Disillusionist //

[disillusionist2011]

Learning From Past Presidents – Doris Kearns Goodwin

Here’s a 19 minute TED video on balancing three aspects of one’s life: work, love and play. How do you stack up against these past presidents of the US?

[disillusionist2011]

One By One

I crossed my friends’ names off the list one by one. I dragged their gray, cement bodies out of the galley. I heaved them on to the plank, then dropped them into the ocean, one by one.

The ocean didn’t care. She swallowed them whole, not bothering to check who they were. I looked on at the swirling spots where they had sunk swiftly and silently.

I sailed on.

[disillusionist2011]

Delicatessen

Real, rough humans stand behind rows of delicate pastries preserved in clear glass. They wear black and greet me warmly.

She walks in, glittering diamonds and rubies; looking befittingly posh, as must an affluent wife of Somebody.

The caramel pastry I eat is tasty; and sickeningly sweet.

[disillusionist2011]

Now

Talk.

Show that you care.

Slow down.

Know her name,

Know yourself.

Push forth and break out to space.

But break bread too, and smell the day.

The time is now.

[disillusionist2011]

Kiss

Her hair; thick and curly,

Sweet and pungent;

Her steaming nape, and moist expectation,

Between her thighs.

With bosoms bursting,

Bittersweet dripping,

We press our mouths

Releasing ourselves into the night.

[disillusionist2011]

Taxi to Uttarkashi

Ancient mounds of green earth, formed over centuries of weathering. They’re enormous.

A little path far below, zig zagging sharply down the hillside like a lightning bolt.

Contemplative silence in the car I travel in.

A little girl with clear brown eyes, a bulging plastic ‘basta’ on her head. She looks at me.

Steep slopes; each hill a crease on this earth, their summits hidden in clouds.

A little boy in a dirty blue shirt and khaki pants, sitting alone on the culvert, legs dangling. A stream gushing underneath.

The hills are coated with fuzzy grass embedded in rock.

Little patches of 'dhania' and cabbage planted near the road. Five children on a bend, each brandishing a vegetable in hand and shouting: “kaddu lelo, kheera lelo, gobi lelo!”

The valley, suddenly shrouded in mist.

[disillusionist2011]

Shatabadi to Dehradun.

Heads of passangers above a line of pale green seats in a near-empty compartment.

A “Pehla Nasha” ringtone keeps playing frequently. The phone’s owner – a young businessman keeps cutting the call.

I finally understand what Haridwar means after reading the name on the yellow station sign board.

Tall trees, green thicket underneath, separating me from the Rishikesh road that runs parallel to our tracks.

Piles of chopped wood, some old, some new, scattered about on a field behind a station.

[disillusionist2011]

Auto Rickshaw Ride to Tara Apts.

A skinny man on a dusty moped wearing chunky suede Catterpillars. Heat emanating from hundreds of vehicles stuck in afternoon traffic. Hot blast of air. Grey smog hiding everything beyond a few kilometers from sight. I.m happy to be hungry on time, at 1:15 pm.

Car reflections streaking across the hazy fibreglass screen on the divider. A small, colourful, glossy sign that reads “I Heart Austria,” behind an Innova. A truck driver clenching his jaw, face full of sweat.

[disillusionist2011]

Katihar to Naugachia

At Katihar, a Bihari uncle and aunty join me in my cabin. After tea and a brief conversation we all get back into our phones.

Outside, it’s fresh after some rain. The sky is the palest shade of pink. At a railway crossing, old village men sit by the roadside, waiting for us to cross them.

I wonder if my unsettled stomach is just another manifestation of anxiety.

Our coach, the last in line, lurches everytime we speed up or slow down.

At Naugachia station, a charcoal black woman wearing a flouroscent green sari and elaborate silver jewellery walks nimbly on the railway track, smiling and laughing to herself.

[disillusionist2011]

Glimpses From The Train

The breeze, rippling through paddy fields, making vibrant green waves.

A black t-shirt pinned to a bamboo post, a proxy-scarecrow, swivelling in the breeze.

Giant anthropomorphic towers, lines of them, with bizzare hands clutching electric cables.

A memory of her and Pictionary. She hugged me before I left.

The muffled clanks of iron wheels creating an aggressive, random pattern.

On the table, ever-emanating concentric circles in my plastic bottle.

[disillusionist2011]

Meditation set to be a default exercise like working out and brushing teeth.

[disillusionist2011]

Brahmaputra

The river really is wide. Far below, on the bank, I see little people packed onto a steamboat. An old man in a green gamusa looks to the south and prays, his palms joined in a pranam. The sun reflects in four different places in the river, dazzling my eyes.

[disillusionist2011]

Going Back Home

In the coffee shop a young marwari couple were relaxed and easy in each other’s company. I suppose that’s what we’re all looking for. Outside, it drizzled lightly, leaves swayed almost imperceptibly. We disagreed about many things. My walls were up and she grew frustrated because she couldn’t penetrate them. I couldn’t get through to her either. In the car now, the moog plays out an ancient tune.

[disillusionist2011]

Drive to Ghy 02

The crisp sound of rainfall on the windshield. Lines of wet rust under an old maruti van's number-plate. A wobbling cyclist, black umbrella unfurled, pocket full of paper rolls, threatening to fall before us. The click of the device under the driver’s seat that controls the wiper sensors. A message from didi asking why i’m sad. Brown river water. A jaapi donning boatsman looking on as workers shovel sand into his boat.

[disillusionist2011]

Drive to Ghy

A boy fiddling with his bamboo borshi, it’s float dangling. Green fields, fresh and full of life. Slanting raindrops as we speed through the highway. Truck wheels shrouded in mist. Fresh air in my lungs. Schoolboy taking off silver raincoat as the rain stops abruptly. Alternating between rainy patches — two dry and two wet within the distance of 1 km.

[disillusionist2011]

A brilliant letter about love from John Steinbeck to his son.

[disillusionist2011]

22:17

The ceiling fan drones on. Crickets continue to crick outside — one nearby, the others far away. Two fireflies blink in and out of existence, tracing a random pattern across the darkness. All is quiet at 22:17. I remind myself to not be afraid, to reveal myself to her.