A Rope and a Knife

Its not a haze, it’s a cloud. To the eye that observes and the mind that perceives, they are very different. The haze lifts and opens a door to another world, less gloomy, less dark and more likely of providing simple miracles. You wait for the sun to burn the haze and turn your world around like the rebirth of a beautiful phoenix. Your eyes eagerly await the sight of little children playing in the mud and your ears tickle with their peeling laughter. But while you wait, the haze draws tears from your eyes. It shall pass, she whispers into your ear. Her voice reminds you of why you are hanging from a noose right in the middle of the street on a dirty hot day. It reminds you of why you are not dead yet.

You and me are not different now, we are the same, we know the same.

It’s not a haze though, it’s a cloud. It’s a dark cloud that you wish would make you wet with big poisonous drops of rain. She is not holding your hand anymore. There must be a reason why you are alone in this downpour. Do you remember? You take out the wriggling goldfish from your pocket ,let it settle nicely into the cup of your palms and let the rain wash over it.

You and the goldfish are not different now, you are the same.

The sun never rises and its almost been a year. The rain has been incessantly beating down upon your brow while you see the little goldfish still wriggling in your palms. You know it will not die.  You whisper to it, “This too shall pass”, you say, as you slowly squeeze it between your palms. The rain stops as the world erupts into a riot of colour and laughter. Now you are hanging by the noose, right in the middle of a dirty street, but you are not dead.

“This too shall pass”, she says as she flies above your head holding your hand, lightly yet firmly. Its not a cloud though now, is it? There you can see the sun trying so hard to burst through the rows of flowers and the disgustingly beautiful rows of colors, glowing as bright as your eyes.

You ask yourself who are you and not a word in the universe can describe that.

Sail away

I alone in the darkness of the night, listening to Glenn Gould daftly play away at the piano as the soft notes of Bach’s Goldberg Variations fill the room and beckon me to a more romantic and musical carnation of life’s sweet memories. Not my memories but those of the conflated worlds of Bach and Gould. The music is interspersed with the barking of a solitary dog somewhere being the king of the night, alone like myself paying homage to the shade of black that hides even the vilest thought and dirtiest action. The dog and me alone, maybe we share the night or just the loneliness, yet alone we are encompassed in our thoughts. It is strange indeed that I must feel only the wind and see the stars when half the world stays up soaking in the sunlight. Time condemns me to this torturous ordeal twelve hours of the day when I see myself as an extinguished flame inside a dark room while a million candles burn away outside, their flames criss-crossing, none of them alone.

I do not know what it is about the music that makes me aware of myself and the noisome fragments of time that pass through my fingers, through my hand and through my body. Gould strikes a high chord and the music picks up, while the fingers waltz upon the keyboard increasing in tempo. There must be a flourish in life too, I think. This piece should be a part of my life, a life that seems like the slow moan of the violin deserves a harpsichord or its own concerto. A brief silence and Gould enters another slower softer world. I start making bird sounds in tune to the tiptoey music. I am going somewhere slowly holding my shoes in my hand aware of the footfalls when suddenly like a river of cold water the music hits me sideways and leaves me reeling in its wake. The dog too has gone silent. The night has set in completely waiting only for the sun to disturb this sickness of sleep.

If ever music could silence silence itself. Each note sunny yet stiflingly silent making me desperate to touch the note that follows. Each lift of the finger away from the keyboard a painful wait. It’s the piece where one must dwell to reason with oneself and whisper into ones own ear magical notes. I can almost see Bach, sitting alone in a room while the notes imprinted his morose thoughts onto the music sheet by themselves. What a wonderful feeling. Music as a carrier of thoughts, of feelings and moods. For the umpteenth time I feel the pull of the Baroque era and a need to listen to this music on as old an instrument as possible.

I am jobless, unsure of what I want to do, and feeling completely at the mercy of some unknown force. Yet when I do put on some Bach or Vivaldi, I know with a certainty that somehow they will untangle all the knots and like a loving parent send me on a boat to some beautiful island where the sand and the sun and the trees will look after me. A place we all call happiness.

A split in the night sky

I stink of nightly wisdom, slithering though a starless sky
It wanders and naked upon the horizon, lies invisible
Waits for a glimmer or for the smell of rain, and
in so many words as the breath allows, speaks feverishly
Of the inside and the outside, as distant from clarity
as the smoke rising from the burning woods, obscured
by big wet drops of teary fountains, sleepy eyes
and the tired limb shed two drops of shining red blood
That fades and evades the moonlight, burning my body
With spears of ice and bricks of light, nonetheless
it deafens my ears with a profound silence, ripped
apart by only the harried darts of the senile mind

Koel Son

Every morning Nina gave birth to three sons, and like everyday one of them was born slightly different.Like a brood parasite she would lay that one egg in her own nest, hatching them all only to find one of them belonged to her and not to her. The manipulation did not come to her attention until the squabbles began. The different chick liked worms in the morning when the rest of the hatched nestlings were busy sleeping with their eyes half closed and dreaming about growing up. And at night when they had their grub, he would cover himself with dry twigs and close his eyes upon this world.
“He is different”, the two would complain. They bit, snapped at him and maintained in their sweet chirpy voices, he is different.
The eldest of them would grow a beard after a few days, and often Nina found the two speaking in hushed tones about the koel son.He is different, the other son repeated. He is an idiot, the eldest said. When the younger one grew a beard, they had yet again changed their stance. He is an idiot, the younger one said. He is bad, the elder one interjected. The koel son never grew a beard and kept to himself, backing up against the wall of the nest with a mix of fear and doubt in his eyes. Nina punished herself everyday for his tergiverising attitude towards laying down the law of equality. She knew the koel son would die and she would have to mourn. It was after all, she reasoned, only a balancing act of nature.
The koel son grew up to become a smart intelligent boat whereas the two bobbed around in the lake like rubber dinghies, unsure her and now, unsure elsewhere later.The drowning caterpillars hung onto the boat for dear life and in but a few days, the boat was bringing to the shore, not one or two but a thousand caterpillars. When Nina saw what was happening, she sold the koel son off to the cat for a healthy sum of five thousand rupees. A thousand years later, on another day
as the koel son, used to being sold , used to saving the caterpillars came back home, Nina massaged his painful joints with oil and passed a cross over him. For some days she prayed to the lord. Have mercy on my son, she said, and tried to put the dinghies and the boat together. He is big and bad, the two parroted as was usual. Next morning when the koel son woke up, his brothers were gone. His mother had flown away to distant land with them and he sat alone in the nest waiting for them. Habitually he sold himself to the cat. But this time the cat was different, it was aloof yet nearer. He could see its eyes, narrow and a glint of malice, but cold and unseeing. He sold himself to the cat.

I told you so

What had happened was pretty unfortunate. Nobody could have suspected Rashid to show that violent streak, nobody. It must have been the heat, some
opined later. Others, having a more psychological bent, discussed away some hypothesis about both the aggresor’s and the victim’s mental states,
eating away at non facts with their razor sharp reasons till the results checked with their surmise. All in all, though the dead body did afford a minor
distraction, the lot was happy , jovial too , with their sharp detective skills on display. ” I told you so” seemed to be the catch phrase everywhere until
a person outside the group heard it and decided to bring the whole group around to his point of view, at the end of which a different person would now
pull up his sleeves, straighten his tie and say ” I told you so”. If not for their wives waiting at home, some with loving eyes, others with disapproval and
still others with that burning rage, this process could have gone on forever. And ofcourse also because now Rashid, who had been sitting on a corner, unspeaking
, stood up with some effort and spoke. ” See? I told you”, someone shouted from one of the groups nearest him.
“Is he dead”, asked Rashid, just with a little hope that maybe a hundred people had been mistaken in judging the extent of injury.
” I told you so”, the man next to Rashid spoke. ” I told you he was dead the moment you hit him on the head”.
Ah! What a victory, surely he and his woman would be out for a fancy dinner tonight?
“Yes, yes you did. But now, yes, I know you said it too”, he waved a hand at a man about to jump on the I told you so bandwagon, “now, you must tell me,
not the problem, which I think is pretty clear to everyone with their eyes open, but a solution”
“Ah! Yes! the solution!” the all echoed together, and started to split away into groups again.
“Wait, the lot of you! Wait! Do not group thus!”
“Sir, it was his fault, not your’s.”
” His life does not matter your’s does”
“You could leave the dead body in the dustbin”
The noise had reached fever pitch, what with all the questions, their answers, men trying to assuage Rashid’s guilt all speaking together with raised voices
to make sure their exceedingly important and brilliantly deduced answer was well heard and accepted.
“Rashid, Rashid!”
RASHID.
Oh! Everyone knew that voice! The mistress!
“Shut up you morons! Our mistress is here, make way make way!”
Rashid’s wife walked into the jam packed room and made towards him, on the way kicking at some rowdy men who tried to touch her skirt or even paw at her neatly
sewed top. These uncouth men, she thought, its a wonder the factory even produces anything at all. All bloody drunkards and boors of first rate.
” Here, Kim, here, make way for the lady make way for her!”, ordered Rashid to a man who seemed to be of quite some importance, somebody like a union leader.
” Did you kill the rat?”, asked Farida.
“Yes, darling, I did”, said a triumphant Rashid.
“Poor thing. Death to the rats. What a victory”, some one chided in from the crowd.
“What the hell are you people doing here then? Hundred men to kill one rat?”
“No, no Farida! I killed it myself, with my bare hands. These men, well, we men, were just discussing the morality of it”
” And the mental state in which you did it, and the mental state of the rat right before it died”
” And the emotional response of those who saw the death!”
” And its effect on the workforce of the factory, the output.”
“Not to mention, the effect it would have on the political setup of the country”
” And on our children”
“But your children arent even here!”
“Genetic trauma”
“GO BACK TO YOUR STATIONS!”, shouted a half mad Farida.
” I want no less than ten thousand of those skirts you make by tomorrow evening. Back to your sewing machines you bunch of morons!”
The hundred workers, with damped spirits, made for their stations. Some said it was a pity that women did not understand the important matters in the world.
“Frank, they do make it seem like a trifle less important, but believe me you, we men must not relent! Look at how she dismissed us all, like beggars! Who would
have thought our very own mistress! Our sweet darling, our very own!”. To which Frank replied,
” I told you she would! I told you so!”

The Gentian

The blue gentians lay at the head of the grave nestled in a heap of snow, their blueness a strange reminder of the contrast between the living and the dead,
of what lay beneath and what lay atop. “Beloved wife” , the tomstone whispered softly into the ears of anyone who cared to cast a glance. The old stone, spoke
into the earth, of the inevitability of death and yet, the young flowers, as soft as her lips, held onto hope. The dewy petals more fortunate, than her, to be able to touch the cold yet passionate wind, still more unfortunate for being at fate’s mercy and destined to a crumbling existence. Yet one couldnt miss the sadness in his eyes as he sat down at the bench, with warm reverence, unpacked his lunch box and took a bite off the cookie, the remaining part of which went straight back into the box, for another time, for another day. The sadness of the flowers, their death in the cold weather, accentuated the underlying grief, a tribute from the abundant nature to the poor man, a sign of empathy.

The first day of their marraige, John remembered, was a bright sunny Sunday. They had married outside the church, him and her alone, full of hope full of love.
And just before John, in his own voice had given himself permission to kiss the bride, she had brought out the cookie box.A half each to a life of sharing.
They had a cookie together the next day, and the next and the next. On good days, they could afford one each yet they still shared one and kept the other one
for later. When hard times came by, they sometimes had one cookie over the whole week. And then there were times when they spent days feeding off love alone.
That day they shared love, and the next day and the next until the cookies hardly came by. Yet they lived on, each with the other, for the other. But now she
was gone. It had been a year now, since last he had held her, and to him it felt like a lifetime. He had work again, he could again afford a cookie a day and
yet, she was gone. All he wanted was that half cookie, and a bunch of gentians now, for her grave, until the day he the gentian finally crumbled to join
her beside her grave.

She

She sat down by the window and looked at the raindrops bounce off the roof of the church and harmlessly trickle down the stone walls to form small puddles.The tiny larks that rhythmically puffed up their chests and dipped their beaks, sang of the providence of nature, as they drank from them. It was a perfect day, the sun, the rain even the specks of dust hanging in the air seemed exceedingly perfect. It all seemed like a painting to her,
the window a canvas where someone had painted an idea from the clearest part of the mind. The pen in her hand held loosely between her fingers, wanting to capture some divinity onto the blank piece of paper, but held back by lack of profound words. She breathed silently, carefully, lest her breath disturb the equilibrium that the artist had attained so meticulously. With her finger nail she wrote out an imaginary alphabet on the window glass and stared at it. It almost blended in with the sublimity, it almost added a texture of its own to nature’s fibre, yet she relented. She glossed over the imperfections
of her act and smiled to herself an imperfect smile. Hours passed by and she stared, unblinking, at the sky, at the wet streets and at the unseen yet felt mountains far away, till it was near dusk. She pulled down the blinds as the sun went down in the west and her shadows lengthened towards the east. She moved across the room in her wheelchair, towards the other window that opened out east. There she waited for the sun to come back up as she drew an imaginary alphabet on the window glass.

Light up the world

Leafless boughs adorned with white gold
Welcome do you , the princess of light?
The cold in your cracks and fold
Call out to her all through night
Her touch that blooms a million flowers
summons the drowning man ashore
Amid the wrath of a thousand showers
Pestilence away, on light foot we soar

Forth and forth and gently we glide
Little lives bud up the shoots
Father frost his time he bide
Till she weeds out his unsavoury roots
Here she comes oh she prances
Look how the snow she melts at touch
Stare at her little dainty dances
Upon the ripples she loves so much

What of the princess, she turns a queen
Her breath a breath for all to feel
The cold eyes commanded to wean
From soft eyes that upon her reel

And then when the earth has turned
Half of what deed he is burdened
She shall lay her chin on her breast
Night shall fall, and she shall rest

Pretences

“Hold that front boys, hold it!” cried the general rousing the tiring ranks back into action.
“Weapons! Iron will, boys! One last stand. Karl get the snipers ready, make way for the bio-warfare squad. Jesper, keep a lookout on their bunker, report
any movement. Remember, we take their general, their guard is down, their co-ordination takes a piss. Jehova, flank them from the north, take all the tanks you wish to take with you.
I need a proper battle there lads, lives on the line. Think of those angel wives of your waiting back home for their husbands to deliver for the country. Think of the
tales of bravery lads.”
“In line , keep the formation, we are a thousand they are half of that at best”

“Listen brothers. We are four hundred of us, they are a thousand. I see no chance on this goddamned earth. I dont see a result where we all walk out into the sun again with our bodies intact
and free.”

The army breathed the dust and fear was at its peak. The general wasnt really helping the mood. Or so they thought.

” Now Ababa, this is what I want your platoon to do…”

Jesper spoke. ” Sir they are crawling out of the woodwork. And…”
“And what Jesper, report”
“Sir, they are eating some kind of a fruit, and laughing. Sir they seem merry…”
“Pass me the binoculars”
The general put his eyes to the glass lens and focused on the enemy.Jesper was right. WHat on earth were they doing? He zoomed in to focus on their eyes…

” Boys, I want you to fall back a little. There seems to be some new developments we are unaware of, some new reinforcements maybe. Take a look at their eyes Jesper, one look?”

The army pulled back and stepped down operations for the time being. Do not fight an unknown enemy, they knew that.

Ababa and the general stood right in the open with another two hunndred of their soldiers eating apples and fooling around. Their eyes had no fear but only cunning.
The general cast a glance at the retreating army.

” I told you guys, pretences are everything”

Trapped

So facticity. My freedom within the confines of the cage I could not escape till this very moment. Which I cannot escape from unless a miracle came my
way. I can be what I want to be, ofcourse unless my facticity robs me of that dream. Simply put we are all free, in a cage.
But what is it that we as human beings , this package of mind and body, want most in life? I for once, want happiness.

I was born in the year nineteen eighty nine. Fact. And each moment that I managed to elude death, I remained in the clutches of a certain cagey freedom by my
facticity of existence. And with it had gone my dream of happiness. Managing again by some misfortune to reach the age of twenty four, my dreams grew
stronger but the facticity remained. It remained. Now I wish for happiness more than ever and more than ever I realise I had lost that comfort at the very
beginnings! And what of being miserable? The very fact that I have to be , forcefully, have to be miserable for the time I wish to spend on earth, compounds
the misery a million times.

So here I am. With something I have been told has to be cherished. And what ,one is bound to ask, is a reprieve? You know it and I know it, why then are we afraid
of it? Fearful of approaching it and uncomfortable when someone leaves the cage? Is it not THAT that is to be cherished? Is it not the other one of my facticities,
death that I must look forward to with excitement?

This is a balm

What happens to the general thinker? The one whose brain doesnt stop thinking, over-thinking and invariably garbled? Those who lend coherence to this randomness
and fashion their thoughts in a way that fits the framework of logical thinking, become the Sartres, the Socrates of the world. The others slide away into the
dark unwholesome state of the mind that we refer to as insanity.

Its a dark world this, to my eye. And within this darkness, even as simple a thing as a flower or a cat radiates brilliantly. The joy of rain, the coolness
in every drop that trickles down the body makes me laugh. A childish laugh. A good painting , a good poem makes me laugh. But what of the affectations? Every
human face mocks me, a sheet of plastic wrapped onto a mystic concoction of thoughts and ideas and emotions. Yet I run towards human beings when I am infact
all alone among a million. The temporary alleviation from conversations, from fake smiles and stupid laughs, encourage me. What if I could do this forever?
How wonderful would it be? And within two minutes these conversations turn into useless facades, filling up the space between two people with a solid wall,
unbreakable and transparent. Within five minutes you are wondering if it was even a good idea, and within ten you are unresponsive.

I am unresponsive. I am the one who initiates dialogues with people whom I couldnt care less about, but who nonetheless will provide me my daily balm to calm
the ache, the anguish.Do not think me selfish. I merely know no way to speak to multiple people at once, the twenty thirty people inside of me whispering to
me candidly, each a thinker in himself with ideas gulfs apart from the other.One believeing in the frivolity of my actions and a lack of cure and the other
seeking desperately for the cure that would put to rest the thinking piece of garbage once and for all.

I sing to myself, loudly, no doubt a very good pastime. I try not to mince my words and not to sing out of tune.And when I do all of these, I am at peace
with myself. When I make a sketch, the pencil strokes divert twenty nine of my minds and the One can finally think and act on it. And when the one thinks,
I must cry. I must look into the mirror and think of what will happen to my two eyes when I finally do conquer myself. Will they again puzzle me, show me
the colors but forget the stench? Will I again burst into a thirty pieces when a small speck of dust settles on the paper and my hands pause for a mere second?

The others are back and will not succumb. If I cannot help myself who can? Can love sedate the others and lend prominence to the One? Can hate do that?

So I look again in the mirror. Do not touch your teeth with the tip of your tongue, I say to myself. Look yourself in the eye, I dictate the eyes. What will
it yield I know not. There is some sense in all of this I say to myself.

Did you steal the banana?

And where did you think you were going? Into that wide place of power struggle thinking it to be a kids playground. You believe that your brutish
looks and a heavy hand would let you tear up the place, uproot the devilishness that springs from the very act of being and establish something
‘exciting’?
Have you been past the dogs yet? The dogs that cower in the bushes and the lions that merely growl at you with a statement of a challenge, however with
an incapability that they know must hinder them in looking you in the eye. You are the king of the jungle, or so you believe.
What of the monkey? Where do you place yourself in a society where you have brothers who tear at your hair and jump onto your backs, each time taking the
wind out of your sails so to speak?

A constant struggle of I am versus I believe I am versus I know I am not but would like to believe I am.
You seem scared now? What makes you reconsider that which not but a moment ago considered already?
Because the dogs will kill you right under the supervision of the monkeys monkeying around and will feed you to the eagles. They wander.
That is my funning hundredth post. I am done.

God loves those who hate themselves

My corrupt words, may God Bless you unto whom I speak,
Strangle myself. Clearly the poison is grave,
and cut my throat if you will, for the harm
I do to myself exceeds the splatter upon you

Quite rightly, justly, vehemently I should hate,
For what I should have been but turned wrong,
debased. Speak up you mirrors, lie to me
Can I behold my eye? The black expanse of
Everything that slithers and crawls, in and out,
Accursed, violates my skin, sickens the healthy?

Where light, is only a shade of black, and I
sufficiently soiled by a streak of pure,
unadulterated filth, wallow in the pits of
my own eyes, black as the blood of a sow,
and strive, not for fair light, but
for a stench, unbearably delightful
For what must I, curse me, desire more
than to abhor my judgement, base and uncongenial?

And twenty thousand snakes burst forth
their tongues, entangled in my own, and their
writhing bodies, poisoned immaculately, torched
by black fire. And my feet, curse them, firm
unmoving, standing? What nerve! Burn the body!
The smoke, the stench, all mine, the heat!
What remains, burns with a hellish glow,
screams with joy, despicably melting away
into a pool of grimy essence, and I laugh
And cry and cry more and more and more.

Decision

The decision had to be made. Who would make it or even how that ‘who’ would make it seemed to be a continuing question.
Did it even matter if a decision was made or not?
The first raindrop trickled down his neck and disappeared somewhere under his shirt. Then the millions poured on him drenching him
from neck to toe. Like a soggy dog he stood in the middle of the road, arms up to the sky.

“Please”, he shouted out to the dark night that seemed to send torrents down from the some unknown hidden source high up in the sky.
“Just one! Just one”.

Bawling at the bitterness that he received from the Unseen Manipulator, he rushed on towards the moving lights, coming ever closer.

But not a single raindrop carressed his face.
Decisions cannot be made without taking a few of them on the face.

The Night of Three Dreams

I inserted my bookmark , took a quick look at the page number and laid the book next to my pillow before I switched off the lights and curled up in bed for a much needed rest. I wanted to stare at the ceiling and make sense of the day, something I have gotten used to since a few months, but that night I immediately went off into a reverie.

So, this is the night I call “The Night of the Three Dreams”.  And if ever I have seen clearer, it has only been in a meditative state. What later struck me was the clarity with which my brain played out the whole scene, and how I could recall every single detail from the colour of the shirts to the content of letters, something I barely notice in my everyday life.

While my body succumbed to the fatigue from working all day, my mind switched on and cruised onto the freeway of thoughts, eager to generate those creepy chemicals that keep you awake even while you sleep.

It was a letter in my hand. I could not see what had been written in the top half of the letter nor to whom it was addressed.  But even in dreams one does not lose the sense of knowing that permeates through one’s entire soul , and before I had read the contents of the letter , I knew who I had written it for, for I knew from the signature below that it was a letter I had written. I do not recall what my emotional state was at the time I was reading the letter, but now I can say that this very thought that it was written by my own hand, has lowered my self-worth. The contents of the letter were cheap and rather than on a piece of white clean paper that I had written them on, the words deserved some greasy soiled paper. The exact words from the letter I do not remember much, but I may be excused for this. It included a fair bit about how much I loved her and how I would even kill to be with her. Then the tone changed and I demanded she love me in return. The letter reflected the thoughts of the lowest of beings, and it was only inevitable that the end would leave me disgusted with myself. However, one can take a man out of football but never the football out of him. The last line, and this I remember distinctly, went thus – “ I will love you as much as Aguero loves scoring goals”. It would have been funny, really it ought to have been even. But the bitterness in the mouth cannot be removed by laughter alone. And I drifted off towards calmer waters for some time.

I felt his presence, but I was afraid to open my eyes lest he enter through the door and I actually see him. I could hear him even. He spoke in a garbled tongue, a language not understandable to me. But I knew he was accusing me of something, and my guilt was forcing me to keep my eyes shut. I remember not what the accusation was or even what it could have been, but it was heavy on my mind. I thought I understood who he was. I opened my eyes and turned my head around towards him, for things not inside your vision tend to be more troublesome than the ones your eyes deem as reality. He rushed towards me with lightning speed and right in from of my face he brought his face, which was now not so recognizable, and he said “ You know!”, and disappeared. I opened my eyes and right in front of my face lay “Crime and Punishment”, with my bookmark sticking out. When the mind plays tricks on you, take solace in a good read. I stumbled, half asleep, out of the bedroom and opened the book to page 204.

We were going someplace I think, as, in the dream I had not the feeling of aimlessness. Y, G and me, though my memory is muddled regarding a fourth person who might or might not have been with us, but who as is expected in dreams, appeared later on out of nowhere. So, anyways I shall assume the lack thereof of this fourth person, and we shall go on a joyride with Y and G. Y was in the driver’s seat with G beside him and me directly behind Y, who was driving notoriously rashly. We escaped dashing into the back of a truck, and I was very nervous about it. So it wasn’t a surprise really when Y put his foot down on the accelerator and unable to negotiate a turn, we went right off the flyover , flew through the air and landed on the roof of a building under construction. It was a Hollywood like accident where the car flips like a hundred times in the air and the passengers still manage to come out unhurt but for a few bruises. The thing to pay attention to here is that while in the air, I knew I was getting off unhurt, as if it was me who held the reins to the going ons. So as soon as we landed with a crash, I got out of the car, obviously unhurt.  I was wearing my favourite white and blue striped sleeved shirt and it had not a speck of dust on it. G too, remained mostly unhurt and had only a few bruises to show for all the car gymnastics. Y came of a little worse, with some injuries, visible, on his face and his light brown shirt dirtied with mud and what looked like traces of blood.

This is the part that I am unsure I will be able to do justice to in words. What followed was an exploration of my own thinking, of my psyche. And just that fact that I am describing my own dream, leaves a lot to be desired about the veracity of what follows. It is not my wish to twist the thoughts or feelings but if the innate me is a joyless tinkerer, I shall end up farther away from the reality in my dreams.

I wasn’t hurt much. My limbs were functional and except for a strangeness, and the lucidity of my experiences, or rather lack of, I was pretty much proud of my having come unhurt. What man, who is not Bruce Willis, shrugs off such accidents as mere trifles? Me. And so it stayed for some time, till rather unfashionably, the fourth person materialized out of thin air and decided that Y was in need of medical support.  With a very very unsteady hand behind the wheel, the car took off with Y and the fourth person, and before I had a chance to re gather the suddenness of this incident, G had disappeared, heaven knows where and how.

Like a man gripped by solitude, troubled by the ignorance of others in spotting  his heroics, I had turned into a man with drooping shoulders, hands limp by the sides, waiting to be shown pity for the accident, wishing fervently for a mere passerby to acknowledge the accident and throw at him a pitiful word or two.

“I must have some wounds ofcourse!”, is  what I could have been thinking if my dreams had dialogues. “ Surely I didn’t go through all this, without a compassionate end?”. I walked to a hospital, a dingy place that resembled one of those government office which are filled with records and where the workers rarely do anything but sneeze and smoke. I waited patiently ( hehe) for a doctor to arrive. If self pity had not consumed my brain, I would have reflected on my desperation, on how I truly wished for affection even if from a doctor.

I was distracted for a mere second by a madman clambering over a three storey high fence, staring me in the eye as he slipped away. And while this madman lay seize on my thoughts, a ruffian (who as would suit a dream, appeared out of nowhere) tore off my shirt sleeve revealing a stunning calligraphy of bruises and cuts. A minute later another ruffian started to tear off my shirt in anticipation of more wounds. I distinctly remember, how I had no clue of why they were doing it, and if they were the medical staff. I had a deep cut on my stomach but no pain nor blood, until I started fiddling with the cut eager to examine the damage done.

This is the part that eventually led me to start out of my sleep to find myself shivering and completely disoriented.  Blood started to flow out like a mighty river from the wound, while I unsure of what that meant for me, tried to stop this flow with my hands. With the cup formed by my hands full of blood and more eagerly pushing forward through the clean slit in my stomach, I thought of Lakshmi, of Pala and of Here and Now. It was my body, my blood and I ought to be able to stop it. My mom ( yes she too appeared suddenly out of nowhere) had a hand on my shoulder and seemed to be saying “Meditate”. Everything seemed to be saying that. I sat down crossed legged and tried on concentrate on myself, on my stomach, on my blood, to try to distribute my blood to other parts of the body. I was suddenly disturbed by the thought of death. I could clearly see the amount of blood I was losing, and without second thought I started to calculate the amount of time I had left before my body was hollow and bloodless. Panic. Panic. No more meditations. How could I dare to think I could achieve such a state when all my life has been but a lack of meditative state? Fool! I was going to die. These people around me weren’t doctors. I needed a doctor. But what if I died on the operation table? What if I died, because I had simply failed to have complete control on my body? Fool! How would it feel like to die knowing you are a weakling?

Hah!

For all the thought put behind human pshychology and the understanding of the thought process, from looking at peoples body language to probing their
brain for spike trains, in my eyes, all we have achieved is disgust. In my opinion ( and nobody really cares for it, though I feel it my duty to lay it out
from time to time), we are sitting on a pile of junk, and digging it with our own bare hands to find more junk. But the new junk somehow appears shinier,
more uncomplicated. And under this heap of layered junk, lies a bed of greasy currency notes. The notes are stitched together with tattered rags, with
frayed threads supporting the junk from falling into the chasm. We meanwhile, shit atop this heap, fearing the chasm, digging relentlessly. Some coming up
with more junk, other reaching the lowest levels and coming up trumps. With money. Well done my pointlessly, rationally-blind , self devouring and ego
feeding primates. Well done.