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!:
— 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.
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
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,
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
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?
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