Showing posts with label conversations with the inanimate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conversations with the inanimate. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Dusting the past

“Did you know that cleanliness is next to godliness?” it asked him, hoping to strike a conversation. It knew that the task ahead was arduous and lonely, and the human mind often needs indulgences to accomplish such things. 

He was perhaps absorbed in his own thoughts and didn’t need small talk to get through this. He replied half-heartedly: “Not really. Who told you that?”

It tried again, this time with apparent erudition: “I just hear it a lot. If you think about it, the company you keep matters. It’s the same way with your habitation, the objects you surround yourself with, and how you treat them. A cluttered environment is a sign of a befuddled mind, while an unkempt environment is a sign of a vacuous mind. Surround yourself with beauty and aesthetics that speak to you, and you have the power to anchor yourself to the rhythm of the universe. That’s as close to the idea of God as one can get to.”

He wasn’t used to deference in the face of such commentary which he considered as opinions garbed as wisdom. He retorted with a completely off-the-track remark: “Quite wise. And where do you fit in that description? The last I called you from amidst the objects I surround myself with, you were hanging behind the washing machine in the rear balcony.”

It knew that a nerve was somewhere touched, and replied patiently: “Well, the last time you dusted the bottom shelf of your bookshelf, you read the forgotten tiny note she wrote for you on the inside cover of that red book and cried a little. Those are the moments when the universe speaks to you, and you get stronger.”

He was exasperated: “I wish I had a Roomba instead of these damn dusters that can’t keep their trap shut.”


Sunday, April 05, 2020

The tempo

“Hey, you got a minute?” she called out to him. Her voice seemed raspy from days of non-stop counting, as if they were spent measuring each second and each minute for which the earth had been breathing.

He looked around with mild curiosity: “That’s ironic, coming from you.”

“Well, sometimes I can be like that. So anyway, when was the last time you thought I added value to your life?” she settled straight on her question. She gave the appearance of someone who wasn’t used to small talk and pleasantries, and might even look upon such indulgences as being extravagant with one’s time.

He wasn’t sure of what to say, and stuttered in his diffidence: “I don’t know. I think you are pretty. Everyone thinks so as well.”

She refused to help him out with his apparent discomfort and continued with her drill: “You know that my existence isn’t defined by how pretty I look, right? I am expected to serve a larger purpose.”

“Yeah, I know. But hey, the world is different. Our lives look nothing like how they used to, just fifteen years ago. Things change!” He tried being cheerful, evidently in vain.

At this point, her eyebrows went up and it seemed for a second that she might be impatient. But if there was one thing she epitomized, it was patience: “You realize that you are talking to me about time, don’t you? Don’t tell me that the world has changed and is constantly changing. You are scared to acknowledge that you only have a finite time to live on this planet. You are frightened when thinking about how many years it has already been since you took your first breath and what is it that you accomplished during all that time. You live a dichotomous life of constant trepidation about the future, and a baffling temerity about the present. Think about my purpose in your life, instead of whiling your days away.”

He gave up: “You know what, it’s a bit warm today and the air-conditioner’s remote isn’t working. I will just take out your battery and put it in the remote. These days, I need nine hours of good sleep. Of course you know that.” With that, he took the wall-clock off the nail it was hanging on, and pulled the battery out. Her tick-tock of a heartbeat died instantly.


Saturday, April 04, 2020

Five senses

“Do you have feelings?” she asked.

He was a bit perplexed with this seemingly innocuous question: “What do you mean? Everybody has feelings.”

“I mean, do you ever pause, reflect inwards, and try to recognize how you are feeling?” she explained her question and converted it into a leading one, perhaps sensing that she already had her answer.

“I still don’t get it,” he stood awkwardly, bewildered.

She began her erudite response: “You see, this is what social conditioning does to you. Your culture never prepared you to answer the simple question: how am I feeling today? In all these years, you could never develop the faculties that can parse the happy moments from the deluge of mindless ones, until someone else validates them for you. You cannot tell you are feeling like shit, until your body revolts and makes you restless. You never learnt paying attention to yourself and communicating with your soul.”

He fumbled for a befitting response, but the best he could come up with was a counter-question: “Do you feel?”

“You might not have paid attention. But I know when I am too cold, or too hot. My heart feels deep blue in peace, amber in distress, and the color of the forest in joy. I know when I am the elixir, and I know when I am the toxin. I bubble, I swirl, I rise, and I fall; I breathe life, and I am life. I am the wave of the poet’s finest imagination as well as of the sailor’s worst nightmare. I am the…”

“Thanks for giving me a headache,” he interrupted her flow by turning off the faucet of the water purifier. “I will now pour you in a tray, keep it in the deep freezer, and use you this evening to fix my drink. That's what I feel like.”


Friday, April 03, 2020

What a wonderful world

He looked out to the street swelling with pride. Spring was in the air, rains from the day before could still be felt on the skin, and the birds were singing with joy. The streets themselves were covered with foliage: tuscany and crimson and jade and every other color from the palette. The entire creation seemed to celebrate with boundless joy.

“You know what they say? That when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it,” he satisfactorily made the solemn observation to his neighbor.

“Never heard of that! What does it even mean?” The dinky neighbor half-heartedly responded to the seemingly useless philosophical musing of her counterpart while regurgitating on what appeared to look less like food and more like compost.

“Did you ever imagine this day? Blue skies, clean air, no noise, other than those of the universe itself. When the wind blows, it’s like you can hear the earth turning! I dreamt of this for such a long time!” He seemed to be lost in a form of exhilaration unbeknownst to the entire human species.

“Yeah, whatever. I think this is just a pretty background for the desktop wallpaper.” His neighbor curtly expressed herself, hoping to end this conversation and regurgitate at peace.

“You have no soul, just thorns,” he pronounced in a deep voice, almost sighing at this conclusion.

His neighbor stopped chewing. After a brief pause, as if waiting to choose the right words, she delivered the final blow: “And you are just a bougainvillea. At least us, the roses, will be found in the centerfold of books five years from now and be loved even in our afterlives.”


Thursday, April 02, 2020

Mindfulness

While the whole world was silent, there was a whirring noise coming from a nondescript corner of the reticent house. All one could see of the house from outside was the scabrous plaster coming off at places, with the faint yellow paint sticking out like dried leaves holding on to the stems for a few brief moments before getting lost into the oblivion. The noise seemed to disturb the tranquility of the street dogs, already attuned to the silence of the times.

“You know that we are critical in ensuring that the world continues to function with sanity, right?” the voice called out to him.

His mind was absorbed in a maelstrom of thoughts ranging from the stock of vegetables in the refrigerator, the piling dishes, the temperature of the last shower, and the background needed for the upcoming video call. He decided to ignore the voice, after judging it to be someone’s self-righteous proclamation he didn’t want to indulge in.

But the voice persisted: “The first problem with your generation is that you do not appreciate the magical world you live in. Anyone who walked this same planet just half a century ago will be thoroughly nonplussed at your privilege. Just look at us for that matter, we clean all your dirt without as much as a whimper, and you fail to acknowledge even our existence.”

He was far from being flummoxed despite the obvious provocation.

The voice intensified its accusations: “The second problem with your generation is that you are never in the present. Look at us fastidious old timers. We focus on the task at hand and enjoy it all the same, instead of thinking about what’s happening elsewhere or about the past or the future all the time.”

He calmly listened to all this, waited for the customary three beeps, and added with a perfunctory smile: “You can’t even clean lipstick marks from the shirt. You need to be more in the present.” 

He then turned the washing machine off, and the voice went dead.


Wednesday, April 01, 2020

Wisdom

“You need to take a shower,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I had my shower in the morning, and you don’t need to remind me about tomorrow already. Just sit still for at least the next hour and stop complaining. I am not going to bother you for an entire hour and will go watch my movie instead.” His unwanted belligerence hinted at his annoyance over other matters, perhaps spilling over to her.

She kept her cool and continued nonchalantly: “Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind. It’s an enemy of correct understanding.”

“All behold the wise one!” he shouted with a derisive laughter, looking up at the invisible sky; “you clearly learnt a lot through second-hand means!”

She mused in her characteristic sonorous tone: “Learning is a journey: from facts to knowledge, on to understanding and eventually wisdom. You might have read books and learnt facts, but that’s not the entire journey. And at the same time, vidyā dadāti vinayam, vinayād yāti pātratām – Knowledge makes one humble, and humility begets worthiness. Try being worthy of me.”

“Sometimes I wish I had an electric chair instead.” He kicked the rocking chair which he used for reading, and walked angrily to his room. The chair rocked for a few minutes and slowly went back to her deep thought and stillness.


Friday, March 27, 2020

The murderer

“Don’t you like me?” asked the voice.

He paused, heaved a deep sigh, and attempted to hide the pensiveness in his look. This wasn’t a question he had been asked before, or at least he didn’t remember the last time things had come to this.

“That’s not the point,” he replied.

“Then why would you do this?” the voice persisted.

By now, his furtive glances could not be hidden anymore. He knew if he raised his head and saw himself in the mirror, it would be hard to meet his own reflection. It was he who always wanted time to come to a standstill, and it seemed like the universe had finally bent itself to his wishes. Or perhaps, he was too proud to believe so. Until now, when the question from the voice was somberly hanging in the air. It only meant that life had continued to move on despite his delusions.

“Look I might sound ridiculous. But heck, even your previous girlfriend liked me. Why would you just uproot everything now?” retorted the voice, sensing his heart’s inner battles amidst his body’s stoic silence.

This recrimination defeated him. The universe was playing games, and he felt like a dejected soldier standing on the Grand Design’s abstruse chessboard. 

In a final act of defiance, he gathered everything he held inside of him, picked up the razor, and slid it across his own face, almost lacerating it in one swift stroke. The voice of the hair, now uprooted and stashed away in the silence of razor’s blades, awaited being washed off under the washbasin tap.


Thursday, March 26, 2020

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light

“Do you see how I spread light in your life?” she said gleefully. “Tamaso mā jyotirgamaya or whatever, taking you from the darkness to light! I know you understand this much Sanskrit.”

He stopped short of picking up his book from the bookshelf, flashed a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, and said playfully: “That’s not what it means, you silly. Also, such an unabashed display of humility today. What’s the occasion that you are finally being yourself?”

“Yes, mister you-know-it-all. You don’t need to acknowledge how my presence lets you get by, day after day, through your mundane existence,” she pretended to be indignant.

He knew this tense dance of intimate exchanges well, and the tricks to play along. Ribald comments often helped in getting straight to the point, and he tried his luck: “Well, you might be the one spreading the light. But we don’t need the lights all the time now, do we?”

“Is that so mister? Let us hear something else first. What’s the one word that comes to your mind if you had to describe me?” she teased him.

“Electricity,” he said looking straight into her eyes and proceeded to touch her.

She, the switch of the living room’s tubelight, was flipped and there was darkness all over.


Wednesday, March 25, 2020

The “matter”

“Why do you treat me like this?” she said irritatingly.

“Like what?” he replied with an irreverent shrug, as he continued setting up the timer on the microwave.

She shot back: “Like what?! Are you really asking me that? You use me as a refuge for everything that’s unwanted in your life. You kick me, corner me at every opportunity, and I just feel so empty waking up each morning! You make me feel like putrid trash.”

“I think you are overreacting,” he continued with his nonchalance.

“Oh yeah right. I am overreacting. Care to explain?” she muttered in an apoplectic rage, almost frothing at the corners of her mouth. If it were upto her, she would have burst into flames right here, engulfing his entire being into a conflagration of organic and inorganic matter, leaving behind only embers to tell the story of this eerie exchange.

He lost patience and began his own tirade: “Yes I can explain. What is it that you want from me? Do you have any idea what’s going on in the world? Of course you don’t. Sitting here on your pedestal, gawking at the ceiling the entire day, how could you? You complain at the sumptuous leftovers, when there are millions out there, without anything to feed themselves or their families with. The universe was designed for abundance, but us, the humans, mercilessly carved it up square inch by square inch, waged wars and soaked it with blood, wiped out the startling diversity of its species, disfigured it at every corner, and continue to fight amongst ourselves for a piece of bread. And your problem is that you are feeling empty?”

“Who is overreacting now?” she said in a desperate attempt to win back this argument.

“That’s it. You deserve to be thrown out of this house,” he retorted in a livid voice, took the garbage bag out of the dustbin, and kept it outside his door for collection.


Sunday, April 15, 2018

Desideratum

"Do you realize that this moment, of you and me, in a lustful embrace, is the denouement of a scintillating history of human species and its astonishing accomplishment?", said the silent voice.

She seemed to hear it, but continued to proffer her blasé self. For, she had resolved long ago that she wouldn't allow anything else in the world to dictate her choices and actions. The moment was perfect, and she had no qualms about her selfishness in this moment; her, and only her feelings were allowed to matter in this intricate dance of passion and indulgence.

"It took centuries for humans to get here. The species evolved 200,000 years ago, and another 190,000 years went by before they could even cultivate grains and make some bread!", the silent voice continued.

By now, her yearnings were almost salacious, and her only satiation seemed to lie in devouring it all. But the silent voice rose again – "And it torments me, to behold you and your impatient materialistic ilk. I am repulsed by your incessant desires and wants, by your profanity, and by your skin that reeks of ghastly crimes committed on this now-grotesque planet."

Her craving was bursting at the seams, and she proceeded to discard the silent voice's innocuous, abstract driveling. Why should she bother herself with the historical perspective? After all, every philosopher she knew had vociferously drilled the idea of her life being just an inconsequential speck on the infinite fabric of space and time. How did her actions matter anyway?

The silent voice knew it would lose; after all, this had been a foregone conclusion with everything humans ever touched. It wanted to say something reconciliatory like - "Pause for a second! Slow down and marvel at the complexity of what you are holding! The cooperation of humans around the world to get more than 50 components that constitute me was inconceivable even 100 years ago!"

By now, however, she had already finished half of the sandwich.


Sunday, April 01, 2018

The world from above

As it rose from its pedestal with a distinct sound, the world stood up and took notice.

Its expression was almost sombre, and as it rose, its head seemed to tilt from one side to another, minutely scanning the material horizon around it, as if making a rather solemn observation. The entire act, however ephemeral, seemed to be assimilating a deeper reality within its steel-solid conscience.

From its vantage point, the wafting air on the sides seemed to carry the combined successes, failures, and essence of all those souls of the world that, until now, lived under its watch. The distinct individualities of these souls, and their now-perished skins, coalesced under pressure into a larger mass that constituted a reality which did not belong to any of them, yet created a thing of value embodying their collective truths: beautiful and delectable in equal measures.

As it settled back on its pedestal, it reflected on the humility of this experience: how transient is this world, and yet how enduring and stagnant? The sound nonchalantly faded away, and the khichdi in the pressure cooker was now ready.


Friday, January 12, 2018

Freedom

He wanted to set her free. Right now, when the chill in the midnight air and the frigidness of his own heart were stinging him and his soul.

When they had first met, he was infatuated by her effervescence. He would watch her swell and subside in her own bubbly world. He would sit longingly, and notice her colours that seemed to change with the passage of time. She could flow as if possessed in some intricate dance form, and he knew he wasn’t the only one waiting on the sidelines. And the wait was always worth it. This is how he liked her in those days of yore, when the world, perhaps, wasn’t this cruel.

And today, as he watched her squirming within the tea-bag and hung emptily in water, he wished he could turn back time. This was an atrocious way to make tea, and it repulsed him. "What has the world come to?" he silently muttered, and sighed deeply.


Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Life, served

It felt like hell had frozen over and were falling straight on his head.

It wasn't the first time he had this feeling. On all such occasions in the past, he would try to maneuver himself out of the way, twist himself, work with the only handle he had to change the situation destiny had led him into. However, most of the times either nothing changed, or things changed so drastically that he would start feeling the hot fury of the desert instead. 

He hated this dichotomy in life, of things fitting themselves in just these two states: served cold, or laden piping hot. Through his entire life, he had struggled to get somewhere in between, to make things right, and life more bearable for him. The shower temperature, however, never became perfect.


Friday, February 07, 2014

Where the mind is without fear

In these darkest hours of my existence in the middle of this melancholic night, when the rain outside befalls the putrid leftovers of last winter's undergrowth, when an eerie ominous noise of acidic precipitation seems to have engulfed the rest of sleeping humanity, when the baffled pigeons knock themselves against cold windowpanes and street dogs occasionally bark and break the suspended dreams of this neighborhood, when the mind grapples with despair and the lungs puff out stale, polluted air with monotonous effort, my heart sees a faint, distant hope.

And it whispers, in those secretive ways of the heart which only hearts understand: let there be light. And the door of the refrigerator opens.