A Small Boy Peeing

When a seven year old boy became afraid, while peeing on the dark leaves of Beli flower, at night, he was being afraid of a ghost. Or a tiger. The thin slippery light of the kerosene lamp notwithstanding- it offers no courage- while the door of the house was open- but the light dragged itself only to five hands- far away from the boy- away, away from the old earthen house- as there was no toilet inside and every dirt is to be thrown as far away from home- but no parents were watching over him- in fact, they were safely sleeping- as he was grown up now, and as his urge to pee was only his own- completely!- and therefore he was pretend-courageous, and he was not probably counted as precious by anyone- the boy in the darkness became thrilled hearing the mouse hurriedly trotting the straw mound and screech.

It’s the thrill, as the pee water jet hit the leaves and thereafter the ground and no one could hear anything except the sound of the water, it’s in that moment, the unbearable rush along the axis joining the head and his buttocks, that was felt- like fear, like joy- the little rhythmic throbs matching the contraction that was felt in his penis and below and behind; a sudden release, but not to be revealed its occurrence to anyone- a secret euphoria- a giving up of self and becoming no one for a moment- that feeling.

In that loveliness, that being- that he would later know as the precursor of adult ecstasy- that had begun as fear and ended as fear- he would know that he would end someday, that he would cease to exist; that helplessness would drive him back to the house, peeing not over, he would hide in the bed even before doing his buttons; and in the adulthood, when he would make love to a woman, he would slowly shiver, before and after the act, so afraid he would be of death.


A Naked Tale

One morning my grandmother made her daughters sit beside her and began to describe her last night’s dream. Her three daughters, the eldest being my mother, left their morning chores- cooking, dusting, cleaning- and instinctively gathered around the mother- knowing men were not in the house and thereby they were free; even if that was only for twenty minutes.

“Last night I dreamt I was running naked.” my grandmother began. “I don’t know why. I was jumping up the stairs, running to the rooftop, dancing around the kitchen- not a thread on my body, not a thread. Every one was begging, Nidhi, Nidhi, wear something, wear something. But I was not listening.” She heaved a sigh. Remembering. Almost happy.

The daughters flapped their eyelids and hesitated to speak, as the current topic had gone far beyond their regular conversations on intimate subjects. It was not that they didn’t speak about sex, as one of her daughters, my mother, had been six years married and had my brother and me. But the subject of sex came like a touch and go, to evoke a giggle at a silent corner of the house, or at a delicate moment, to show liveliness where there was none, as a momentary relief to the drudgery of their small town lives.

Or as a cautionary tale.

“The Banshi guy, han, the Banshi guy. Beware of him, I tell you. Beware of him. He is dangerous. I tell you. Has done some horrible things to the poor Didimoni- that poor school teacher! Horrible!” One Masi would warn another. As the protector of the chastity of her sibling. As the good deeds for her pleasant afterlife piled up for her.

“The school teacher is not that pure either.” the warned Masi would reply. In protest. It’s not that she was not fearful, but submission to her sister’s wisdom was even worse.

“That’s alright. Her problem. You beware.” the warner Masi would persist.

If I was around the conversation, it would please me a lot at the apparent predicament of a school teacher as I had begun to go to a primary school and therefore was afraid of teachers and assumed all of them were harsh.

“What happened to the teacher, Masi, what happened to her?” I would ask to relish her ill fortune.

In a moment both of them would break free of a spell that only a great but not so imminent danger casts, and forget the usual decorum of affection toward me and shout in unison, “Who allowed you here? Who? Don’t you know you shouldn’t listen to women’s conversations? Didi, Didi, take your son away from here.”

My mother who had a reputation for being an angry woman and exemplary strict to her children would come to the room stomping, pulling me by hair toward the wall and banging my head against it. Probably in an effort to make it all go away, from the head- all the nasty imaginations of the world.

***

But that morning I was there- silently sitting between the daughters; my brother was sleeping in the crib- the summer sunlight shining through the latticework of the window warmed the vegetables. And no one said a word.

“It happens sometimes,” the middle daughter finally said. She was the heartiest of them all and the most talkative. “Like sometimes I dream I am falling down. I feel I should stop- after a while. But I fall still. Till I actually sometimes fall down from the bed.”

And everyone began to laugh. When my grandfather came back home after his morning walk, everyone became responsible and fidgety again and went quietly back to work.

Only I had the leisure till the lunchtime to imagine a little girl not more than ten years old, floating around our house. Her hands waving, her fingers dancing, and her blue sari floating, before flowing away from her, mingling with the surroundings and being absorbed by the sky.

An unknown sensation that felt like happiness, and a thrill, emerged from the heart, spread across the chest and gave me goose bumps for being able to see her dance and, see her.

Even now I see her often.

When the wife looks up from the far side of the bed, waiting, for a twitch of the eyebrow, or a flicker of inattention on my face- while I read- a deep sigh, or anything that says I would now come to her- and the light from the bedside lamp warms her breasts, I often fear if I don’t hurry up and grab her she would fall down from there.

Twenty years of a marriage is a long time. It nauseates me now to reach out and touch her.

Probably why, when I look at her hesitantly she asks, “Who do you want me to be tonight?”

I tell her, “How many times should I tell you, Kuntala; on a bad day you are a strict teacher to whom I do horrible things; and on a good day, you are Nidhi, you are Nidhi, a naked girl.”


Swaja: a conversation with ten year old self

Silly boy, as we meet, as I speak, as you stare at me, this old self, without comprehension, with disbelief and doubt, let me introduce myself as your ‘swaja’, I was born of you.

I was born of you, as you were born one score years ago, of your mother’s womb and grew, so I grew, swifter than you, to be old and bitter, brittle boned and crinkled skinned, having more means and a few extra titles attached to my name, dissatisfied and doubtful yet. Call me your wiser self, just a nomenclature, probably untrue. Otherwise, how do I impress upon a boy, a silly boy, who goes on with his life without an iota of comprehension and the burden of failures invariably intertwined with it? That you look and talk and dream silly, boy! In this world, cruel or otherwise, in this state of people, selfish or otherwise, you are really nothing. As you build nothing, create nothing, sell and buy nothing, without purpose, without gravity, being entirely dependent on the affection, money and positions of your parents, kind neighbors and relatives. Useless. That’s what you are. How do I tell you that I will prove myself useful for you?

I have travelled across multitudes of physical and extra-physical realms, piercing the space-time continuum, unproving the laws of Physics to warn you.  And, if I may, steer you gently. Towards the right path. Before your concentration wavers, this fleeting dream breaks and you hearken me no more.

Stay away from death, boy.  A ‘nobody’, after death, goes beyond the rhetoric and truly becomes nobody.  Resist that. Learn swimming. Climbing. Clubbing, sawing, sowing, reaping, and starving. Learn free arm combat. Learn light arm combat. Learn heavy arm combat. Eat flesh daily and grow muscular. Eat minuscule poison daily and vary the poison. Hence, you know, the path to immortality is, but not without risk.

Embrace a tree, boy, today, now. Embrace that is green and blue and yellow around you. The flowers and the birds and the bees that go about with their ancient purposes yet seemed to exist solely for your own amusement. Bees sting. Still. They will be much gone when you are all grown up. People with fat belly and fatter purse will ask you to dream about concrete roads, dish TV and constant noise that comes from having high definition music stacks, mobile rings and honking SUVs. You are, my child, someday going to buy distraction as entertainment.

Stay away from distraction, boy. The chatter of foolish meanness will sound like the ramblings of ambition in the time of drip dozed love. No amount of Candy Crush Saga will bring you fulfillment that usually came after holding a pretty girl’s hand who drooped her eyes in shyness, kissing her, telling her not be afraid, since you were already there for her.

Embrace old theories, boy. Like Darwin’s and Pavlov’s and John von Neumann’s. If you don’t quite grasp, ask your father to explain them to you. In simple language, without the mathematics, but with the implications, what they really mean and how you can wield them to get unusual advantages in a society of self-serving men.

Stay away from the experts, boy, as much as you can, and the expert systems. Like the system that discovers merit and intelligence of a ten-year-old boy by asking two hundred multiple-choice questions. 10th Board, 12th Board, CAT, GRE, GMAT, and those sorts of nonsense. And the people who set them. This universe won’t ask you multiple-choice questions. Ever. Neither the HIV epidemic, nor the sudden earthquake nor the immortal cancerous cells. Your journey is and will be in an uncertain meaninglessness, in a wondrous vacuum, without the guidance of a map, without the knowledge of a destination harbor.

Embrace the uncertainty, boy. The not-knowingness. The people who love you will stop loving you soon, for reasons known only to them. And new people will come, to love you, in hordes, entirely for their own reasons, unknown to you. No love being worse than the other. And the fear and the anxiety of it will remain, any way, so will the hope and courage, in you, and the desperation to survive, to thrive and to go on no matter what.

And love. Oh, sweet love. That slow oozing pain at the left of your breast, the heavy heart thumping, the earth and the moon and the entire families of planets and stars revolving, around that strange sweet girl who was in a new dress and fantastic perfume, floating around your grand father’s old house, the grand father long dead; the cordial neighbor’s jolly grand daughter. That’s love. Not puppy love, not infatuation, not a teenybopper’s sporadic heart melt. That’s a clarion call to make love, to start a family, to be a father. It may not be legal now, but true. As the circle continues. As the circle will continue. With or without you. Till exists this silly human life.

Your eyes are fluttering, boy! Could you contemplate what I just have said? Would you commit them, pray, to the memory, to a plan, as a discipline, these jewel wisecracks, even if they are not so. Unlike the long verses of the great bearded poet, of your grandfather’s time and instead.  Or, would you, fancy, stare into the naught believing this is naught but a dream, in a childish fervor or in a quasi-adult fantasy.  Being plain silly. Hark, boy, this is true, now and for the all the time to come, from here to eternity, this life, will remain a wonderful futility. Thus, boy, it steals or so, eternally, the shame from your silliness.