A nanosecond in the life of a mind

It’s a crowded railway station. Shoulders rub against and bruise my own. How smelly. Puke. Footsteps are carefully choreographed. Tock, tock, tock. People run towards wrong trains. Tick, tick, tick. Before I digress, I must tell you about that time when I was playing tennis and a nasty boy kept tossing balls at my bottom. Oh my god, arthritic woman, you’re missing the train. Run! You’re going to be late for your exam. Have I packed my pens- black and blue- and my ruler? Frick, frick, frick- who was the ruler of Greece in 496 BC? You’ve missed the train. Go back home. You can’t come late for exams, admonishes a severe teacher. I beg, I cry… please let me attend! I haven’t attended a single grandparent’s funeral. Stupid, unlucky heap of muck, I am. Pigs feed on muck. And I feed on pigs. Oh my, wouldn’t it be nice to have a hearty steak now. Medium-rare, waiter. And you, friend? Will you have a mug of beer to wash down your fries? Stupid boy, stop aiming tennis balls at my bottom. What is your problem? But you do have such a cute smile. He’s so cute, I bleat. My friend agrees. We’re walking around a park. We’re supposed to be running. YOU’RE MISSING THE NEXT TRAIN TOO, HAG! You are making me very nervous. I need to be at the exam hall an hour before the exam begins. The driver is late. Hyperventilation. Hey you, good looking man, you’re stuck in my head. And I’m stuck in a moment. That walks of yours is driving me nuts. Don’t smile- doesn’t suit you. Try to get lost, please. Just two more hours and I have to get ready for work. I am going to feel so sleepy all day. Oh god, oh god. I look like a wet sock. And that pimple. I look so disgusting. I should run away to a mountain forest and begin farming. Waterfalls, fresh air, red-nosed, alone. Echoes. A fresh start. But, who will cook? So depressing. I’ll have to cook and farm? The waterfall sounds so nice. I wish I could stand under it and will it to cleave my body. One half for the kitchen, the other for the farm. Salt and pepper is the colour of your hair. Take me to your lair. Do you dare? Do you not care? Please be fair. We’d make a fine pair. Okay, okay, I’ll stop my poetry, whole. Yoinksss, all that poetry that was written for me. Eyes like a cooking pan, words in Tamil I can’t understan’. I am a black hole- mysterious and bearing powers of suction, you said. So sweet, so lame. You, yes you man of salt and pepper. You’re still here, I see. Why won’t you sod off? My best friend is this close to disowning me.  Sigh, she’s been there through all my self-inflicted nonsense. The sound of the departing train is killing me. My mother almost fell in that stinky gap between the train and the platform. Angels in white saved her, she insisted. Angels in the outfield. Such a nice movie. Flap, flap. Just like that Hindi song in that bromance movie. Flap, flap- retro style. Remember when we went for one of those school culturals and everyone started flapping when the song played? I had no clue what on earth they were doing. I was so uncool. Am uncool. Always the mouse. Mysterious mouse, I give myself that. I would donate myself to a lab. As long as I have my daily fix of methanol. Swig, high, drunk, dead. Oye, salt and pepper, come back, come back. I almost forgot about you. But you look positively delectable today. Just don’t smile, please. Stay stern and middle-aged. And do that walk. I can watch you do that manly sway all day. Hey, hey, here’s an ode to you. Type, type, type. And the poem is done! Just one more hour before it’s get-ready-for-office time. I will get back home early today and sleep. I will drink cough syrup. No, cough syrup is terrible for my skin. Beer is good. My steak is better. The lard is melting in my mouth. I might die of contentment this very moment. Swig. Hmmm, then what else? How’s it going with your lady? I have no boy scene. Blah. I don’t know why. Haven’t found Him. I haven’t visited my friend and her baby after the little dude’s delivery date. Should go, should go. Prioritise, Anu! I must visit the aunts too. I worry for them. So old, so frail, so insulated. And dear father. Sigh. I am so selfish. That’s hardly breaking news. I should run away to a mountain and farm. What kind of stuff grows on mountains, anyway? Tea? What else? I need to get away. Jeeeezus, airfare discount. Let us book tickets and go to Osaka. Flights. I won't sleep. Budget airlines and cramped seats. Malaysia Airlines. I am not scared. Whatevs. Dying is not the end of the world. Oh, hi. You like me? I like you too? You’re not really my type. But I like you. Salt and pepper. Salt and pepper… fades to grey. You want to give it a shot? Sure! Yayy. Let’s talk some more. I spoke like an idiot and ruined it. Good lord, I am hopeless. Salvation is never to be mine. Come back! One more shot? I look so disgusting. Eeeksarama. Anush Jal is a brand of water, did you know? I was named after my star but then they found out… oh you’ve heard that story a million times. Some more mash please, waiter. It’s terrible but I need it to finish off the remaining steak sauce. Slurp. I’m going to become so enormous. I want to be imprisoned in my room. With my books and music. That’s all I want. Sigh. Life is so unfair. I AM SUCH A WASTE OF SPACE. What am I doing with my life? My career? I will never live up to my potential. There’s still hope. I might die at 28. A year more and a few months. Over, gone and out. You’ve missed the train. Goddamn you.

A land of salt and pepper

In a land of salt and pepper

Resides the interloper

In a castle of middle-aged stone

Alone

She collects the master’s footsteps

Plucking them from the air with red forceps

She stores them in crystal drops that hang at her ear

The next best thing to him being near

The careless looks he tosses in her direction

Are captured in a moment of reflection

She stores them in a gilt mirror, against her eyes

The look of her savior in disguise

He passes by in a light cloud of cologne

She inhales deeply and makes the perfume her own

Stores it in a tiny stone that decorates her nose

The grand allowance of olfactory prose

Sometimes his elbows brush past her skin when he’s in a hurry

She commits the gossamer path they tread to memory

Stores them on a map, spread across her forehead

Traces them every night in bed

All that is left for her to do is steal a kiss

For the sense of taste is yet amiss

If she is to be from her crucifix unhung

She must have a piece of him against her tongue

Bye, Paco

By some crazy design of the universe, I fell in love with the song at a time when I stood quivering, shivering in the middle of two magnificent bottles of hypnotic tonic water. Entre Dos Aguas loosely translates to the same thing… between two rivers. I had heard the fading notes of the song at someplace insignificant and knew instantly that I wanted to make it mine.

The opening bass line of the song was an enchanted door that landed me in a sunny Mediterranean street. The beats that followed… they seated me on a comfortable stone by a broken fountain. Then the strums came. They unseated me expressly. I was transformed into a real woman of the earth- not the cold sculpture my soul calls home in reality. I was dressed in a vibrant, many-layered skirt. A voluptuous string of carnations lay serpentine in my hair. My face was suitably accessorised with pent-up emotion. I had my dancing shoes on- they would act as a leathern stylo through which I’d relate my story- and I was ready to present my case. Words have only ever failed me. But dance…

Is it possible to talk by dancing? And yet I dare swear that's how the gods and devils must talk to one another. The famous line by the manic, magnificent Zorba comes to mind.

So, I shut my eyes and let the tunes touch my skin. Like a balm, they slowly entered my blood stream, veneering my conscious with mystic myrrh. I cleared my throat and broke into a slow canter, covering all corners of the crowded plaza, appealing to anyone who would listen to my tale of confusion. Give me answers, I mumbled, ‘a solution!’ I flexed my fingers into symbols of deep grief, all the while executing simple pasos of pathos with my possessed limbs. My voluminous skirt flounced about as if trying to rid itself of an invisible resident evil.

And then came a point when I could no longer take the callousness of my audience. So, aided by the progressive aggression of the suddenly-rogue sonata, I became more vocal. I stamped my foot till my knees hurt, beat my chest till it turned red, reached for the Gods till my hands protested, twisted my hips till they impinged upon every surface of  indifference. Jumping, shuffling, slithering, shimmying, gyrating, waltzing with the twangs, the slides… My voice exploded in a moment of hoarse lucidity. This was ecstasy. I kept at it till the tune tapered off into nothingness. Exhaustion. Bliss. Lucidity. I would pick neither tonic, I decided. I would find my way forward in between the two rivers.

Some days ago, the wizard behind the song- Paco de Lucia- died. His heart stopped. Just like that. I remember watching a live concert video of the legendary flamenco institution, as he played alongside two other guitar greats- John Mc Laughlin and Ai Di Meola. The three of them, each equipped with a piece of wood and a few strings- were in the midst of building heavenly castles in the air. McLaughlin smiled, rapture oozing from every pore of his body. Di Meola nearly laughed with delight. But, de Lucia… he didn’t smile, he didn’t even move that much. He sat cross-legged on a stool- his trademark position- brewing distilled magic. As if it were the simplest of procedures. So, while his fingers struck great stories upon those strings, the master himself stoically refused to read his letters of rapture. He would not sip on his own magic brew, it seemed.

No wonder; his heart must’ve simply imploded with all the contained emotion.

Goodbye, Paco. Dethrone all those lyre-bearing angels in heaven and show them how it’s done.