dirty, I need a shower. It would help if I could get inside that bathroom without fainting. Actually, scratch that. I'll get myself a chai. I walk to the kitchen with my mug, my mind in a state of precarious caution. I count my steps, read what’s written on the mug, file away the to-dos in my head. I do whatever it takes to not think of what I saw earlier.

It’s an apology of a chai. Milky, syrupy, benign as baby-feed. My mind promptly holds on to the visual cue of baby-feed. Thick, viscous, off-white. I look at the film of cream that’s forming on the insipid chai. I imagine a film of cream on my tongue, I imagine gooey baby-feed in my mouth. Before I know I’m imagining the poop stains on my tongue. I run to the sink and I puke with a force that causes my lower back to momentarily snap.

‘Are you okay, bro? Can I get you something?’

‘I’m good. Just something I ate.’

‘Watch what you eat, bro. This isn’t the season for it.’

‘I’m good. I’ll go lie down.’

I walk back to the room, turn the air-conditioning on and take my t-shirt off. I want to take a shower. I need to be cleansed. But falling prostate on the bed is what I do. The room gradually cools down. The smell of the mosquito repellent wafts around.  I light up agarbattis and close my eyes. I’m not really here. No, I’m not really here, I’m somewhere else. On the hills, looking at the Nilgiris. A vast formidable expanse of blue hills. There is dew on the leaves. It’s so cold that a loveless couple seated nearby is beginning to rediscover the warmth of intimacy. I could stay here forever, but for a raucous interruption. It’s someone talking on the phone.

He wants a cheaper deal for his holiday. His discomfort is apparent. I can’t tell if it’s from the contents of his conversation or the itch from his balls that he is tirelessly scratching. He takes a break to examine his nails and goes back to scratching. Meanwhile, the Nilgiris melt from a verdant blue into stale green sewage in my head. Let me get out of here.

I walk into a supermarket that looks rather welcoming. I spend more time looking at the perfumes and soaps than I need to. I move from aisle to aisle, picking up nothing. There is a vortex in my head. The lady attendant stares at me rather sternly. I wonder why and then I realize I’ve been staring at a shelf full of sanitary pads for a while. I find it amusing and catch myself smiling in a mirror.

What would she have said about this? She always gushed over my absent-minded smiles.

‘There you go again, what are you thinking about?’

‘Huh? Nothing, why?’

‘You were smiling. What is it?’

‘Was I? I don’t know, I wasn’t really thinking.’

‘But you look so cute. Why don’t you smile like that always?’

And now, in that supermarket aisle, I realize what that smile looks like. Not bad, she has a point. Finally, I settle on what I walked in to buy, the toilet cleaner. Yes, if it’s to be, it’s up to me and all that. I pay the cashier and walk out with purpose.

I am bare-feet in the bathroom. I’m staring the toilet bowl down like a gladiator who is face to face with a predator. There is gunk under my feet. I can feel it eat into my soles. I try not to think. Dew drops. Nilgiris. Eucalyptus. Dew drops. Dew drops. Leaky flush. Eucalyptus. Slime. Nilgiris. Open sewer. It’s not working. Her smile. Yes, I settle on that. Her smile. The way she pronounces the word ‘delicious’ with her teasing lips. The drop of her shoulders when she laughs. I plod on. I keep scrubbing. The drop of her shoulders. The three-coloured hair band. Scrub. The nose pin. The loose curls. Flush. The pink shade on her lips. The wine that washes it away. Scrub. Her walking around the house in my boxers. The tautness of speech when she is sad. Flush.

I’m done. I fall back on to the slimy wet floor with the dripping toilet brush in my hand. Her defiant refusal to meet my eye that night. I’m tired. I sweat. I cry. I ball up my fist. I hold back a wail. Then I let go. I make a start.

How can you be teetering on the edge
Never falling, never staying on your feet?
How can you not be worn out?
From the every day and the day after?
How can you feel the things you do?
And still go to bed,
And still wake up?