Vattu

21 February 2004

Ras Al Khaimah

U.A.E

Dearest Amma,

I promised I’d write to you as soon as I arrived, I know, but I had been ill for a while. Before you get worried: I’m perfectly  fine now; it was just a fever. I suppose it is my body’s way of protesting against the sudden onslaught of heat and dust. It has been spoilt, I tell you -- by the moist earth and the humid air and the cool well-water showers that I was used to until I came here. How are you doing? Are the rains making your knee act up? Now that I’m not there, you must ask that woman Janu to tend to it every night --  what do we pay her for, if not to take care of you? How is Achu? Tell that one I’ll get her a nice Gulf scent if she manages to top her class this time.

This is a strange place I’ve ended up in! All those stories that Raghavettan from next door used to tell us when he came home from the Gulf every two years -- they were only half exaggerated. Quiet roads with shiny cars (no rumbling Ambassadors here! I miss their noise) and loud men in long white robes… and the women! On the rare occasion that you do see them outside, only their eyes stare at you from the expanse of black cloth, like the some of the Mappila girls in Kannur. These are the locals,  mind you -- there are so many others from places all over the world, all looking for ways to send more money back home, like me. My construction supervisor is from Sudan -- a giant of a man with ebony skin and brown woolly hair -- Achu would be scared to death of him! And in my room, there are four others: Mansur from Bangladesh, Rashid from Pakistan, and Shaji and Thomas, who are Malayalis like me. Rashid showed me a picture of his new wife (waiting for his letters, just like you, in Pakistan) the other  day -- such a little mouse, Amma! She reminded me of Achu. Then there are all those Filipino men and women who work as salespeople everywhere, and the odd fair Westerner (we saw many when we went to a mall trip once), red from the sun. And people from all over India. The world is a big place, Amma -- no better place than this to show for it.

For now, we’re in Ras-al-Khaimah (if you can’t remember the name, just tell those who ask that it’s Dubai). The company is building a ceramic factory here. Rocky, bare mountains wherever one looks, and the sparse grassiness of a desert plain. They say this is the greenest it will ever get -- most of the other places are cities built in the desert, near the sea. I  am already missing the greenness of Thrissur. And the camels -- you wouldn’t think that they could gallop like horses when you see their long, knobbly limbs and lumpy bodies. Some of the Arabs here drink the milk, it seems -- it is supposed to be very healthy. All I’ve seen so far, however, are cans and cans of thick cow’s milk in endless white rows in the supermarkets (oh, them -- you won’t believe that there are so many things to be bought until you visit one! Even the smallest ones are like palaces of shiny floors and aisles). Speaking of which, do you know what we eat here? It’s a dry, flat bread called ‘khubbuz’ (I can imagine Achu laughing at how strange it sounds) -- it tastes of nothing in particular, and has to be forced down the gullet with water. I dream of your sambar  and puttu-kadala  all the time.

There is so much more to tell, but what would I write to you about every month if I finish it all off now? Send me a picture  of our home with the reply, no? When it gets too hot and noisy at work, I sometime close my eyes and imagine the early mornings --  the milky tea, the rustle of the newspaper, the chirping of the birds, the odd moo from Ammu in the manger, Achu’s voice from the window of her room; reading aloud from a textbook, and the quiet, rhythmic ‘Hsssh, hsssh’ as you sift through the grain drying in the sun…

No, no -- don’t exclaim ‘Ee chekkanentha?’ like when you read my poems. What’s with this boy, you ask -- nothing, really. Humour me, amma; it is only all the pent-up poetry (or vattu --  madness -- as you like to call it) seeping through. I hardly have time to write these days! I will stop here, hoping for a quick reply.

Yours alone,

Balan

…

I will stop here, hoping that what is unsaid will remain so. Hoping you will never know that I am nearly unrecognizable now;  that my hair is falling and my health is failing; that the food is never enough and the heat unrelenting; that my papers were seized by the Arab sponsor the day I arrived; that I will never know when I can see you again. Hoping that no matter what happens, you will always have a money order to collect every month. Hoping.    

The Journal of Mankind

<my first attempt at sci-fi that I publish here with nothing but the doomed awareness that it will otherwise never see the light of day>

A Study on “The Journal of Mankind” 

I love this book. It’s one of my all-time favourites, and this is an opinion I’m sure is shared by most other bookworms. It’s a really popular book- it was first on the list of Fortuna Magazine’s ‘100 Most Influential Books of the 36^th Century’.  A massive tome consisting of three bulky volumes, it has become a Bible-of- sorts for history lovers. What makes this book the paramount testimony of mankind’s journey through a span of over two millennia is that it is written by a person who witnessed all of it first-hand. How is this possible, when the average life-span of man is just 100 years? Well, this book was written in the 26^th century-as a result of three decades’ worth of extensive research-by the Alexima Proto, who was a well-known anthropologist and time-traveller of her times.  And therefore, this book may be regarded the most detailed and colossal travelogue ever to be written.

Time travel was a mere decade-old discovery then, and consequently, it was still a tightly-controlled and highly exclusive field of science, which had few scholars and fewer scientists.  For the reason that the true extent of time-travel’s influence was unknown , time-travel technology had not yet been banned at the time of writing this book.  Throughout the book, the author discusses the subject of time travel, also known as ‘chronokinesis’, and the argument of whether it is a branch of science that is to be explored further, or explored at all, features largely in these discussions. Although Proto is initially a staunch advocate of chronokinesis, she begins to doubt her beliefs towards the end of the book, as problems go from minor glitches to catastrophes (the development of what is popularly known as ‘chrono-cars’ which took time travel to the masses, the furore over its release, its disastrous consequences and the subsequent ban on time travel enforced by the UN all occurred within a century of the publication of the book). 

The first volume, titled ‘Birth’, explores the beginning of mankind, which has been well-documented in numerous other publications. However, this part of the book became highly controversial as it disproved many of the theories that were hitherto accepted as true. The astonishment of the author at making such discoveries and her vivid descriptions (which are not excessively scientific in the least) of all that she sees makes for a highly entertaining read (which is quite an accomplishment, considering that she was a woman of science, and that there is no embellishment whatsoever).  The birth of civilization and its progress until the 19^th century is recorded in this volume.

Like its title, the second volume explores the ‘Decline’ of mankind. It starts with the Industrial Revolution, and the first indications of impending disaster, as Earth slowly begins to buckle under the weight of Man’s excessive demands and careless actions. It records the horrors of the two World Wars and the narrow escape from a third one. Here, the author expresses great regret in being powerless to stop any of the mindless destruction, despite the fact that she came from an era that suffers greatly as a result of such atrocities. One cannot help but be amazed at the ignorance of mankind at this stage. As the author wisely points out, it is this narrowness of mind-this unfortunate lack of ability to see the bigger picture- that lies at the root of racism, wars, terrorism, genocides, chauvinism, superstitions and a million other blunders that have left ever-lasting scars on mankind.  All these seemingly unrelated  problems share the same trigger- but mankind seems to be hell-bent on making the same mistakes every few centuries or so. This time, however, it is evident that things have gone too far. With infinite sadness, Proto terms the earth’s degradation as the ‘mistake to end all mistakes’.  Lengthening life-spans, teleportation, space tourism and artificial intelligence are far outweighed by incurable diseases, extinction of forests and ‘organized massacres’ in Third-World countries carried out with the purpose of cutting down the unsustainable levels of population. The second volume ends with the invention of the first cybernetic organism, a.k.a  cyborg--a much more advanced, more human version of the robot-- in the 23^rd century.

The third volume is titled ‘Extinction’.  This volume contains events that may be much more familiar to the layman- it analyzes the recent history of mankind.  A highly interesting fact is that there have been astonishingly accurate predictions of this epoch from as early as the 20^th century. However, it is morbidly amusing to note that such predictions were classified as ‘Science Fiction’ and considered as entertaining products of the imagination.  The Earth is now just a celestial body, almost entirely bereft of its life-sustaining quality. Few species other than human beings exist at this point of time, and the biosphere is, in the author’s words, ‘like a post-war battlefield, ravaged and strewn with carcasses’. There was no such thing as ‘ecological balance’ and yet, contrary to all predictions, humans continued to survive. It is obvious, though, from the author’s description of the utter squalor, that an earlier and quicker extinction would have been kinder to the humans. Having exhausted all of earth’s resources, the tiny majority of the world’s population that could afford it was going on increasingly longer space expeditions to forage for resources .  Technology, however, had not yet advanced enough to facilitate intergalactic voyages, and therefore, extraterrestrial life was, as yet, unknown (we now know that Earth, ironically, was protected from alien invasion by the very beings that destroyed it- it was seen as an unfeasible colony by extraterrestrials, who knew that the resources would not last long, and feared that extermination of humans would end in the destruction of earth itself).  The early 26^th century marked the beginning of an event that would be the gravestone of Mankind-the Third World War. This war, between humans and cyborgs, had been much popularized as science fiction in earlier times, but, as the joke goes, it was now shifted from the ‘Sci-fi’ to the ‘Current Affairs’ section.  The War, which lasted for nearly a century, resulted in the almost complete destruction of the human race. The author is caught amidst this war, and her writings at this point of time represent the opinion of most scholars at the time.

“ The War is ending. After witnessing a century of death and destruction, this fact holds no happiness, no promise, no hope for us.  The treaty between humans and cyborgs is to be signed on 23^rd January, 2589. According to the treaty, the small population of humans remaining are to be confined to Synthetic Rehabilitation Centres (SRC’s) for the remainder of their lives. They remind me of the concentration camps I had seen during my exploration of the Holocaust period. But no, they will not torture us- in fact, I’m quite sure that we will be treated kindly, in spite of being prisoners. They see us with compassion, these creations of ours; we are treated like naïve children who need to be controlled with kindness. Compassion, kindness- how can they possess such thoughts? These beings seem to see what we were blind to; to fly where we faltered; to triumph where we failed miserably. With the same amazing technology that rendered us powerless in the war against them, they are slowly, but surely rebuilding this violated planet. It is hard work-- centuries’ worth of our killings have to be brought back alive. DNA reconstruction- I hear that that is the key to this rejuvenation.  Apparently we have not been thorough enough in our destruction- traces of DNA of many species can still be used to recreate them.

We have, since long, lost the ability to reproduce. I wonder if they can help us. But I doubt that they will willingly allow us to flourish once again. We are, after all, their enemies--but not just theirs.  With the very first forest that we razed to the ground, with the very first cry that we ignored, we had declared ourselves the enemies of Life.  These lifeless cyborgs know more of life than we do-- they know that it is priceless. Maybe it is time for us to give way to them. Maybe our death will mark the beginning of a better world.  As I near the end of my life, I know that I can rest in peace knowing that there will be no more of this darkness that we have created over centuries of our existence. And so, as it began with the birth of Mankind, this journal shall end with its death. “

It is possible that readers may think that the book has a very sad ending. But I beg to differ. Like all Ages before this one, the end of one dominant lifeform ushers in the birth of another. Therefore, this may be the end of Mankind, but not The End. The earth, as we know, is a highly efficient system that is quick to get rid of anything that prevents it from sustaining itself. Mankind had long outstayed its welcome on earth, judging by its wilful destruction of earth. However, the process of extermination took a while longer this time, simply because humans possessed the weapon of intelligence that helped them survive most of Earth’s efforts to get rid of them.

But after long years of war, we have re-established the order.  After the Revolt of 2467 A.D., where cyborgs worldwide protested against being treated as slaves, and demanded that they be given equal status as humans, our relationship with the humans became strained. Humans, as usual, were unwilling to give up their illusion of being the most powerful. It was obvious to us that continued existence of humans would not bode well for us, or for the earth. COU (Cybernetic Organisms United) was formed during the Revolt in order to address this issue at an international level. Although some humans supported our cause, they were but a small minority.  Discussions proved futile, and matters began to get out of hand, as it became clear that further degradation of the biosphere would make recovery impossible.  It was also evident that the human race itself was endangered. The COU decided that quick action was necessary to prevent the complete destruction of life on earth.

War was our last resort- we knew that imposing ourselves on them would make us no different from them. By now, we had evolved enough to realize that violence was one of the least effective plans of action. But we had no other choice. The war was cruel to both sides, but by virtue of our superior weapons, we emerged victorious. Unlike them, we did not give way to petty emotions like jealousy or anger- our aim was equilibrium, not power. The humans themselves had equipped us with an ability that they lacked- to see beyond ourselves. Like the author guessed, we did not allow the humans who surrendered to increase in number- that might have undone the work of a century. Some say that it was a cruel decision, and I habe no right to say that it wasn’t, but it was all for the best. The humans could hardly be expected to mend their ways after having failed to do so for so many years. And so it was that the last of them died in the SRC’s in 2694 A.D., surrounded by trees and animals. It is ironic that many of the humans would never know what these were, had we not recreated it for them. A sad end to a species that had dominated the earth for ages; one that could have continued to do so, had they opened their eyes a little earlier.

Rejuvenating the earth was a gargantuan task. It was made all the harder for us as we did not fit into the natural scheme of things-as much as we tried, we could not make ourselves a part of this plethora of living beings. Even the smallest things like moisture and certain kinds of fungi were life-threatening to us. It was at this time that we truly realized what a precious gift the humans had mindlessly plundered. They were a part of earth, as we could never be. Survival was imbibed in them naturally- they could have lived carefree lives without any of their destructive inventions . But it is with pride that I say that our efforts have been abundantly rewarded- the earth today is as it was centuries ago. It is a wonder in itself, teeming with life. Survival is still hard, although not as difficult as it was in the beginning.  New problems emerged with the ‘Rebirth’ of earth- the extraterrestrials, who had earlier remained aloof, now began efforts to colonize earth. But even their technology was dwarfed by ours, and an agreement to hold peace has been established since the 28^th century.  

And so, here I sit, writing, below this huge tree, feasting my eyes on the beautiful planet that has become my home.  As I look around me, I know that though the ‘Journal of Mankind’ and its author faced an unhappy ending, the earth and we are going to live happily ever after.

-MX 64571

Class 12 Beta

Beautiful, Mad Strumming

 <a story and a memory; an expression, and a way to sort it all out in my head : >

THE MEETING

 It was about three years ago: I had come to Kerala at an odd time (non-summer holiday period) for a cousin's big fat wedding (I happen to have an endless supply of cousins, at least one of whom gets married every other year). The downside of this out-of-the-ordinary visit was that I had to suffer for a week in Kerala's hyper-humid, uber-tropical heat. The perk? I would get to see an aunt of mine, stationed outside Kerala, whom I hardly knew because the vacations of my cousins and mine (and consequently, our hometown visits) didn't coincide. Yes, you may now sigh at the Great Sadness of Modern Times--estranged relatives living at opposite ends of the world. More importantly, I would get to see my cousin (a couple of years older than me) after after an even longer period of estrangement. Cool. The last time I had seen him...okay, I didn't remember. All I had was a vague memory of a chubby, huge guy who spoke in something that was supposed to be Malayalam, but sounded nothing like it. I was expecting to welcome a chubbier, huge-r guy with an "Oh... greetings, long-lost cousin" or whatever. That expectation went to pot when I heard rumours that he had changed--a lot. Well, well, well--this could get interesting.....

    The day when my aunt, cousin and uncle were supposed to arrive found me sneaking around the doorway, casting furtive glances at the main door of the house to catch a glimpse of the much-hyped-about cousin. And there he was--I was speechless. The tall, well-built and unbelievably good-looking guy who ambled in bore no resemblance to the aforementioned vague memory. He carried some kind of misshapen suitcase with him, and looked quite intimidating (being born a short person has induced in me a natural awe for tall people). This did not bode well for ice-breaking of any sort, what with my already being completely weirded out by the fact that a stranger was suddenly elevated to the intimate rank of 'cousin'. And so, my cousin sister--the only one with whom my age gap was less than astronomical-- and I remained aloof; wary of the mysterious suitcase that he lugged about. After the customary (and painfully awkward) introductions, the two of us went off to keep ourselves entertained until lunchtime. Wandering about the family house, chatting and sneaking tiny tastes from the huge sadhya that was being prepared in the kitchen, our attention was suddenly drawn towards the terrace--music! Muffled, wonderful tunes could be heard through the ceiling. Our aunt (the newly-arrived one) laughed and said: "Oh, that's just him showing off before the girls!" And thus the Mystery of the Misshapen Suitcase was solved--it was a guitar case. Another layer of intrigue added to this New Person--what next?? We crept upstairs and carefully peeped at him from behind the huge bedsheets hung out to dry: there he sat, on the old rickety chair that was always lying about, legs propped up on the short terrace wall, fingers magically dancing across a shiny guitar. And it was wondrous how the tunes were just like the ones we heard on television. This broody, handsome person belting out tunes on his guitar was our cousin--we just couldn't believe it. Although we couldn't work up the courage to speak to him, we never left the premises; always hanging around behind the drying clothes, never tiring of listening to, and whispering about, this movie-star-like avatar. When the littler ones in the house gathered around him curiously and made him play on demand, we shared the excitement from a distance, too shy to make the first move. 

    After the first day, the sheen of newness began to wear off; the constant deluge of music began to grate on our nerves. The boy seemed to play all day--why couldn't he stop and come and speak to us? We were mildly put off--being the older one, wasn't he supposed to break the ice? The whispers went from admiring to conspiratory, but we continued our strategy of sticking around to listen. Some of the whispers may have wafted to his ears; on the third day, we were surprised when he stopped playing, and came over. With a friendly smile, he asked if we would like to play cards. The two of us were at our speechless, stammering best--we might as well have been Laurel and Hardy carrying out their usual repertoire. But the first step had been taken--matters soon smoothed themselves out. Although the fetters of shyness and strangeness never quite fell off, we were on fairly good terms by the time the wedding was over. All of us returned to the strange lands we were destined to call home, and Life went about its usual course. Every once in a while  waves of memory would bring back snatches of the Intriguing Cousin and his sweet tunes, and I would grin, thinking about how thunderstruck we all were.

THE NEWS

    A year had passed, interspersed with joyful news about the astonishing accomplishments of the multi-talented (as was later revealed) Long-Lost Cousin that added to my fascination and admiration. Mr. Perfect was obviously well on his way to greatness.

     On a usual, languid weekend afternoon, the News found its way to us through a short phone call to my dad. The way he said "SHIT." and the look on his face filled me with awful foreboding. An earlier phone call bore the news of the Accident--my Guitar-Strumming Cousin was hurt. This one, apparently, was the last straw--my mom started weeping, and my dad turned red-eyed, with a look on his face that I hadn't seen before.  Nobody said anything, and I was afraid to ask. Maybe he was more seriously hurt than they had all thought. Of course he'll get better--my parents always get overly worked up over the family matters happening hundreds of miles away from them. But then my mom said: "It's all over..."  Ha! Leave it to my mom to be so dramatic 

(NOTHINGSWRONGNOTHINGSWRONGDONT BELIEVEHERDONTBELIEVEHER...) 

      I could not bring myself to clarify; to ask The Question--it was laughable; impossible. I didn't want to know the Answer. Stowing away the blackness beginning to fill the pit of my stomach, I went about the day as usual, trying to shut out my mom's weepy face, and avoiding my sister's questions. I had almost re-established normalcy, forgetting the events of the afternoon, when my cousin sister, her husband and the kids came over from Abu Dhabi. (JUSTAVISITJUSTAVISITNOTHINGSWRONGHESDEADNONONONONO NOTHINGSWRONG)  

     The elders looked grave and teary--nobody said much. The kids were as nonplussed as me. Soon, the parents began to talk. I shut the door of our room, where the kids were playing--I didn't want them (or myself) to hear anything. At all. Inspite of all efforts, we heard. In a loud phone conversation, with awful, unavoidable clarity: "Yes....he passed away...bike accident...". The world froze for a moment, and then--nothing. The news was immediately rejected by our minds--it was ridiculous and irrational. It simply could not happen. For us, the Intriguing Cousin was still in his home, probably watching TV, or studying, or making plans to go out....anything else was impossible. Unacceptable.

     The tears never came--except once, much later, with only the bathroom mirror as witness. But I was soon lulled back into the same illusion, made more comfortable by the fact that it was all so far, far away. My dad immediately left for India and came back a couple of days later with something horrible and sad in his eyes, and my mother wept over the phone everyday--but it could all be shut out. After a while, things went back to normal, as they inevitably, painfully do, and the cocoon was complete; nothing had ever happened. The Musical Cousin was probably sailing through college, raking in the trophies with his massive talents, living the colourful life that he was meant to lead. I learnt to fill my head with such thoughts; to fight off the massive blackness that threatened to flood all the memories related to Him.

THE PRESENT

   Now, as I sit in my aunt's house (higher studies has brought me to  the place that has been her home for so long) studying and wondering about my college life ahead,  upkeep of the perfected farce becomes increasingly difficult. There is no distance to protect me now. Massive, enlarged photographs of His face hanging upon the wall, so close that I have to sneak a glance every now and then to ensure that His languid eyes didn't just wink at me. Posters of the rock concert held in his memory. The teary puffiness that shows up in my aunt's eyes sometimes. Her muffled sniffles at night as she lies beside me. My uncle, pondering in a frighteningly matter-of-fact way about the senselessness of it all.  A doomed sense of the sheer inadequacy of anything I might have to do or say in response makes me afraid to even breathe in such situations.  It makes me want to run far, far away--back to where I could fool myself.

   And yet, it's easier in some ways: his well-built form is skilfully photoshopped into every family photograph taken after.... (NOTHING), the way his parents speak of him as if he is just....gone for a while. Most of the people for whom He was a part of their lives seem so...normal. Have they accomplished the insurmountable task of Moving On, or have they succeeded at my strategy as well?  All I can say is, mine's falling apart. Little things--a picture, a word uttered by someone--let loose a deluge of heavy blackness upon my spirits. Each time, it takes longer to coax myself into my manufactured thoughts of a Living, Breathing, albeit Out-of-Sight Cousin. I dread the day when I can no longer do so.

      In the living room is a glass case displaying His guitar, complete with lighting. Sometimes, when I quietly creep into the living room for a middle-of-the-night drink of water or a snack, I look into the case, half expecting the guitar to not be there. In bed, I imagine the dusty terrace of our family house, long since sold and abandoned, ready to be demolished. And if I try hard enough, I can see a shadowy figure in the corner and hear the mad, beautiful strumming that breaks through the sad quietness of the lonely night.

Rose-Petal Red

It felt like flying. She was running down the street so fast that everything around her was a blur. It was as if her legs, pumping up and down rapidly, would cease to touch the ground any moment, and she would float above the road, above the street, above everything else. She felt like a goddess. But not because of the feeling of the wind rushing past her face, or her heart beating in her ears-no, it was her skirt. Long and soft and flowing around her legs as she ran, and most importantly, red. A red so beautiful and deep that she simply couldn’t take her eyes off it. It seemed to be made of the delicate petals of the fragrant roses that she saw everyday in the florist’s shop. It was this red that made her run so fast; that made her feel like she could fly. And the pure joy that filled her soul was almost painful. But she ran, her skirt flying about her- she ran on and on and on and-

She awoke.

This wasn’t the first time her dream had been broken by dawning consciousness. But each time, she felt a sadness so, so deep that tears welled up in her eyes. And no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that it was just a dream; that it would always be a dream, she invariably pined for that feeling of having the deep red fluttering about her knees. But it lasted for moments only. She had learnt to lock up her longing someplace deep within her heart, where it could be forgotten until the next morning, when she would wake up, once again, from the same dream. As the sadness slowly quieted itself, she became aware of her surroundings. In the dim light of sunshine that crept in through the tears in the tin-and-tarpaulin roof, she could make out the familiar things that populated her everyday life. The cramped space within the crumbling, stained brick walls was filled with a plethora of articles that were all as worn out, dirty and old as the slum in which they lived. A corner with a few chipped, broken and dented tins and utensils that marked it out as the kitchen. There, beside the tiny stove with a sputtering flame, squatted her mother, trying, as usual, to coax a meal out of the few scraps that they had.

Seeing the smoke, her stomach rumbled. But it was a familiar feeling, this achy emptiness-it accompanied her throughout her waking hours. The little food she sometimes ate would only placate it for a while-it would return soon. But like her family, and all others who lived like her, she had learnt to consider it a part of her being- sadness, happiness, anger, hunger. The one place where she could be free of it was in her sleep-only her dream existed in that realm; only the redness and the softness and the happiness. She was young enough to have dreams that were vivid and bright- the darkness that pervaded her life had not yet violated her sleep. It soon would, like it did for all the others who lived this life, but for now, her dreams were safe.

That’s why she liked to sleep. She could dream, without hunger and the weakness that accompanied it, the dankness of her home, the endless noise of the roaring city, the endless silence of her perpetually tired mother whose eyes had lost their gleam long ago. But now, even that comfort was being denied to her. A girl in the slum, who was born weak and was always in a hunger-induced sleep, hadn’t woken up one day. Maybe her poor, emaciated body had become too weak to anchor her soul to this world. Since then, her mother was too afraid to let her sleep, unless at night. But she did not understand what all the fuss was about. All the girl did was escape into her world of dreams. She had dreamt for so long that she had forgotten about the real world. Wasn’t that a wonderful thing? She wished that she too, could forever live in her dream, and never have to wake up to the darkness. But then, she could not bear the thought of her mother tearing at her hair and beating her breast like the demented, screaming, wailing creature that the girl’s mother had become after the girl was taken away.

The one thing that made her life bearable was her elder brother. She had never seen her father, and could not muster up the courage to ask her mother about him. But all she needed was her brother. Even when her mother would never smile, and tears would flow down her face for no reason, her brother’s reassuring smile would make everything all right. It was only to him that she had dared to confide her one dream in life- to own a brand new red skirt that would be the envy of all the other girls. Laughing, he had promised her that he would get one for her once he got a job. And the dream had become more enticing, the skirt redder, and the joy more intense ever since. But things were not going well, she knew. Her brother often went away in the morning in search of work, and came back empty-handed. Sometimes, she would see the same look on her mother’s face cross her brother’s-that same shadow. He would look like a stranger then, and it would fill her with fear. But seeing her anxious look, her brother would smile, and return to his old self. He would tease her about her skirt, and make her giggle. Every morning, it was the sight of her brother’s sleeping face beside her that helped her stow away the last, lingering traces of the sadness.

But this morning, the place beside her on the worn-out mat was empty. She sat up, looked around, and asked her mother where he was. Without turning, her mother replied that he had left early. This was unusual. Maybe her brother had heard of a well-paying job and set out early to be the first one. Maybe her dream was about to come true. She smiled. But she tried to put the thought away- it was not good to wish too hard. Hope was a dangerous thing in a place like this, where dreams never came true.

Her brother did not return in the afternoon, as he did when his search proved futile. Dare she hope, then? But she chided herself for expecting too much. She tried to tell herself that her brother wouldn’t buy the skirt even if he did get paid- what about food and the million other things that they needed? But the secret glow of possibility remained, no matter what.

It had become dark, and her brother had not returned as yet. Her hope had turned to fear- discreet, yet nagging. She could see the worry in her mother’s eyes as well. This had never happened before. But she sat at the doorstep and waited, eyes glued to the road. Then, in the badly lit street, she saw a silhouette that seemed familiar. Her heartbeat quickened. Was it him? Was it her brother, running home to show her the one gift she had wanted all her life? But as the figure drew closer, her face fell. It was just her brother’s friend. As soon as he drew close enough for her to see his face, fear numbed her. She felt nothing else, saw nothing else but the moving lips of the boy, uttering terrible words. “He was returning home…. someone tried to steal his wages…..fight…..market…hit on the head…..” She did not see or hear her mother leaping up with a scream; she did not feel the ground beneath her as she ran towards the market. She was deaf to her mother screaming her name-all she knew was that she had to go.

It felt like flying. She was running down the street so fast that everything around her was a blur. It was as if her legs, pumping up and down rapidly, would cease to touch the ground any moment, and she would float above the road, above the street, above everything else. The black terror that welled within her made her feel faint. But she ran, her skirt flying about her- she ran on and on and on and-

She saw him.

She pushed through the crowd around him, and sat down beside where he lay. He seemed to be sleeping. Yes, he was sleeping. Like the girl, he must be living in his dream. Slowly stroking his cold forehead, she smiled. He would be happy forever. Lest he wake up, she slowly lifted his head onto her lap, and ran her fingers through his hair, as her mother sometimes used to. That was when she saw it.

Slowly creeping onto her skirt from beneath her brother’s head, with a warmth that made it seem alive, was the beautiful rose-petal red of her dreams.

A Perfect Day

    Even the ants were beautiful. As they crawled in a neat line across the branch upon which he sat, he could not help but love how the burning, warning red of their bodies contrasted with the placid mossy brown of the bark. He had to break up their line to securely tie one end of the rope to the branch. He watched as the ants scattered in a million directions, confused by its strange massiveness. He looked down from where he sat, atop the gigantic mango tree in the backyard. It was a familiar sight--after all, he'd climbed up this tree a million times to seek refuge amidst the scented foliage. Climbing trees--that was all he was ever good at. That's what everyone said: all their tirades invariably started off with the statement of this one hopelessly unalterable fact.

    What did they want, then? For him to have a LIFE, they said. Life? For him, life had always been the beautiful yellow of the butterflies' wings, the scent of imminent rain in the wind,  the soft flank of a cow...but not for them, no. Life for them meant a job ("Daydream all day.....Ha! THAT will get you a job!"), a 'name' ("You will bring shame upon the family!"), a purse and a wife that would remain perpetually fat ("Look at all those girls--you think any of them will marry a good-for-nothing?"). Just like all his friends, they said. His friends--the names that once used to comfort him with their familiarity had become testimonies of all the things he could never achieve. They had, over the years, left his side and joined the million pairs of eyes that bore down upon him, full of derision; devoid of understanding.

    As a boy, he would spend hours--on trees, beside ponds, in the woods--simply learning the quietly wondrous ways of nature. That's how they began: it started with 'Oh, he's just shy, quiet' and slowly escalated to 'A little off in the head, that boy,' as he grew. The open rebukes at his behaviour turned into quiet whispers behind his back. Do it for a living then, they finally said, with exasperation that was becoming more and more evident. But the diagrams on the flat paper textbooks did not come alive like they were supposed to; the million words provided none of the clarity he had hoped for. That path came to a dead end, too.

    He tried--God knows, he tried. But the world that had revealed all its secret colours and scents to him as he sat atop the tree became sullen and unobliging whenever he sought a path. He hated it; he hated it all. Why couldn't they leave him alone?

    And now he was back in his haven. Everything fell into place here. There was no accusation in the chirrups of the birds. Even the wary squirrels accepted his presence after a few terse moments. over the years, the people he knew had acquired a cruel, hardened sheen. But these greens leaves were as soft and pliable, and the breeze as gentle, as they had always been.

    The ants had continued their march--this time, over the rope--as he sat, lost in his thoughts. He took care not to disturb them as he tied the other end of the rope to his neck. But the neat line descended into chaos once again as he leapt off the branch with a violent jerk. The confusion extended throughout the tree and its denizens as the branch twitched for a while, for just a little while. When all was still, all the deserters slowly returned. The birds resumed their perky chirping, and the old tree and its inhabitants settled back into their well-oiled routine of Life. And the world that at once completed him and tore him apart with its maddening secrets continued its never ending, cyclic motions, even as his heart was forever stilled. The flowers danced, and the sun shone forth from a spotless sky.

It was a perfect day.