Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

His footsteps were muffled by the red, moth-eaten carpet ... his shallow breathing lost in the music ... his dark pupils masked by the reflection of the screen in his eyes ... the light played across his face, contorting it, turning it into masks of pain, masks of anguish, masks of despair ... masks of sadness. Chaplin tumbled onto the ground in his usual tramp style. The million times he's done it before and it's funny every time. The black and white poster was put up at the end of the row of chairs -

Charlie Chaplin Film Festival
Final shows of the Plaza

'The Kid' - the movie they'd opened with all those years ago. A fitting tribute. And what a way to go out ... with a bang!
The music picked up tempo, a pivotal scene. He didn't laugh though ... the cramps were getting worse, pain seared his brain, his vision ... but he had made a promise, one that he was going to keep. The consequences of not keeping it were bad, but he was beginning to feel that the effects of keeping it were worse.
He doubled over, keeping his head low .... the sounds of laughter from the audience mingled with the music. He tried to concentrate on the irregular screeching sounds coming from the speakers. The place really had gotten too old.
Sweat soaked the surface of his palms as beads of sweat meandered down his face through the day old stubble. He started to scratch his arms ... it seemed like the flesh beneath his skin was itching ... like the blood coursing through his veins was burning, growing worse with each beat of his heart. Mind over matter, he tried to keep his thoughts focussed on the movie. He'd loved Chaplin when he was a kid ...
He bent over as a wave of nausea washed over him. He picked up his backpack and headed for the exit to the restrooms. The padded door creaked as he pushed against it using all of the strength he had remaining. The narrow crack that opened was enough for his slight frame to get through.
He felt the cracks in the walls against his palm as he stumbled to the rest room at the end of the darkening corridor, the tube light flickering on and off. Faltering, irregular steps closed the distance to the outline of the door. He fell to his knees ... unable to hold himself up, his legs felt like they were made of water. The journey continued in a crawl, toward a goal ... mind over matter. The carpet on the floor felt coarse under his hands.
The wave of nausea finally reached the tipping point as he reached the door. He lifted himself up using the sink as support. The foul odour of his vomit blended with the comparable essence of the old restroom. The nausea had passed leaving emptiness in its place ... emptiness that he'd felt before ... all too many times. Emptiness that craved to be filled ... filling it meant everything. No more ....
He walked into the closest stall and sat on the floor ... the moldy smell overpowering his senses ... threatening to bring the nausea back .... no more! He pulled open the zipper on his back pack with one hand while scratching his neck with the other. Emptying the contents on the floor he leaned back against the wall of the booth ... he was going to break his promise ... the promise he'd made just that morning, standing at the train station. He closed his eyes ... her face ... he saw it light up as he said 'I promise' ... he remembered her lingering touch as she boarded the train ... he remembered the whispered, almost hallowed 'thank you'. The tears mingled with the sweat flowing down his cheeks. He opened his eyes to stare at graffiti scrawled on the booth wall in permanent marker ... a heart with an arrow through it, "R+N" written inside it, the entire work of modern art scratched across as though with someone's fingernails.
He picked out two small brown paper packets, one marked 'H' and the other 'C' and a bottle of Sprite from the stuff on the floor. The bottle fizzed as he opened he opened it and dumped half its content down the toilet. He opened the first packet and stared into it. Stared at the one thing that could provide relief ... stared at his health and his sickness ... stared at the object of his addiction.
Slowly, he poured some of the brown powder into the waiting bottle ... a little of the powder at a time. He'd spent ... lost way too much getting it. He had nothing left to sell except his soul ... and maybe that was already damned. He opened the other packet and poured some of the white powder into the bottle, a little more than the brown stuff.
Taking a lighter out of his pocket he held it under the bottle holding it at the neck. The turbid liquid began to clear as the smell of burning plastic filled the booth. He stared at the bottle, at the tepid liquid inside it ... and after a while through it. Sorting through the stuff on the floor he started to put things back in his bag ... until he found what he was looking for. He tore open the sterilised paper packing exposing the syringe to the elements.
Tilting the bottle to one side he put the syringe in and filled it. Licking the tip of the syringe he tore open the plastic wrapping on the needle ... He had to try twice before he could steady his hands enough to push it onto the syringe.
Holding the syringe in his left hand, he tapped his arm to find a vein. His heart was pumping a mile a minute ... his vein stood out, bluish against the colour of flesh. He winced as he injected himself.
Almost immediately his heart slowed, sounds became distant, the horrible odour of the rest room went away. The face from his memory smiled and faded away. He felt ... lighter, like he was about to float away. His vision swayed with each beat of his heart ... with each movement of the seconds hand of his watch. He could hear his heart ... the soft ticking of his watch ... the drip of a leaky faucet ... the wind blowing his problems away. The graffiti on the wall began to move, began to flow, began to fade.
Pushing himself up against the ground his palm stuck on the floor on the booth ... he stared at it in bewilderment. Stumbling out of the booth, he headed back to his seat ... past the crumbling corridor, through the padded door ... into darkness. Suddenly the screen lit up in blacks and grays startling him into movement.
He got to his seat and stared at the screen ... the tinniness from the speakers was gone, but he didn't notice. He watched the myriad of images formed by the shades of gray on the screen without registering any of them. All he saw were vague shapes that played across his eyes. Sounds that he could see, colours that he could hear ... none of it made sense, but then none of it mattered. The tramp was crying on screen. The music slowed to just over the pace of a dirge. The audience was quiet and tense at the same time. They'd seen Chaplin way too often. This was the calm before the storm. The Sprite bottle found its way to his lips.
All of a sudden he gasped for breath ... the grays turned to white as the cocaine kicked in. He kicked against the seat in front of him, holding his throat. The music reached a crescendo ... the trumpets and violins timed to the movements on the screen, out of sync with the arms that reached out to grab hold of some support, to get the attention of someone ... anyone.
The screen went black.

Running on Empty

A citrine night sky. Ironic, or may be fitting, that a city with a soul so dark would have such a bright night sky. The colour of the sky, a reflection of her cataract ridden eyes, hidden behind the spectacles whose thick lenses haven't been cleaned in days. Callused hands smudge the soot caked over the lens as she takes them off and carefully wipes them on her clothes. Trembling fingers unsteadily perch the cleaned yet now dirtier spectacles on the bridge of her nose. Uncertain eyes focus on the blurry image of dirty fingernails reduced to jagged stubs. They find their way to waiting mouth that hasn't tasted sweet or sour in too long. The gritty texture of the dirt beneath her fingernails hurts her sensitive teeth as she bites into it. Her exploring tongue feels the shard that's broken off into her mouth, pushes it against the back of her teeth trying to delay swallowing it. She finds the gap that was once occupied by a tooth made of solid gold. The tooth that her son had pulled out.
Her heart jumps at the metallic taste of blood that floods her mouth. Her nails tearing her tender gums, adrenaline pumping, making her tongue seem swollen and numb. Suddenly being bathed in the red of the traffic light shocks her back into the present ... time to go to work. The once straight walking stick creaks under her weight as she hauls herself up and limps to the nearest car, hoping that she'll get enough money to sleep with something in her stomach. To sleep ... to dream ... to wake the next morning.
She watches her reflection reaching towards her, hears the soft chime of coins held her in her precious cloth bag. She mouths her plea to her own reflection in the window of the car, unable to see her hopeful benefactor. The window is unmoved, the reflection is unmoved. Onto the next soul. A few people make her richer by a few pennies, a few spurn her for what she has become, oblivious to see what she has been ... a mother spurned ... a wife widowed, her identity lost leaving a fragile shell behind.
The signal turns a shady amber, telling her to start moving back to the sidewalk. Limping slowly towards a destination that seems to be retreating from her, she holds her wrinkled hand up against the rearing monsters facing the starting line hoping that they'll heed her prayer. The light turns, the monsters charge, she hears a screech, all she can make out is a blur ... something large coming towards her.
"Out of the way, you hag!!"
She moves, fast as she can to the safety of the sidewalk. Too old. She's too old for this. Panting, she leans on her walking stick hoping that it won't break under the weight of her feeble frame. She makes peace with the thought that she'll go to bed hungry. A little more money and she might just be able to eat the next day ... the cloth bag jingles in agreement. Just a few minutes ... a little rest. She feels her stick being kicked out from under her.
"Am so sorry! Was in my own world. Didn't see your walking stick. Am so sorry!"
A deep voice from a blur that moved.
"It's alright, son. No harm done ... Could you spare some change? I haven't had anything to eat in days. Please ... "
Maybe he's sorry enough to give her some money.
"Um ... I don't have any change ..."
The genuine sound of regret in his voice.
"Oh, alright. It's just that I haven't had anything to eat ... Thanks, anyway"
The sound of soft footsteps walking away. She settles back down on the sidewalk. Just a few minutes ... just a little rest.
"I'm sorry. But I've had enough bad luck to know that you sometimes need a helping hand. How about I get you something to eat?"
That deep voice again ... Her smile takes in all of him ... the stubble on his face, the large crumpled envelope under his arm, the rumpled coat, the dirty sneakers ... all of it. She tries to get a good look at him ... tries to remember the way he looks ... one of the few kind people she's met, like the woman who had given her the coat she was wearing.
They move towards the closest restaurant ... she limping, he shuffling along. She tells him about her son, her husband who passed away, the street urchins who throw stones at her and call her a hag ... her life.
The shady establishment is identified only by the sign above the olive green door saying 'Restarant'. The greyish paint on the walls peeling, the dingy interiors lit by four bulbs spreading barely enough light to read by.
"So, what would you like?"
She names dishes that she's eaten ... that she's cooked ... that she's heard of but never seen.
"Can I get a sweet too?" in the most innocent voice she can manage.
"Ha Sure, why not."
"And could you please have it packed ... I'd like to eat at home ..."
"Are you sure? It looks like it's going to rain."
"It's ok. I live close by."
He just nods and places the order. They wait and watch the drizzle turn into a downpour. He listens as she rambles about the time she was accused of stealing, about a grandchild she can't remember anymore, about the streets and how they treat her ... about her life.
A child dressed in a dirty vest and even dirtier shorts brings him a white plastic packet and runs off towards the dim outline of a door in the back of the small hall.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay here until the rain stops?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I live close by. Don't worry."
He offers her the parcel. Her trembling hands slowly reach for the parcel as though scared that it might disappear if she touches it. She seems genuinely surprised by the warmth that escapes through the plastic.
"Thank you, son! Thank you so much! May God have mercy on me and give my remaining age to you!"
A sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh.
"Thank you. You don't know how much that means to me."
They pass through the olive green door once more and turn to face different directions. They part ways with a nod and a smile ... one limping, the other shuffling along.
She limps under the awnings of shops, under the cover of trees, clutching the white packet to her chest. She enjoys the contrast in temperatures, the warmth of the packet against the cold of the rain.
A turn into a narrow dark alley puts her in front of a large concrete pipe, its mouth partly covered by a large blue plastic sheet. She moves the rock on the pipe firmly anchoring the sheet in place so that it covers the whole mouth. Home sweet home.
She lights a candle to make out the blurs before her, unpacks the still warm parcel and stares at the food, still unable to believe that she's about to eat, still expecting it to disappear in a puff of smoke at a touch. The lack of a spoon doesn't bother her. She sticks her hands out in the rain but thinks twice about wiping them on her clothes. The contrast in temperatures becomes conspicuous as she puts her wet fingers in the warm rice. She savours each morsel of her supper ... the sweet, the sour, the pungent, the bitter, she tastes it all ... she feasts.
She stares at the empty dishes trying to remember what they looked like when they were full. Hoping that the memory of a feast will sustain her until her next meal. She blows out the candle. To sleep ... to dream. The cold of the night seeps into her bones.
--
The young man lived for a year longer than the doctors said he would.

On The Turning Away

What scares you?
What do you hate?
What makes you wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night?
What's the stuff your nightmares are made of?
Our nightmares are greater than the sum of their parts. What's more, the parts have changed with time, with stimuli, with circumstances ... with ideas. The only thing that's constant is change, right? I was exposed to a rude reminder of this when talking to a couple of gentlemen from the generation preceding mine. Their ideas and mine didn't quite meet, in fact they clashed in manners similar to soldiers armed with words ... strong words. I chalked it up to the all engulfing generation gap. Fuming at how racism had corrupted people whose opinions I respect in most things, I didn't see what was staring me in the face - their experiences are different from mine. Their prejudices are different from mine.
I didn't live through two wars with neighbouring countries. I didn't huddle up in a small room in the middle of the night when the air raid siren went off. I didn't see a man being shot because he lit a cigarette at night. I didn't live through an emergency declared by a dictatorial prime minister. I didn't see the man with smoldering eyes running around with a sickle in his hand hacking up people. I didn't see riots on the street when a dictatorial politician was assassinated. I didn't see blood flowing in the drains next to my house.
Experiences, sights ... waking nightmares like these have caused them to wear scarlet coloured glasses, to see everything as though through the haze of a war, to react to everything in the most common way they were reacted to, with violence, with hatred, with a strange mix of tolerance and racism that I don't quite get. Love the individuals that you know but hate the race that they belong to. Hate the millions of faceless people who belong to it. 'As long as I don't know them, I hate them.'
What I've seen for most of my life is peace, uncertain and shaky, but peace nonetheless. There are a few times it was threatened. Spiced up and exploited by the media, its splashed across every magazine and TV screen in the world. Images, horrifying and inspiring ... words, to inform and subvert. Information.
This brings me to the topic of the conversation I was referring to earlier. Hatred, racism, bigotry and whatever else fits under that umbrella - how its being spread through the education system. I know what most people reading this are going to say now. 'There are so many Islamic schools that teach the Koran'. You're absolutely right. There are thousands, many of them teaching a somewhat misguided view of it. But that's not the whole truth.
What follows is a quote from the Old Testament, the book on which Judaism, Christianity and Islam are based

If your brother, the son of your father or of your mother, or your son or daughter, or the spouse whom you embrace, or your most intimate friend, tries to secretly seduce you, saying, “Let us go and serve other gods,” unknown to you or your ancestors before you, gods of the peoples surrounding you, whether near you or far away, anywhere throughout the world, you must not consent, you must not listen to him; you must show him no pity, you must not spare him or conceal his guilt. No, you must kill him, your hand must strike the first blow in putting him to death and the hands of the rest of the people following. You must stone him to death, since he has tried to divert you from Yahweh your God. . . .(Deuteronomy 13:7–11)

This is taught in Sunday school and most of the Christian institutions. A "God" asking the people that follow him to kill other people. The same "God" that said "Thou shalt not kill."
One might think this is the end of it. This point illustrates that the interpretation of words, of information can kill the meaning behind it. We already know, courtesy of the media, that there are militant camps that are promoting a somewhat skewed interpretation of scripture.
Here's something you don't know. There are schools like this right under your nose! I'm not just talking about those that I've mentioned above. The Hindutva brigade started schools soon after Indian independence that promotes their own brand of "Hindu" values.
Here's the militant school that you don't know about.
These are the "facts" that children in these schools are taught -

• Homer adapted Valmiki’s Ramayana into an epic called Iliad


• The language of the Native American Indians evolved from ancient Indian languages


• a map of India which includes not only Pakistan and Bangladesh but also the entire region of Bhutan, Nepal, Tibet and even parts of Myanmar.

If anybody's read the Iliad and has even a brief idea of what the Ramayana is about the first point should be enough to convince you.
The second would kill any cultural anthropologist, either because he had a heart attack while laughing or because of a brain aneurysm he developed trying to figure out how this could be true. We can't even begin to decipher the ancient Indian languages from the time of the Indus Valley Civilisation. I'm guessing that making tall claims is first lesson in hypocrisy, something that the Hindutva brigade is more than comfortable with.
The third is just plain bloody wrong. Any person who passed geography would know that (including me).
The Hindutva brigade shames any "True Hindu" (read this) but this is insulting the intelligence of the entire human race.
These schools are a breeding ground for automatons that take orders, that can't think for themselves, that are taught, no, not taught, force fed lies. How is this any different from the militant cells set up in Islamic countries? How is this any different from that basis of the Inquisition?
This was the topic of conversation that I was referring to earlier. Education is about facts. Its about learning. Its about preparing a child for the life that he/she has to face.
This is about creating an army.
This is the point that the two gentlemen and I disagreed on. They believe that an army is required. I don't. You can't fight a forest fire by starting another forest fire. There'll be nothing left to burn.
This is the stuff my nightmares are made of. This is what keeps me awake at night. The next generation will be a silent people, unable to think for themselves, harbouring a skewed sense of morality fueled and led by a nameless faceless fascist ass dressed in saffron robes or a white caftan or a black suit.
I don't know what to do about it. I just know that if enough people know about it, it might stop. Information, unadulterated, is power. It allows you make a decision on how things should be. It puts the future in your hands. I only hope that its not my nightmare.
If what we sow is what we reap, then we're in deep shit.
We're sowing the fields with bullets.
We're soaking the fields in blood.

The Post War Dream

Mrs. XXXXXX,
I know this letter must come to you out of the blue considering that you've had no communication regarding your son for almost two years. I served, I suppose would be the best term, with your son for the better part of a year and half. We met at a POW camp in June the year before last and came to be pretty close during our stay there. As you can imagine, our somewhat sorry situation put us in a position in which we had to rely on each for support.
I know that you did not approve of him joining the army. I also know that he used to write to you every week. I can only imagine what it must have felt like when the letters stopped coming. He always wished that you had written back, though. I'm sure that you'd wanted to. I could just never figure out why you didn't. He believed knew that you loved him even though you never did write back. I think he was right. I hope he was right. Was he?
He always talked about you in a sort of larger than life sense - his mom, the woman who could handle anything, thrifty vendors or gigantic hurricanes, Scrapes and bruises or Air Raids and Wars. He inherited his patriotism from you, I believe. He used to talk about how you'd make him stay up till midnight every independence day to salute the flag. I wonder if you realise how big an influence you were on him. There were some things he just had to do for himself. Some things that you couldn't influence him on.
His biggest fear was that he would disappoint you in some way. I think that is what got him through some of the rougher treatment we were subjected to by our less than congenial hosts. He felt that he would fail his country and you, in some sense, if he broke under the pressure. Knife points or needles, ropes or shackles, he never seemed to break. Of course, this only made our hosts try even harder. They'd never come across a man they couldn't break ... until they came up against your son. Who knew the little twerp had it in him.
Your son had a pretty mischievous streak, though, but then I guess you already know that. We used to steal some of the booze from our captors every couple of weeks. You can't imagine how much fun it used to be. "Like stealing from mom's kitchen", he would say with a grin on his face after we'd gotten back to our bunks. He'd talk about all the sweets he'd steal, all the times he'd get away with it even though the dish was right under your nose. Did he really manage to get away with it or did you just let him go? (From what I've heard of you, I'd think it was the latter. I can just imagine you watching him skulking around from the corner of your eye.) We'd crawl between the huts to the building where they'd keep it, sneak in and steal a couple of bottles for everyone who bunked with us.
It used to be great fun, like an adventure. We were men of fortune, intrepid explorers searching for a lost treasure ... searching for hope. This was the stuff that made the rest of it bearable. We'd always think we were hitting them where it hurt. I suppose it was a fool's hope, but it was a hope nonetheless. The problem is that they weren't like you. They didn't turn a blind eye the couple of times that they caught us. We were forced to drink all that we had stolen. We'd always go through it together, the two of us ... made it easier somehow.
We'd always talk about it as though we'd been out to a bar the previous night and couldn't remember what happened. Oh, he came up with some pretty wild stories for the bruises we'd have in the morning! One of them involved a tight rope act, except that the role of the rope was played by him. Another involved a bar fight in which the two of us were defending the honour of a lady. Faced by a host of foes with guns and knives, chains and daggers. As you can see, we tried to make our life as light as possible. There was way too much to pull us the other way.
He'd tell me about how he used to stay up with his father and stare at the night sky. The stars "like holes in a blindfold someone tied around my head." He said he'd like to look up at those stars with his son someday, with a telescope hopefully. He'd teach his son about the constellations, just Libra and trustworthy Capricorn and all the others. He tried to teach me these but I just couldn't follow. Being brought up in a city, I never got to see too many stars. I should have tried harder to learn. I don't know when he'll tell me about them again.
There's something I think I should tell you, because I'm sure he never will and maybe because you're in a position to do something about it. Before he shipped off for the army, his affections were reserved for a girl he knew, XXXXXX, he met her in college, I'm hoping that you know her or at least of her. He never told her how he felt and I'm sure he'll kill me for telling you about it. I'm a bit of hopeless romantic, but I hope she's waiting for him and I hope she will till he comes back.
We always talked about what we would do when we got back home. All the people we would see, all the places we would go, all the things we would do. He always said that he would take you to the city, just to get you out of the town. To show you all that was missing in the little towns. How he'd buy a car and drive through the countryside with its crisp, clean air. How he'd lie down in the fields and stare up at the clouds and try to see his friend's faces in their shapes. His enthusiasm was contagious, some of his dreams became mine.
I know that I've rambled on quite a bit without answering the question that's burning in your mind. The truth is, I don't know where your son is. We were shipped off to different camps about four months ago. The camp I was in was found by our allies and we were shipped back home a few weeks ago. I've been trying to find out about your son since I got back. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about him. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish he was here with me.
I know that you knew the boy that your son was. I felt that you should know the man he is.

Yours Sincerely
XXXXXX

Gathering Storm

The cold winter wind through the trees
Closing windows and slamming doors
Try to shut out the voices in my head
I just wish they weren't all yours

Flickering street lamps fight flashes of lighting
Though, on this they seem to agree
Raindrops roll like the pearls of my wits
That you'd strung up and now set free

Ripples spread like your smile used to be
Like the dark lanes holding onto their mystery
Staring at the opposing poles of time
Standing at the corner of Memory and Misery

Rocks glisten in the pale moonlight
Shards of broken dreams we once shared
Flowers and leaves float on the water
A story of forbidden love that endured

To the pulse of lightning, the beat of thunder
In the rain the trees dance and sway
My eyes were filled with water
How did your picture burn away?

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Furbundo, Sketcher, as you can see, it's done. So, whenever you boys are ready.