An Encounter

I was losing the fight.
She was a formidable adversary, her physical prowess matched by a razor-sharp intellect and an intimidating presence. We sparred with verve and vigour, new players playing an old game. She foresaw almost every move of mine- every calculated feint, every jaded step. I could almost step out of myself and see how predictable I was. But it was not entirely one-sided. Fleetingly, I would detect indecision in her body language, uncertainty in her eyes, the occasional cliché in her moves. I could sense that I had on my side one weapon, and one weapon only.
If only I knew what it was.

Her grip was surprisingly strong, her attacks ferocious. We tumbled to the ground- grunting like warriors now, then silent like chess players. Locked together like lovers, eyes burning through each other, both strong...but one surer than the other. Through the exhiliration, and despite the faith without which this battle would have been over long ago, I knew I was a lost cause. Every time I was pressed down, paralysed by her skill and her eyes, I would kick her. Sometimes it seemed like she would roll away just so she could overwhelm me again. Yet after every kick, I wouldn't, couldnt, turn tail and scamper away. I wanted to clash again though it was obvious I ought not to have.

We grappled, as much as with each other’s minds as our limbs. Both minds were in the same playing field, but looked on it differently. I knew it was merely a game, but sometimes my head took it way beyond. I knew that to get the advantage I had to treat it with almost juvenile frivolity, I had to fool my body into thinking this was easy, even inconsequential. Then my mind would be freed, not weighed down by expectation. In that freedom lay my escape, in the lack of hope lay my hope.

previously on Vague Wonder & The Princess of Trouble

Vague Wonder & The Princess of Trouble

When I woke it was raining. I half-opened my eyes and sensed a vague but insistent downpour. It fell upon the trees outside with a gentle, even loving, force. I lay there with my body still, my mind wading through a crush of burning love. Lashing out at me from the recesses of a fickle heart, caressing despite a violent force- keeping me from sleep and keeping me from waking. I was slowly lulled by a dark spell, embracing me in its thrilling folds, pushing me into a dreamy sleep.

Thunder rumbled. Had it been a few moments, or an hour? The rain was relentless. That dark place had not let go of me. Even now, I stood at its threshold- looking out from within, as if I might fall out. Fall out into a light that hurt my eyes. But I wanted to go back to that pitch black, where I couldn't see myself. To slip back into that ill-advised enchantment. I turned from one to the other, standing on that precipice, but I couldn't tell if the abyss lay before me or behind me. It didn't matter, the choice was not mine.

The constant pitter-patter was a rough lullaby, but the cackling bursts and their hideous beauty kept me awake. I could see her beckoning visage, but I didn't know if she was in the flashes of light outside, or in the soft darkness beside me. I didn't know if she was calling out to me plaintively from the shadows, or softly whispering from the blinding glare. Were her pleas real, or her demands?
Was the rain still falling, or was I dreaming again? I tossed and turned between light and dark; seeing her first in one, then the other. Did I sleep, or am I still trying to? Can I wake, or am I just going to drift away?

I am awake, the rain has stopped. The storm has passed, but the grey remains. The spell still hovers, I am still groggy, she awaits in the shadows.
It is a new day, but nothing has changed, really.

The Good Man

"I want to be the good man", he said.
"I want to be the true man, who did what he ought to have. I see before me the path of the righteous and I wish to take it, though I am no 'religious' man. I wish to walk on it with unshakeable will in the face of overpowering temptation. "
"For someone who just claimed not to be, your words sure point to a religious nature", I told him.
"That lies in your narrow perception, not my fear of the divine", he snapped back.

"I feel like I stand at an abyss, a churning chasm of moral turpitude beckons me. My instinct baulks at such social judgement, for I don't see the black of 'wrong acts' in the deep; I embracingly believe in the grey in life. But that is only part of me. Its the part that would quietly and recklessly take that step forward and plunge in."

The ice clinked in the whisky as he raised it to his lips.

"But there is another part of me. Yes, another part that looks about him before that fateful step. And what does he see? He sees the hesitant minds and bodies that stand beside him. He looks deep into eyes that are overwhelmed with the alluring depths. He knows he will drag them with him- not kicking and screaming, no. Of their own free will, even. Neither they nor he will bother with the clamouring voices in an imaginary world, screaming vile judgement. But he knows what they will find- together and alone, or just together . A murky and fearsome darkness awaits, with tingling nerves to be followed inevitably by....by...".

He turned to me- searching, desperate. I felt a lump in my throat; his helplessness was palpable, his struggle intense.

Then, a sudden and unexpected finality, and an overwhelming sense of defeat. "I wish only to be noble", he grandly sighed.

Vagabond

His feet ache. They are heavy, weary from inaction. His mind tires, reeling from the stimulation that comes from prospects, and possibilities. His feet itch to tire of walking, his mind yearns for the energy of reality. He reaches out, for he knows not how possible these endless possibilities are. He slumps in the chair, tired from the dreams and questions and unknown paths.
Yet, he is wistful and happy.

future fragment- beginnings

Sometime 56 years from now, humans have indisputable evidence of life away from our planet. Stripped of scientific jargon and highly technical data, the implications of the findings are plain and simple- life exists elsewhere. Yet, they have not found us, and we- while having stumbled on their distant, almost unreal, but assured existence- have not found them. Suddenly alien life forms are not super-evolved, super-intelligent. For years, it has been presumed that extra terrestrial beings are highly advanced, with technological prowess far beyond our own. This is based on the premise that they find us, interact with us, monitor us. But since they haven’t, they need only be as advanced or primitive as us.

But this is changing our world like nothing before it. Every aspect of our lives is shaken by a discovery that negates the bases of almost everything except the SETI program. Science and technology suddenly seem the most prepared for this. They are still reeling from the possibilities this offers, but are smiling as they do. Economies are in a tizzy, religions are desperately finding ways to steady a violently rocking boat, philosophers are reworking their outlook on almost everything, children are asking the same questions their parents are grappling with.

write to be

I am old and battered and bruised. I have here in front of me a letter from 30 years ago. It is an honest letter. Anguished and unfulfilled; looking ahead to life. A future that wasn’t to be even then, and wouldn’t be ever since. The letter tries, earnestly, to explain to me how plans were fizzling; in fact, how the agenda was increasingly blank. And being without hope or agenda- for love, or life- is beautifully, romantically tragic, but in the end, still tragic.

I hold that letter, I know why I wrote it to myself all those years ago. I understand what I was trying to do, but I know now like I knew then- the emptiness never goes away, it only swings between possibility and reality, future and present. It could come some day, or be right now, but emptiness will always be the same- unfulfilled, unknown, hollow.

journeying, a fragment

Its early morning. Too early for light, not early enough to feel like night. My fingers chafe against the straps, before I decide to hoick the bag onto my back, over the overcoat. My head is cold, my skin feels dry already. I hunch a little as I walk- to ease the burden, and also from the way the body tenses in the cold. Next to me, she pulls the woolly cap tighter over her head, notices me noticing it, and smiles. I smile back. Then I grin, and look ahead to the bus station we are approaching. I can feel the thrill running through both of us. We are on the move again.

formula

The lift smelt a bit like that blood red perfume from Tommy Girl, mixed with an oddly tasty whiff of feminine perspiration; the remains of a hard day fused with the promise of a heavy night.
I decided it came from the tall girl in the white peasant top. Her hair fell on her bare shoulders just so, their soft touch oozing freshness despite where and when she was- in an office lift, at 8pm on a Monday. She was my ‘type’, I perceived (whatever that might mean, and anyway I wasn’t interested). Pretty, but ‘regular’, something confident and middle-class about her. Something assured and witty.

The lift pinged to a stop at ‘G’. I’d be going to B1. She paused, graciously smiling at the elderly accountant from my office as he moved out. Then she made to leave, gathering her red skirt around her. I could smell her as she swept past me, my nose and mind reeling at the surprising, harsh, repulsive odour of sweat.

I gasped discreetly as the doors shut behind her and on me. I smiled politely at the bespectacled, plump girl in an embroidered top, standing to my left. It was just her and me now, and the still invigorating smell of sweat and Tommy Girl.

the desert of the real

“Where have I come”, he thinks, as laughter tries not to choke on what wells inside.
What is this place- at once mine, and alien? What is this I smell, is it home or exile? I can touch the warmth, but feel the harsh heat.
He steps cautiously, looking around, looking at everyone.
Is this compatriot or foe? Is he visionary, delusionary, illusionary? What are these voices, that shout out over the music ; this din that tries to drown those thumping, familiar, happy beats?
He whirls, furtive eyes grappling with an unsettled mind. He listens, comprehends. But he cannot understand.

What is this belief, how is this belief? Is it all I see that does this, or is it my eyes?
He feels the arms, their tight grip. They don’t know him, but they reach out to him. Stopping, objecting, holding, demanding.
Where has this desire to control come from? Or has it merely been waiting to strike? Who are these people?
He turns to them, reason in his eyes. They laugh cruelly, their understanding locked away by time and delusion. He speaks and explains and argues with them. But they have already turned away, and even he can barely hear himself now.
Where have I come? What is this place? What is happening to it? Or was it always thus, am I the sleeper? What am I supposed to think?

* * *
Disorientation, disbelief and frustration- just a few links:
marriage offers, Devoutly disobedient, Cultural attack, Noodle straps, Man beats wife for dressing like man, adultery, watch, don't watch, karachi sweets, pub culture tv debate, muslim girl’s tattoo, Bangalore pubs, Delhi/soumya, UP labourer in the train, the idea of indignation,

two days

One day he woke up, and the soft sunlight caressed his mind and body, coaxing a smile and guiding him to a happy day. A picnic in a park, dogs and frisbees and dahi vadas. Family. He noticed the country’s day after their own. Gifts that never could be. He looked on it all gently, wistfully, not sadly, but with a touch of the blues.

Then, in the blink of an eye he woke up again. The sunlight and the gentleness remained, but it was a day for possibilities that never came to be, for knowing him who he never did, for loving him who he could have done, so much more. It was a day of endings, beginning and questions on futility and acceptance. He held close the belief of celebrating the day, but struggled with the reality of melancholy.

He sighed, letting the two days blend into one. He looked up, reached out.

written on/for Jan 26

awaited

Blink.
The tear dropped. The throat choked. The fists clenched. Unclenched. Loosened in release. Sweat. Sticky sweat. Purposeful sweat. Finished sweat.
Plop. A cleansing, salty eye-drop. Messy yet pristine.
Over, the purpose was lost. Consumed in a rush of despair, a frenzy of hope, of mottled joy. Realisation of achievement, and disappointment..
Sachin was back.

Away

“Sleepy?”
“You were feeling sleepy? How could you be sleepy just after your bike had been smashed, with you on it? Were you hit on the head?”
Anoo had shaken her head helplessly as he had struggled to push away the thought that it had all been one weird dream. It had not, and the throbbing in his leg and the plaster on his temple would not let believe it could have been. By afternoon he had started to feel exhausted and disoriented, and even stealing glances at Anoo’s green tresses were not comforting. Yet, even then, Anion had known he would go. That was 2 days ago.

He had been stubborn. Very stubborn. Think the mule, and the mule’s grandfather.
He was till limping, but he did not care one bit. He had fought for this. Actually he had fought for this twice.

First, many weeks ago, he had told his boss that he wanted a few days off in May. It’s too early to decide, he’d been told. “Precisely”, had been Anion’s reply, “I am telling you now before it is too late for you to adjust stuff around” (so there)
Lots of pointless back and forth later, they had agreed on 5, not 8, days, but Anion had not been convinced the trip would happen.

Then Torios (aka the red headed goddess) had loved his flowingly beautiful blue creation, and he knew then that the hills awaited, without doubt. Until, that is, the accident- his bike was smashed apart and his body hurt in appropriately dramatic fashion, he was in bed for two days, and in a train on the third. If he wouldn’t ride to the hills, he would chug along. But he would go. He had to.

Now the brown plains stretched out before him as the cool a/c compartment let him sit back and look outside. All a/c compartments have dark film over the windows, and it was something that had always been a little unsettling for him. The film on his window had been ripped out- now there were only streaks of shading on the sides of the glass. An unhindered view. A potentially unhindered journey, as both berths across from him were unoccupied. A longish journey. He had a full 14 hours of rushing landscape and solitude to look forward to.

awake

He started thinking about that dark car with its darker windows looking out at him meaninglessly ,as he had struggled to focus his eyes on them. Then the front door had opened, a leather shoe had begun to step out. A white sleeved hand had appeared, from inside, yanked the boot owner’s body back in. The engine was gunned, but the car still, as if waiting. Then Anion had dropped his head, unable to look on anymore. If he had, he would have seen the car rev as his head dropped, and leave noiselessly, un-dramatically into the inky darkness.

When he finally rose, as if from slumber, he found himself not as seriously injured as he had felt. He could stand, he could see, he could even walk.
So he had walked. All the ten steps to his bike. His half bike, half mangled metal. Dragging it to the side of the road, noticing on the way the pieces of his dark green cellphone. There was, he realized(though we already know this), only inky blackness around him. A distant streetlight was a beacon of normalcy. After walking for 10minutes like that, his foot dragging and the occasional drop of blood missing his soaked shirt and plopping on the road, he did not care. He actually just wanted to slowly lower his body down and go to sleep. He was not delirious, not in terrible pain, not really in shock. He was just really sleepy.

He had slept, then, in his own bed. For 11 hours straight. That was till a couple of hours ago. He had finally awoken when he heard his door being banged on. He could hear Anoo’s frantic voice behind it.

That night

Ugh.
Finally he felt like something was happening in his life. It wasn't exactly the thought you'd expect him to have in this situation- ablood trickling down the side of his temple and his leg dragging reluctantly behind the rest of him. No, it wasn't, but heck, it was different. It was also a miserable reflection of what his life was like, or what his mind was like; that he recognised this absurdity with some relish. At the very least, though, it took his mind off what had just happened.

These would have been his thoughts, had he let them surface to the...well, surface:

There is something positively unsettling, especially in hindsight, about how everything seems to happen in slow motion when you are astride a 180cc motorbike and you see a 1600cc luxury sedan speeding towards you. You look on helplessly, inevitably, knowingly, numbly. Then you somehow miss the best part, the climax, when the (by now behemoth-ish) car, it's tyres screeching redundantly, comes careening into you. You miss the actual impact, the Hollywood effect thingy probably happens, and you have an indistinct impression of the bike blowing out from under your legs. Then the slow motion is back as the road first goes far away, and then, as gravity does its thing, you head back toward the white stripe. Distant headlights remind you that getting back on the ground might not be the best thing.
but then you dont havB a choice.

Anion had hit the ground and then realised his body had prepared for the fall-knees curling up like a baby, body twisting wildly to avoid a direct impact. Then there was nothing, briefly. He did not pass out, but there were few moments that were definitely missing from his timeline. When they were over, he saw stars first. No, real stars. It was 3am, and he had a vague idea that the sedan had stopped about 50 metres ahead, engine still running, as if poised to disappear. It's dark windows revealed nothing.

call to nothing

‘twas another day. In a way penned distinctly. The allure of language beckoned him in just that- an “alluring,”, “beckoning” sort of way. Whence it came he wouldn’t know- thus did he feel, but it seemed dynamically archaic, if that was fathomable. (or was it archaically dynamic)

A different day, this one. The air smelt different, the walk felt different. No, he could smell the air today, feel the walkway…that, was the difference. But it was not sweeping, this change. Rather, it felt incremental. And then that word conjured up disappointment.

For he often felt these incremental changes, prodding him gingerly on certain days of comfortable sun and bouncy feet. Their suggestions seemed energizing, their possibilities infinite, their promise immense. Yet.

Yet they merely nudged his brain, gently tapped the shoulder of his mind; and after the initial reaction, the instinctive surprise, the spontaneous excitement, his mind would slip. It would loosen the grip, or the grip on it would be loosened. It would stray from its new encouragement, give in to its ineptitude. It would let go of its inspiration, and sigh inevitably.

What was it, again, that beckoned him so?
It was just another day, Anion thought.

Anion II

Anion had been wrong. Not that he cared. His creation the other day had been well received, by those had received it well. The rest (though very few) had tittered and tried their best to wiggle their heads discreetly. But when the ugly red haired goddess had said "niiice", Anion had switched off his ears. They did not need to hear anything else.

Today, though, the liquid hardly looked inspiring even to him. It didn’t matter, he had other things to worry about. He was, in fact, a little disturbed. There had been this moment in the meeting this morning when he had sat, palms together, chin on hands, eyes glazing over at the glow of a presentation on the wall. When would they understand that creative souls like his could, did not, would not care for the graphs? But at the time he was not thinking of it. In fact, he was trying to appreciate what was being displayed. Only after a few minutes did he realize that that something was tickling the back of his hand. But his gaze remained unaverted, till he felt a small plop by his elbow.

He had dribbled, in a slow undisgusting trickle down his chin and onto his palm, plopping onto the wood by his elbow. Surely he needed to focus on this. Life- no, a dribble was more crucial than mere presentations, and certainly an undetected dribble was worth pondering over.

Anion - I

Inspirationally blue, the viscous liquid flowed in an assured line into the tall glass. It was poured with trepidation, yet not a little expectation. The sparkle and the stars were more visible when the liquid actually splashed into the glass. Blue shapelessly met dark transparency and shining smithereens flew around. The liquid itself was thick and opaque, but its splattered parts glinted in the tungsten light like clear liquid would.

Anion sighed as he rose form the chair. He could not deny the aesthetic appeal of his own creation looping itself on the monitor in front of him. He could however, deny he had been given a clear brief. For beautiful though the animation was, it did not, somehow, quite seem to meet “a combination of liquid and crystal shining like the brightness of day and inspiring emotions of purity and grandeur”Nope. Not quite pure or grand. In fact, not quite emotive either. Somehow inspirational, Anion thought, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he would be the only one to think so.