Squeak

So this morning, there was a squirrel in my bed, nestled in between three mattresses of varying age and thickness.

Room on roof entails frequent run-ins with creātūrī non homo. The floor is littered with string and fluff that no doubt served until then as furniture in the nest of the squirrel family that exists between the blurry lines of rafter and roof. Pigeons of questionable powers of vision that fly right into windows and then sit on railing, recovering. Bats that cling to floor and mysteriously make disappear milk from saucers and then themselves. Bees that hit against lights again and again in buzzing monotone, forcing fans to be shut and windows to be slid open till they return perhaps to hive under balcony. Spiders: green gold, tiny and translucent, glittering, busy spinning, near ear. I leave out, of course, the feline and canine members of the household.

After a few hours of leaving be with multiple points of exit exposed, Bahadur Shah, courageous young son of Lady of the Sparse Tail, had not yet budged far from under the bed. Next was attempted building bridges of milk-soaked bread, almonds and raisins but this failed to inspire trust also. Bahadur Shah had meanwhile grown quite restless, moving dizzily across tabla tops, performing amateur acrobatics between computer wires, with a pit-stop in the gym bag before some rustling through newspapers.

May may well be the month of all change, it holds the key to where these feet will head next. This so planned year, surprise year, year of loss and gain, books and oscillations, shall yield some of its lessons by May. If only patience were all it took. Patience and close encounters with the curious kind.

For the attentive, Young Bahadur Shah took the long route home, the one made of towels tied on end. And all the while, five measurers of destiny, in a rare cameo appearance, glowed grimly above.

tie up stray strands and go go go

Dangling on the fence, opinionating mise-en-scène, there are mists. The lake, the grass, the pavement ten feet away, brooding; shrouded. Fog, I wonder, now? It was nice talking, he says. Getting that a lot lately. Goodbye, it was nice talking.

Promita Roy in the bus today. Promita Roy, with the always upside down pout that was last spotted in Class 8. I keep seeing you around, she says. Why don't you say hello; Strange, I think. But she smiles, Goodbye.

That strange simultaneity of being, being bubbled and being part of the furniture. Inside and out, at once. Included yet ex-. When just waiting, undifferentiated from backdrop, stray people with stray things to say turn up and disappear: spectral, is that it? Like today's dude on crack, with red eyes peeling off, shivering a little, Harold Bloom, look up Harold Bloom's Invented Man, heard you mention Shakespeare, thought I'd - well (shiver) Goodbye. Disembodied, is that it?

Much like compulsory lists of relatives who must be met before moving - running into old faithfuls and young faithless, after years, months, weeks - with the voice-over saying, speak now or forever-

A litter of five, circular puppies with underbelly rash, quibble like bacteria in the sand before suddenly giving up, snoring, their paw suspended, mid-step. Almost, almost a wave goodbye. Heartbreak, is that it?

Sir's fingers move in impossibly precise jerks. Mind of their own, I think, staring, as he births sounds of a train, rain on a window pane with the same languid intensity. With the cat smug in his lap, purring, what - you think I can't get with it? It's raining outside when he has to leave, time to say-

Three heads in a row on the gleaming tiles, ex-goats, I think. It's a dirge - elegiac, is that it? It's a dirge, this urge to rise above, forgive, be the bigger- It's the knowing that it's time, it's time. Hurry up, please, it's time.

-he says, tchah, you don't say Jachhi, Leaving. You say, ashchi, I'll be coming now. Bad luck to say. Leaving.

No one believes it, but I know this is coming to a close. Only hope the move is not only metaphorical - god knows I'm enough metaphorical - It's the winter, D says. It's the winter, everything begins receding, life in backward, people going eeyaab doog in that death metal voice.

I'll be coming now. (Fullmoon, is that it?)

of sugar, spice and boiled gobindo-bhog rice.

What joy, I cried today, plumb centre of 8B crossing that is free-for-all. What joy, to have cramps strike right when every chemist and every druggist has overdosed on itself and gone, oil in nose and shutter down, post lunch. Stop wailing, A tugs, stop wailing and walk.

But it is too much. Too much to bear, it has been so long and yet. Ten years nearly, shudder to think, says A, assuming I meant that and not, this. Wow, really? Ten years into puberty, of glorious womanhood, of radiant matronly virtue. What delicious feminine thrills run up and about our collective spine to think. That glow on the cheek, of love, of babymaker in waiting, of the potential harvest waiting to be seeded. Must you be so gross, we're about to be run over. A is not quite as giddy.

Of course, must. Like being reminded every minute that you've given your love away on things that don't even comprehend - wasted weak months on memories that were not even - living and being what they must make of you who don't even see - but I agree. I'm anything you want, it's easiest that way, easier than having to explain, clarify, dissent.

You're reading too much Woolf. This is not good. Lol, I say, Lol. Yesterday, she asks me if I want a shrink - worried, they are. But nothing to worry - those who talk about it don't do it. And you can talk. True that, that too. True. Cross, now! What the - that truck - why don't you just plant yourself there? Outraged, I. Not A. A is giggling. A is not giddy but A is bad, bad at crossing - more likely to get into an - accident.

But this too, too solid - I begin again but she, Oh, groan, stop, I'm going home. I pout - usually works. There's a six inch counter open - I say, I say, I say I don't think they have anything but Cerelac. I ask, could you - But the woman with the fifty medicine list says, Make sure I get mine first. I cough and blink before repeating, uh, need painkill - Yes uncle, he says; customary this exchange of endearments, grandpa calls you grandpa and so on - and then proceeds to divide two cups of lemon tea into three equal parts. I stare fascinated, beyond groggy now to care. A quips, better equipped than I right now, couldn't you just hurry? Man clucks his tongue, no appreciation for art, the exact tip of the balance - girls these days. Cluck, cluck, cluck.

Gulp down the inch long sulphur, two to be sure. And wait, wait for a miracle.

Except it's not a miracle - it's inevitable. Like roses, like Giovanni Allevi, like the midday sun - it's inevitable. Once it subsides and you're at peace with gender and generation - asl, please? - you'll wonder aloud, who exactly are? - it's inevitable.

the commute

Fifteen minutes into a traffic snarl, with the two o' clock sun and no rain, not a bit of rain: impossible not to despair. This only time, this transit, when no one knows or cares in particular, about anything in particular you might have to say or withhold, this only safe pause - the time is ripe to cry. Weeksful of woe begin to shrink and condense on brain. Squeezing it into necessity - must let it out now, before home turf hits. Kátharsi̱, tó̱ra!

If it weren't for the female's pursestraps which must fall on you again and, no matter how many times you twitch and cluck, and again. And then a tap on the arm, you stiffen, of all the nerve- if that wasn't- who does she- But turn and she's not even fifteen, the girl, clearly new to the concept of makeup - one can tell from the immense zeal. And she's asking - are those phone or ipod headphones? - and for a second, the eagerness - you haven't seen anything quite like it in a long time; the eagerness of each hair in place, of the glitter on the nail - takes you quite aback. But, mp3 player, you mumble, you get them here. White lies are usually held in contempt but one look at the smile that greets this, and you think, hell, anything to keep that going. And there's no reason for you to grin like that. Especially since a minute ago Grief, with hands folded in quiet anticipation, waited to enter - was now, coughing a little but taking it more than sportingly, overall.

Like the time, two nights ago while walking the dog, this thing cried out, auntiee! The -ee rising into a supersonic wail. Two probably, at most three, that kid at the window above - belly and elbows poking out from between the rods, hanging there in her bloomers: cuter than a monkey but not the kind to make you reach immediately for the cheek. The kind that cracks your heart open just a little. Ki, I ask, ki?

And ensues a most informative little chat, her being instructed by shyer, older relatives on proper questions and I, bawling from below, with a restless dog pulling jeans apart. Was dinner done yet, was I going to study, what were the dogs called, did I listen to Dev? Had my hair been an inch shorter, I'd probably still have passed of as Dada, but Auntiee it was for now - and grateful, I, for the passport it gave me.

It's impossible to begin to list the injustices. Of the people you've loved (and for what?) and the beliefs you'll always hold (and why?), of how the world refuses to retain a jot of what you looked forward to (and so what?) - impossible for the old train to break down, even though wheezing to its death, when you're hardwired as a sensible little girl - no longer little, never little.

But sometimes - stepping off the bus, bye bye, she waved back frantically, while reassuring Abba on the phone that she had indeed made biryani for him and it was right there, bye bye - 

the damndest little things make your day.

because twenty must be rung out, wrung dry

A celebrate myself, and sing myself kind of day; as sincerely executed as conceived.

Whatever is out there loves me much. The ride-to had it drizzling right through the sun. While the return had heavier, real rain - but so calm you'd want to sing just to bestir.

Water over Coke, guava over Cheetos, yellow over pink rose.
And so armed, and so assured, a nap beside the pond on singular spikes of wet grass.

Where it needs eyeglass in addition to contacts to realise

that the kingfisher is of the white-throated sort;

who likes to dip into the same ripple and perch back on the same branch to rouse itself.

That the black blots on the lotus leaves are actually moving,

(I'm not insane) and are snails. Ranging from Excess to Excel.

That the sky is virulent but quiet and indigo run dry
that will pounce on you if you can squint out the trees.

That I have just found my new afternoon delight.

And plenty of walking fro and to and not entirely without company because I gave in, because that doesn't matter any more. Commerce too, a little, as new clothes had to be changed (for once for being) - too small. And who can resist chicken and capsicum?

Tried to crave a cigarette, but it's like I pronounced - a smoke can never replace a coke - and so it was settled. What resolutions, what? When?

Back home, all quiet on every front. Pasta and Coke and I settle down, with the sun, for what began as Dr. Strangelove but soon was Meet the Fockers - of which about 30 seconds was funny; exactly what I needed except there was just one thing missing which quietly crept up and made camp on heart.

Pasta, Coke, Movie, Pillow.

And, cat.

Webcam leftovers. Glasses, see.

And lest we forget: cameos by
Ben Harper, Cat Stevens and several versions of Across the Universe -
one of the few that has stayed the same since age six and
twenty certainly won't change my world. =)

There's lots and there's nothing left
but to curl up in the secret place on floor 6 + 1, tonight,

tonight that Cassiopeia, Orion have joined Sirius.

It's past midnight. Aranyer Din Rattir has finished playing. It reminds me again of that stifling beauty of a Ray film. But more importantly, there will be cake soon.

Rewind, oh delirious days, oh lonely years - and stay, stay with me.

Had planned on spending day under the bed but there's a Bharat Bandh so pretty close.
Unlikeliest of people remembered to wish. Fuzzy feeling that won't let me be misanthrope.

So. It's been an hour each of everything desired and I think I am finally ready.
Holyshit, holyshit I'm twenty. =D