Book 1 : The Technicolor Man : Three

—Love is a tender emotion that gently holds the eyes and the skin above it, and turns it towards delight, that every emotion that succeeds comes as a mild surprise. An island of unsurity and beauty. The Bermuda’s triangle. That foggy mysterious water beyond the unknown. The point of no return. That which can not be explained; myth. Love is like myth. Nothing can be more entertaining, nothing can be more eluding, nothing more elevating. Love is swooning through the marshes and past tides, on gliding sea kiosks. Smooth sail beneath the blue purple whispers of the moon. Love is not to be understood. It is to be felt. Love. Violence is not love, it is an obsession. So to speak that when spoken that one can die for love translates the foolishness of the mind: a certain sense of the fishy heroic: a mockery of the feeling itself. We seem to have forgotten to live for anything. At everything we start dying. Murder, arson and hell! Grow up!  

 

Thud. Geeta sprang from the well, she was washing the utensils. She sees him. Gentle lonely tears fill her eyes. Misty, hurting.

 

—Education hurts.

 

Ma. Please give me some food. I am hungry. Chintu does not want much attention. He has been bestowed an eternity of attention.

 

Slowly she gets up. All the love that a mother feels, all of it can not be peeled: Onions leave behind tears. Be calm.

 

Yes. Come and sit here. Suppressing her desire to hold him in her arms. Pour me your love, and make small bites of them. Children of birds that fly in our tender mouths. Signs of love. Sug’ga—maina.

 

Chintu slowly came and sat by her mother. Lightly touching her sari. She pours her love on a plate. His pain is lessened.

 

—Hurting faces can not chew,

“So plee-ee-ee-ee-ease,

Love me do.”

 

He devours the food, gulps it all down.

 

—The Chinese believe in chewing their food properly. It prolongs life. Ancient beliefs. Is there any food for our thoughts? There are guns now. Steel chambers of cold freedom.

 

—The darkness behind eternal light,

Just one shot,

Then a smile,

And let’s pass on the wine.

 

Take some more my love. She whispers. She does not want to wake his pain. Let them sleep. Recede to your labyrinth, you hounds of pain. Wolf cries of the night, don’t you return.

 

No ma, I am done. Want to sleep. He says with some difficulty. A cotton sponge forms in his throat.

 

—How many feelings must a child feel in a day? Even a man! Negligence, hatred, fear, hurt, and then eventually love—the cure. Does love cure anything? A crying heart? Maybe a weeping heart. I have seen love cure. It cures life, once it’s gone, because then there is no death, just the absence of life. Pure and simple swarming particles of darkness. Love can not be explained.

 

He picks himself up and walks toward the well. The trees are shocked. There is no breeze. Dancers halt in surprise. Shock.

 

—The noiseless well holds in its bosom

All the tears and fears it has welcome

Over the ages of raking silence.

 

Chintu understands the nature of things. In his innocence he is far wiser then we are with our morbid hypocrisies. He understands that there is a cry in the wind, in the wilderness, in his heart of hearts. There is a deep anchor that holds him to life—immovable be thy destiny; only pain and agony. Reasons why melancholic poetry is far more popular then poetry that is alive. We are living lumps of pain. He does not feel any form of hatred for his Master Ji, only a sense of dumb fear with no roots, no leaves. Just a trunk of fear hanging onto the nothingness of empty spaces.

 

—This is where I understand why childhood and old age are the most innocent years of mans life. My book of ‘My’ revelations. It so happens that when we are children we don’t know anything and hence everything is pure in its form, devoid of acid. The mind is immaculate and does not care about trivial vanities like war and glory. We are yet to learn the meaning of vile and hatred, though Freud says that we do have the Oedipus complex even at this age, but that is a sexual tendency of the animal called mankind. And given old age, we have already understood all that corrupts the world and being. We have all the knowledge on a whole and nothing seems worth it. It’s all all-right either this way or that. We have already realized that there is nothing that can make a productive difference. We weren’t born to be productive; by nature we are destructive animals (exceptions please be left alone). There is one cause and in turn one affect—life unto death. And this is that makes us children again, because we become ignorant of all that is considered our rights and freedom: all the excuses of power.

 

Baba go sleep. Late your papa will come. Her voice echoes from the kitchen. She can not bear the burden of his swollen sight. It is painful. Neither can I. So I am making him sleep that he might feel comfortable.

 

—That wonderful mother,

Her love she conceived from her womb.

 

Chintu takes slow gradual steps toward his room. Fear grabs him in the throat; what if he would not wake up on time? Some more swelling—he convinces himself. He does not seem to care. Fear has a tendency to exaggerate itself, to make puny of its carrier. It feeds like a virus, finishes and leaves. Until of course: anti-virus. Exaggeration: Its still afternoon. No more swelling for today. But in the grips of the fear even Paris had run from Menelaus in the dual. Not even Aphrodite could hold on to a mortal. Another incarcerating mythology, better forgotten.  

 

—The Greeks were children. Wise men.

 

The room is lit brightly by the sun, and there is an abundant amount of stuffiness and heat. His shirt wet. The neat broken shelf on the wall and the broken Matka by the side of the room speak loud about the organization of the house. About Geeta. She would not get a job in a multinational. Do you know why? Not because she is unorganized. That could never be a reason. Because she does not have enough money to lie. To fake. The gems that are made by history are fake. Look behind the glitterati. Simplicity is despised, we crave for complications. We complicate things in our consciousness to evade the sense of truth. Truth defies death and horrifies life.

 

The sweet dusty smell of the walls enters his nose. Casually singing a lullaby. The lullaby of nature. He is amazed. There is a surprise. Sweet sleep. Where are the curtains?

 

A sweet dark cloud comes in at the right time, large enough to cool off the weather, small enough to not harm the crops. It moistens the floor of the house, making the bed softer. Nature the unpredictable. It does not need to be predicted. It moves with its heart. It listens to nothing but its heart. And we strange species have not yet learnt the ways of the heart; we were too busy mastering the cunning of the mind. The irony is we faltered there as well. Flying shamans of survival: water wiser then the soul: nature, nature, nature: swoon in its name: we can swim to other horizons: love in its bosom and winter in its eyes.

 

—Silver petals and seven unicorns

Gliding against the sky

To greet and uphold the promise of love

Sway gaily, fly bye.

 

Chintu swims toward a sweet painless void. Dense and dark. Geeta comes to the door to watch him sleep. Not daring to come inside. She would have to open the door, and that could raise the screaming wolves. She can not even touch him, a slight touch on the forehead—promise of eternal love. A kiss on the forehead—promise of eternal protection. She goes back to the well, to look into that dark abyss and wait for the whisper.

 

—Old wise whisperer

Protector of my love

Make sweet sleepy dreams

 

But this time nature does not whisper.

 

—In times of desperation nature becomes a spectacular listener: mute but not ignorant. Not torture—patient. The answer shall arrive, when time shall arrive. Nature has witnessed enough misinterpretations of untimely whispers: all the derelict heretics white robed crazed resurrection believers and their pages filled of unearthly vengeance, unleashed upon the innocence of the poor, dying and the dead. I despise the religion that man created. Shallow, short chains of disillusional freedom. I despise all those who preach the higher being, slaves and worshipers of torture. Capturers and turners of the pure. They should be hanged so that this world shall redefine power, redefine existence, redefine itself. So that we become men again. Not martyrs sucking the divine cock to get an easy entry into the kingdoms of lies. There is no heaven and no hell, no swarg! Why is it so damn tough to understand this simple fact? Why did Buddha die? Why did all the real men die?

 

He turns to his left. Agony. There is a small red spot: somewhere. It is disturbing him, running from one place to another. Faster. Faster. It grows to become redder floating on a black surface. Something starts to protrude from the spot, something with a thin end. The red spot becomes a stick. Red rotten teeth all over it. Marks of bites. The stick has jaws that open up and run toward him. He runs. There are walls on his sides. They narrow the road ahead. The distance is flooded. He hurts his left hand. Red glue flows from his side; hot as lava. He is burning. The jaws close in on him. He ducks and falls into a pit the size of a dream. He swims. His left hand is about to tear from his body. He can’t breathe. Scream! He tries but fails. There is no voice. He has lost his voice. His cheeks swell and cover his eyes, he can’t see anymore. His scream echoes from a distance, bounces from mountain tops. Himalayan mountains that he has seen in his books. Beauty that even his dreams can not properly construe. The scream gets louder. Louder.

 

The mud wall. Looking at him. Eyes open. His. The wolves howl as he rushes outside. Screams even harder then his dream. Hush, rush.

 

—O mighty well, O’ protector O’ preserver

Pour me your water in this metal swell

Pour me that solution that cures death

Brings back loved ones from deaths bed.

 

Pours a bucketful of water. And runs. Runs as fast as he can. Slams the door behind him. Runs because there would be no tomorrow. It is decided. This evening the sun shall recede beneath the horizon, never to return. We shall hence be ruled by the moon. Smiling, vampire’s smile, werewolf’s howl, silver dust to breathe. Only darkness hence. Solid round tragedy with blue feathers. His feet are tired, they ache. His neck hurts, his chest grieves. His eyes swell, his body turns red. Vapor comes out of his eyes, white smoke from a moving train. A thin streak down his cheek, from drops of mercury falling from his eyes. He becomes the run child.

 

There is nothing that is present except a path that he follows. His vision is dense and smoky, radiation from snow. Toppling white. There is a song in his ear. A song with rage and screams. He has to run faster to reach. He can not be late—too late.

 

 

—No wind to help him,

Not nature even pure,

Though he runs faster,

With his heart sore.

 

He leaves behind soft clouds of dust: butterfly brown clouds. Those legs they carry him to the field. Late? Scream! He can’t. There is no air, a bubble has burst in his lungs. Panting. Huff! Huff! Huff! Two lonely legs decide to run instead. “Papa”

 

Surprise, surprise.

 

…

 

What? Screams Satis and runs. Runs. Now his turn. Father and son? Who can run? Faster? Chintu can not run anymore. He should. Being a child he can’t. Then answer the curious questions.

 

—Curiosity killed the cat. Why?     

 

Ramayram Runs. Faster then the wind. He creates a wind. The butterfly effect. There could be a tornado in Los Angeles. Mathematical possibilities. Anyways, the rest of the curious cats follow. These are not men running for power or myth, this is love the human emotion called love. They are running because they have loved. They know what it means. They are running for it—Mr. Gump; “stupid is what stupid does”. 

 

Chintu tries to catch up, but cant, though from the distance he can hear the bustle of the village. The voice of the mob, the confused sounds of the many. He hears them as a single syllable full of curiosity and confusedness. A single ‘what’ of shock and surprise, a single ‘how’ of surmise.   

Book 1 : The Technicolor Man : Two

Fake. Made. Fake. Fade. Made. Fade. Made. Are made. Gems are made. Here gems are made. In this perimeter, below the monotonous rays of the sun.

 

Must have reached school. I hope Master Ji won’t beat him today. Spoke Geeta to herself.

 

Satis was quietly washing his face by the door at the back of the house. Annoyed. He had forgotten to wake his son. How could I forget? How? What will he think of me? Will I be forgiven by god? I am a good father! So I am! And…my…son…you…shall...

 

Listen you are late and late you are, moaned Geeta over the stove. I don’t want you to be returning late, so you eat and be gone, and come back early. And we shall manage from tomorrow, without the two of you being late. 

 

Husband is the burden of religion. Another gift of the schizophrenic hallucinations of unpredictable ghosts. Husband. Keep him happy. He is like a god; Demi-god. To go against the husband is sin. Go against whom? Will! To man’s dominance!: Ill! Oo’ ans’ Ominance!

 

— The garden of fools sowed with saffron seeds.

 

Two minutes. Mumbled Satis. We over-slept. Poor boy. Oh! God make a miracle.

 

Oedipus here is your contradiction. The father cares for his son. Will Sigmund believe me? Or will he roll over and die again. Aa aa Chim. I will ignore him. When I meet him.

 

Come, you have yo’re food. Said Geeta.

 

No reply. He knows. Don’t remind him.

 

Do you think we will have a good harvest this year? Questions Geeta in a brown voice. Satis was about to seat himself next to her. Breakfast. Break your, break fast, and leave. Geeta: gentle soul, not submitting; just curious with her love. She recognizes her duty, like a child recognizes a toy. This comes from love. The other. Are you going to have a good harvest—forced to love. Questions change. Perspectives change. Frustration: Changes even the mountain: I guess.

 

She handed him a copper plate with bent edges to hold the gravy in them. Aaloo ki sabjee and nine rotis. A chilly. Green reflection on the tanned gold of copper. Shimmering brightness. The oddest; look most beautiful.

 

Satis sat with his legs criss-crossed on the mud floor. Put the plate. Started to swallow. All the walls saw him eat. All of them sympathized. They were aware he did not need it. He did not deserve it. The sympathy. But it was the dash that comes of respect. They knew he had kept them well. Fed them with new mud every season. They knew he wouldn’t let them crumble unless he crumble himself. But poverty has four feet: two tied—two paralyzed.

 

—o’ Fortune

Sing your tune

Sing. Me. Your. lull-a-bye

O’ fortune. Make me fly.

 

Geeta was noticing him from the corner of her eye. She adored her husband despicably. Not the most appropriate word to use. But how else do you define real love, love beyond worship? It is the love that does not seek a change in its object for the sake of itself rather loves because the object does not change for it. She wanted to mutter her thoughts. Wanted him to answer her according to her wishes. The conflict of two different loves. It is possible to love two at the same time.

  

Will we be able to give him something this time on his birthday?—She asked politely. Calm, the mother propagates her desire of the love of her child.   

 

He nodds. Yes. No. God knows. The fact that it’s always he, who knows, makes it pathetic. How sad that there is nothing that he can wish to know. How boring, in his wisdom. No wonder I never had a feeling for him. I don’t want to get bored by knowledge.

 

—Buddha never understood the system: nor his followers. They had knowledge of things beyond. The final conclusions, the final solutions. Hence, they taught never to fight. Where is Tibet today? Peace? Gotterdammerung = Get Your Damn Rug and Run! This world is a mythical beast of power. Dragons that fight not for food, but power. That might be its food, but its dangerous, for that is its fire. And it can burn cities, and countries. The dragon of mythical ages; survives. Men that crave for power. Ugly dragons, of the guile. Its funny, how people die for land. True. False. Old. Gold. What happened? To the heart. We have misunderstood ourselves as higher beings. We LoWeR BeingS.       

 

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Slurp. Chomp. Slurp. Slurp. He finished the last of his food.

 

Gudak. Gudak. Gudak. Gudak. “Cling” says the Copper pot as Satis puts it back on the floor. Copper returned to earth. Copper, water—embrace: harmony. It had been a gift of a distant disciple to his father. Reverent lying prostrate on the banks of faith beside a filthy river of holiness. She was called to soak ashes, but her force was unstoppable so she was held in the hair of the angry destroyer dancer sitting on animal skin. What Bollocks! Good that Mrs. Menika Gandhi was born in our age or you could have sat on the skin Mr. Dancer and she would have peeled off your Dash.

 

They want to learn if they shall heave and sigh and leave for paradise! And tell them they will—gifts follow (copper pots, gold plates, jewelry, grand houses, land holdings, shares in multinational organizations, member of the board, et cecctra et cecctra). It’s not necessary to tell the truth. Someone said if the doctor would tell you that you don’t have a problem then he becomes an undistinguished professional of his profession, not worthy of respect, and definitely not worth knocking his door again. How can they not have a problem? Unbelievable!

 

He slowly moves to get up but is held in Geeta’s eyes. Looks at the curious things that spring of those curious eyes. They are loud and questioning.

 

—Answer this question o’ husband of mine

Answer, answer, answer o’ husband divine

 

Yes, I was thinking of the same thing. Says he under his breath. I think I will take him to the city with me. And if he would like something there—let’s see.

 

Elation, that driver of evil. Happiness thy wings are sinned. Happiness leads to hope, to optimism—there is no scope for a person with optimism in heaven. You can’t repent when you are optimistic. Things start to fall into place, you begin to love humans. And that. Is the ultimate sin. 

 

She loves him in this moment. She loves him. Could have just stood up and jumped in his arms. But. There are rules. God Forbid—God has forbidden. You can not show your elation, your happiness. No. Not even to your husband; with your husband; No. Does that make sense at all?

 

Her eyes jump and dance. She sits still. Satis leaves her eyes and slowly walks towards the rear of the house to wash his hands by the well. Completely ecstatic with the nebula explosion he just witnessed in his wife’s eyes, he carries with him a vast smile on his face.

 

—Oh’ those eyes.

My prize. My prize.

 

Even the stony well welcomes him with special wetness. The trees that surround the back of his house swing gaily. There is a huge plantation of nature behind the house. Dense to look at, but not frightening. They started singing and dancing in a poetic trace. Twice right and one left. Forward backward. Casually. Don’t break your backs.   

 

—Sing they do;

Swing, swing, swinging.

 

He shifts the bucket to the edge of the well and pours some water on his hands. The well whispers a soft hiss as he bends close to the edge. Thanks for the promise! 

 

Revert to your duty now. He hums a glad tune as he turns around and leaves. The sun shining brightly, unharsh. Looks over him and his son and his wife.

 

Satis didn’t have much land, consequently; had difficulty in meeting ends. But with Geeta by his shoulder they made theirs and their son’s life smooth as butter (exaggeration). Not much was refused to their son. And they by hoping and needing and wanting for less had been able to stay content for the 9 years they had been together. Ever wondered why farmers starve and packaging companies thrive? You can wonder now. He worked hard. The village respected him, though he was not a person who spoke much. There was not a person who had seen him angry. He was forever calm; part of the reason people followed his advice. The pundits envied him, because he gave good advice—for free. Incomprehensible. Advice is directly proportional to expensive. Really expensive. And more often then not there had been gossip. Satis was the incarnation of some evil. Oh! These idiots. Why can’t they mind their own business?

 

Every saint, priest, pundit has his temple of worship. They have their stone statues to keep them occupied, but no! Case One-For example: They want Ayodhya as well. So what if it’s a birth place for a man who turned out to be god? He’s long gone now? This is where we forget what the Hindu religion teaches us. Crib not people. Isn’t that what it says? Anyways, isn’t there a shrine even now? Of a god. Can’t they be happy? Of some god!

 

Why can’t they build orphanages instead of mute shrines of dumb stupidity?

 

—Suppose.

 

—If one has only two temples, and the other, three. Who will earn more rewards?

 

—It’s a race for the softest cushion in the castle of boredom.

(Before the instance of death)

—Father give me a two B.H.K. I got more disciples.

 

—No father. I got more.

(Truth answers the dying. Nirvana is attained. Clap. Clap)

—Son. I don’t have a say.

 

—Who does? (Simultaneously)

 

—Silence shrouds the dead. The world ends when you die. That’s it!

 

Satis walked out of the front door that creaked and crowed in muscular pain. A reminder. Fix me soon, or I will swoon. I should fix it soon. All hearts wither if uncared for. How weird is everything. As if everything is living and breathing and withering. Even the crops. Should I run? I am really late. The crops need to be respected. Will I earn enough this season? I should make a better deal with him.

 

The sparkling sun lights the way through the branches and leaves of the trees. Sparkling lamps on the dusty floor. His shadow runs wild. Appearing disappearing, mingling with the shadows of the trees. Scattered minute eyes watch him go. Quietly walking, pressed in his thought. They crawl to the edges of the branches, sometimes making soft sounds. Gentle weavings of breaths. Music of the four limbed and two winged.

 

On some trees birds sit in varied amusement. Wondering whether they are bored or not. Strange. If a bird begins to think at any moment in time and starts to evaluate whether in that instant it is bored or not, then in that very instant by that act of rationalizing could it be considered bored or not? Strange. Tweeeet. It means bored in bird language.

 

He crossed a hut, much like his own. The same size and torn. A little worse kept. His closest neighbors. Ten minute walk from his house. The door was shut. Ramaram must have reached his field. Or? Is. He late as well. No.

 

The mud-burnt hut passed behind him. Ramaram could not find the time to fix it. And his wife was forever occupied with the children to put a new layer of mud on the walls. The cracks were visible in his hut as well. Development and infrastructure. Parliament speeches. They talk about it before they go to eat their lunch; for an hour. And then return and talk again. Sometimes fight as well, about dreams of becoming the Prime Minister. Do they think of what they would do if they became the Prime Minister? Except of course earn shit loads of money. Democracy this is called. I don’t really know if this is what it meant if this is what they call it.

 

He turned to take another look. There was a small barred window at the side. Like we read about in Pather Panchali. Hidden under the shadow of a tree. Quietly sat Lila by it. She waved as he turned. Ever excited. She would have jumped out in all innocence, but the windows barred her.

 

Lila was a five year old pretty and naughty girl. She could twist her face in all manners possible and in all definitiveness passed as the cutest sample of our species, and to exaggerate a bit, amongst all species. But there are dolphins as well. The most pampered girl the village had ever seen, or was ever going to see. Wait until she grows up. Whirlwind with no feet. She will turn their heads and hearts.

 

A lot of priests had come to Ramayram with advice that she should be married off. But Ramaram was a well thought out piece of flesh. He wanted her to become an educated woman. Not a toy in the hands of men. Something the priests could not digest again. They should take some digestive pills. I can suggest a doctor if they want some advice. Dr. Dang, D-1, Hauz khas, Delhi. They should see him sometime. Might be a bit expensive though.

 

Satis was quite fond of Lila. An arm raised itself and swum in the air left right left right.

 

—Lila, O’ playful Lila

Theatre of childhood

Shake not your dreams

Shake not your moods.

 

He walked past a couple of similar houses to reach at length where the fields started. His was a little farther off. The cultivable land started with Ramayram’s field, then came patch eyed Sikha’s, then was Jabal’s, then I forgot whose and then his. He stood there and looked at his possession with great pride.

 

—No wonder men die for land.

What is it that it holds?

Promises of a sure grave!

 

Calm and tensed. Sensed, just replace the T with an S and see what it becomes. He moves toward his food, his life, his only means to live. To evade the clutches of death. Thinking of his wife, his son, and how it was mixed with the future of this piece of land. Thinking how growing food for others gave him clothes for himself. Ramayram is struggling with his field. Waves at him from another end, and gets back to work. The others are as busy while he crosses them.

 

Why you late? Roared Jabal. His muscles carved by Michelangelo, he had a shinning black short body, with a lump of curly puffy hair, made him look like medusa from a distance. With a dirty lungi tied across his waist, soaked in sweat, he shone and shimmered like a mirage.   

 

Satis made a gesture saying it was nothing as he walked past. The hand shaking like a fit, rising and falling. Such a tense action for the arm, and signifies nothingness. We have strange ways, stranger is our understanding.

 

—Who created money? The Will of Man!: Arguable. You can are-gu-able yourself. I think it was money that created man, not the other way around. Before that; we were animals. Casually peeing on our trees to procure our land. Beasts. We still are. Just that we deny it. Despicable creatures. Bombing in Delhi, for land in Kashmir. Yes, they sure do want a land. To urinate on.

 

He touched the first layer of his growth. His sweat and effort. The swaying bales of hay. All his emotions turn gay. Not eureka, but ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy. And elation. And something else. Something more important. More rare. Love. That’s it, that’s what he felt. Love and all its gladness. He felt love for his crops, he felt love for himself. For his wife and child. For his future. He felt. Love.

 

—Love. Isn’t violence a form of love? The strangest form. Answer me, is it?