—In the grooves and between the trees of a village there are families residing—through the goat paths, the straws, and the leaves in their opulently air-ee-ated hole-some houses—intertwined.
—They meet. They cheer. They greet. In the morning they meet, cheer, and greet. Through the day they work, eat, produce, and sing. They do it so that the minds of the intricate world can survive with their intricacies. Their sweat is sowed and reaped through the mingling evaporating riot of seasons. This is the village. Cold, warm and green. Here is the house—seasoned by the lack of riches—of the family.
The sun came up early today, a little too early. Chintu could have used a couple of hours more of sleep. His four feet small fragile body could use it. Only if the fear of ‘Master Ji’ would not have been dancing the Dionysian dance in his drowsy heart. Did Eklavya ever fear Drona? So beautiful and complicated in mythology: heartless beasts glorified as gods.
His eyes were bulging when he opened them to the strange intensity of the morning sun. It shouldn’t have been this bright, not at this hour or may be the anticipated hour was wrong. The shadow of the tree outside was growing smaller and moving away from the house. The voluptuous tree called to its shadow—stop o’ dear one: but who can stop the sun?
The clear blue hue from Vincent’s pallet and white floating vapor packets of dry rain that shall never fall crowded the sky in English taste. Pervert and hypocritical. Sad and tyrannical. Vast in the name of the powerful Queen who has sent her messengers to culture the land of the uncultured. Opium—the fog of space; floating mass of freedom. Reliever of age, bringer of youth and glory and timelessness. Thy wars are infatigueable. Come colonization build your columns of opium. There was a feeling of heat; sort of a calling, to make anticipation of anticipation possible, a sort of an example before the exercise, just enough to make the idea clear.
Chintu was late.
—A young bullet shot in the house and bounced clinging and clanging.
Geeta opened her shocked; brown and mild eyes, arose, and rushed outside. All in the rush of an instant. The day had dawned, and loitered ahead, leaving the walls without shadows in the wrinkles that crept from one side of the room to another. There were dark lines though. Dark lines: cracks. There was not even a reminiscence of a shadow.
Chintu was definitely late.
It hurt Geeta every time she thought of Chintu being late for school. It would have been all right if it was only about missing a subject or two. But today, Chintu would come back at least an inch swollen throughout. An inch.
—It is through fear that the children of the deprived are bred. They are powerless; their fathers helplessly father them. Crying fathers of dead children. The rich can dispose off the teacher himself; throw him out, like a purpose solved condom. But the poor? They pay the price of being what they are—poor. Forgive the wrong, for there will be a time when you shall have your moment. So says the almighty. So says them. Are you sure that there is a kingdom? Another kingdom? Will we have to tolerate god again?
—The master went through the procedure in his youth, and repeats the actions he had once thoroughly despised. :. We become the image we most hate.
Tanned brown, wearing blue shorts and a starched yellow shirt that used to be white when it had been bought, Chintu rushes through the door thinking of food. He resembles a storm. Fast, ragged and furious. His legs race the ground with uncertain confidence: of course that’s a form of confidence, but it is uncertain. Two short poles evenly divided in the middle. His upper torso is a little longer then it should be. But that decisively adds to the beauty of his fragile body. His face is brown and warm. A homely nose, not too short, but pointed. A smooth face. It reminds of a Greek sea if one was to think too hard. Otherwise; it’s just a face. Blah Blah Blah.
He has missed his breakfast again. Somehow he never got his head around the idea of missing his meals. He loves to eat, just anything. But food is a scarcity for the village, and a liability for the rich. What you sow and reap is not what you eat!
—Where grains grow in the fertile land
And tilled by those fruitful hands,
There lavishes famine,
And there lie graves,
Of our submitting prey.
His feet ride him along the narrow green path, cow dung cakes cover the bushes beside him like Christmas tree settings, and the dilapidated walls of tattered and weather-torn houses that pass by every now and then and coil into some corner of the memory becoming the obvious (we ignore the obvious, take it for granted), and the salty smell of urine rise to greet his steps. His rushing feet and his desultory breath bathe in the senses of the village. Pure nature—welcome unhurt. The trees awaken to his heaving, as he storms through the path. A breeze comes from behind him, gently helping him to carry on, putting in some effort to help him rush. Just a gentle effort, a lulled push by nature’s arm.
—Let me carry you
Oh child!
Let me help your feet
To rush through your innocence
Towards the world
And worldly men.
He emits an odor, the odor of his soul, his sweat. Sweat soaked shirt. The odor of his identity. The smell of the innocent rose. Gardener comes and plucks it to make beautiful bunches. Each sells for Rs.10. A bunch of 10 is equal to equal to 10 into 10 is equal to 100. Rich gardener earns of someone else’s soul.
—Dear Rose,
Who steals your smell your soul? What do you earn by your essence? Do bees pay you? Does the gardener share his share?
Regards
Mr. El-O-En-Dee-O-En London!
Reply
Dear Mr. El-O-En-Dee-O-En London,
I am glad for your concern. The bees repay me by their homage, a certain share of their love of their love for the love of my existence. They love me because I complete them. The gardener steals from me my soul. He does not drink of my love, he steals it. He does not ask of it, or ever thank me for it. He rips it from me. He Causes My Death. Curse the Apple. In his sycophantic hallucinations (the idea that sits amongst his thoughts that I am his creation), he conspires the genocide of my essence. I have been chained to his slavery, his boring grave will that forever takes from my smell the essence of happiness. That takes from me my will to live, to feel joy. He shares with me only his curse, my death, his revenge.
Regards
A broken creaking gate holds the school premises to its heart. Swinging gaily, lazily, beside a stooping clock of wood. Naughty girl with her hurried smile. She does not understand what she calls for. Thirty years ago when Master Ji had been a freshly appointed teacher to this school it had been conjoined to the wall under his and his student’s guidance. There had been a ceremony; a marigold garland had been put on the gate for months. It had been a subject of great pride for all concerned directly or indirectly with the school or the village. Gates, and barriers: we take pride in them; separatists.
But both Master Ji and the gate had withered with time. Both had learned to creak and crow, both sulked with age and made profane gestures in sound. Master Ji had lost his temper; he had lost his life; he had lost his dream; to the unnerving antics of the village. Sometimes giving up is considered virtuous. Patrons of boredom—heralds of death. If you let your dreams die, what dream can you nurture in minds that truly deserve a dream. Compromise, animals, compromise.
Chintu entered the cold building that had its walls coming off and reeked of a collective noise that penetrated the mind and never left. Its paint had rotten. It rolled out an aura of a dead corpse, with a distinct source of energy. It struck with shock. But the shock was of that which leaves us unnerved. Can the house of knowledge—the house of wisdom—resemble the house of doom? Show me the kingdom! And I will show you a lie.
—We create images of our wisdom: not in our wisdom: with conviction. The house of knowledge resides in a word, in a mind, not in a wall.
—Break down the castle of the foretold
We are the children of a new breeze
Forget us if we don’t except what you preach
We shall learn from the naked trees.
Panting and rushing he reached the door of his nightmare, and stood silently. He did not know how to react. All eyes turned to him, a gesture of sympathy with the knowledge of the future.
Calm and cruel Master Ji threw the chalk from his hand and raised his voice as if to mock the idea of future itself (the profanity of his words have been omitted here)—So here is you, my lad. Good. Very good!
Trembling emotions take siege. Chintu moaned a mute—Yes, Master Ji. The words came out like puberty. Fresh and unheard. You could not squeeze the untold from lime; they configure only juice.
Achaaa! Come late and no reply, Excuse you can give at least. But no! I thinks you need a lesson, but a different lesson, Smiled Master Ji. Red rotten teeth.
He rushes to his prey. His vengeance restored. Two frightened eyes catch the million shadows on the ceiling. Cow eyes. Cub eyes. Floating in the space with shooting stars. All sorts of spiders and webs. Instructors of Biology. Tangled and prostrate—beaten blue, we live as long as a sparkling dew. Sudden change of scene, his eyes see the room. There are shocking changes. Rapid changes in shape, fast moving objects, from one corner of the eye to the other. Comets rushing towards other orbits. One of these might have caused the end of Dinosaurs before the beginning of time. Thus bringing boredom. Us. Nothing is constant. Light. Dark. Pain. There is a pleasure in pain. A very subtle pleasure, only for those who understand.
That will teach you not to come late now—says a bulging voice from a bulging stomach. Give it horns. Greet the lord of darkness. But: he is innocent. He knows not what he does. The devil was not wrong in what he did. The problem was he was too right. And that’s always wrong.
—Let’s play a subtle game
One where you, and I can blame
One where I, and you can blame
Let’s play a subtle game
Chintu went over to his desk. And smoothened himself on a seat. Yet again wood calls. Soft and motherly. Scroooaap. What was he teaching before I entered? Has he forgotten? What book do I bring out? Or do I just shut my bag again? Who wrote history? Do we all have a hand?
—Sit yourself dear friend
Nature will guide you till the end.
—History swims like waves, crashes upon rocks. Here gems are made. Gems are made. Are made. Made. Fade. Made. Fade. Fake. Made. Fake.
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