Doors To The Middle

The neighbors complained all the time, sulking while they gossiped over their timeless tea. Although there had been no complain about his behavior—a sweet helpful lad, busy in his own world, with his tulip dreams—they thoroughly despised the exercise of his art of singing. Helpless as they were, they procured solutions (amongst themselves), solved the problem (over tea or dinner), and went off to sleep only to wake up again to his voice, which even I with the fear of nature’s wrath shall not dare to compare to a nightingale’s. Nonetheless he had been duly notified quite a number of times about his priceless voice, priceless of course in the ironic sense of the word. But. Nothing could stop or dissuade him from whimpering those otherwise delightful songs in his untamed and barbaric (in context to the evolution of the art of singing) voice. He moaned and cried through day and night. Through his waking hours leaving behind a trail of terror so unfortunate that those who heard his voice nearly lost their sanity. They roamed the dark labyrinths of thoughts where lurked vicious poisonous snakes, whispering soft painless misery in their ears. The neighbors had just fallen short of calling the police, though not much could be achieved by those means as well. The streets themselves were left abandoned through these opera-tic experiments. And so he sang, and sang without restraint, breaking glasses and crumbling metal. He sang as he bathed under the warm motherly rain of shower in his New York apartment. Today was one of those special days when his adrenalin was pumped beyond the danger mark, exceeding way beyond the flood mark, and sweet ancient Nile threatened all that stood in its way—figuratively. Such immense were the effects of this distortion that all of things stood confused. Adults became children, children were still in their wombs, gossiping women with their imaginary wombs chatted while they baked in the oven, the old turned into albatrosses, the television was hungry, everything, in short, had lost its natural order. And through this universal turmoil, unconcerned, he turned of the shower and gladly stood in front of the mirror. Quite at last. Evaluating his features as he stood, anointing a body lotion, while his throat gunned its engine again and soared the rather higher realms of musical foundations. The glass was shaking. With the help of ‘N’ number of movements of precision, attained by years of practice he comber his hair and wore his favorite perfume. Satisfied. He draped his towel around his waist and opened the door.

As she emerged from the bathroom, after her disinterested bath, her voice rang out to her neighbors. And at that instant and for all moments to follow all was lost. Enchanted. Beauty in its naked form: witch with her broom: she with her voice: she conquered far more easily then Alexander. The effects of her singing had been so adverse that her landlady in all profundity had excused her the tiresome ordeal of paying the monthly rent for her beautiful Lokhandwala apartment. Though when questioned, the landlady, in all honesty claimed that the rent was paid duly, only not in cash but in kind. A payment she made every morning without any qualms. She sang. And this day she sang her most melodious while she put on her favorite set of lingerie. Cotton, black. Not branded, merely comfortable, sort of the ones that are put in baskets and are forever on sale in big shopping malls. Today she wished to be comfortable, to be able to be completely herself, to be free. In her tune, in her song, flowing softly she puts on her underwear. Slowly as she raises her underwear some of the orphan lost drops get wiped; her Aphrodite’s buttocks and the shimmering pubic hair get devoured by its hunger. The brassier softly hugs her full breasts as she puts on her superman t-shirt. She ties a broad brown leather strap around her waist; its two suspenders carrying heavy black boxes go from over her breasts and hold on at her back. Already her sweat has wet her back. She wears the black Reebok sports jacket she had bought last winter. Last: her hippie blue jeans effortlessly pull over her smooth plump legs and send the underwear in shadows. Today is special. The neighbors know it, for her voice is far more serene. She can’t wait to reach the restaurant. Her heart skips and dances to the modulations of her tongue, while her mind marvels at the beauty of love, at its ability to heighten the senses. How it prolongs every moment and makes them precious and visible. How it justifies the birth of a person; makes hardships worth bearing. How while looking in that one face all the truth of the heart automatically pours out. Nothing remains but a certain gladness far more superior then the beauty of visibility. And with these thoughts she opens the door of her house.

As his face is projected in the stairway, all eyes turn to him. Angry for his song, and eager for his departure. Requests have been postponed. But he is too ecstatic to notice. The Rajah today, for one precious day in the great continuum of time forgets his Prajah. He is too happy to care for such trivialities as anger. As his first step touches the embossed green carpet of the stairs a deadly poisonous marksman’s arrow pierces his ears. His brain storms with thoughts, thoughts that have roots in the comment, but have branched out to a different school of thought, a different debate, an ancient philosophy, one that is dead. Why can’t a person be happy as soon as he sees another happy person? Shouldn’t there be some trigger, automatic, that unleashes a chain reaction of this sort of happiness? What must he say as he enters? Now the diversion from the mundane to more serious matters. To the present. To important things. Things of love. Just a hello? NO! Something more. Something more especial. Something… Could he just say the word ‘something’ he humors with himself. Drift again. The young river of love carrying its rapid thoughts waits for no answers, no rationalization. The young and eager river bumps from one thought to another, that is the adventure of a new found love, the excitement of it. Love is like a young river up in the mountains, full of white water rapids. It topples boats only to excite those sitting inside them. Love is the finest adventure sport. He calculates the measure of her happiness. The breadth of her smile. All the trivial imaginations of a young immaculate heart. How beautiful she must be today? Is he late? Checking the time he opens the door to the street.

People carrying thousand year old genetically decomposed stench of sweat emerge in front her as she emerges in front of them. They more on. So many people perspiring so many thoughts. So many in love. Two schoolgirls pass her giggling away to Narnia, duly humored by her jacket. Their day is made. They shall walk all the way home discussing her, will be forced to eat some form of lunch that they don’t wish to eat, and then use the magical device called telephone to continue the thread of discussion until in the evening their mother shall reprimand them for a lengthy telephone bill. Cursing under their breaths they shall promise to continue over the topic the next day, while they hang up only to forget about it through their wet dreams. She is ignorant to such giggles, all that interests her is the meaning of love. The feeling of love. The lightness that it produces in the bones and muscles. The presence of reason, responsibility and worth that it brings. The mature love. The love of the soul, one that gives not takes, without any expectations. One that creates martyrs and militants, without two thoughts about it. She hums as she moves on. Rich desperate boys in elongated cars visually fuck her through their expensive glasses. They will dream of her tonight. Of her round buttocks. But she is oblivious to reality. There is only one thing that is stirring her heart and mind; purpose; and the purpose is love. She passes an old couple, standing hand in hand, waiting for a taxi and she wonders how she even walk hand in hand with her lover, how even in the other purer world she shall support her lover. Her pace becomes slower as she nears her destination. She wants to be ready. She fixes her hair with a wave of the hand, pulls her jacket properly, and checks her shoes. Her back is straight. A delivery boy exits the restaurant and leaves the door open for her. She enters with her curious eyes.

He enters with his curious eyes.

Casually she looks around the crowd. He spots her and rushes to her. There are children in her way. She has to go to the other end for her love. Toward the middle. He almost runs inside the murmuring restaurant, runs to keep pace with his heart. She spots him through the crowd. Her lover. He reaches her with his gloves in his hand, grabs her in his ecstasy, picks her up, and swoom she goes with a smile. His nirvana attained. His heaven reached. She reaches the middle where her lover stands, invisible to all other eyes, and hugs herself. Hugs herself tight. Tears in her eyes, she is happy. Her salvation restrained. Just one more touch. She pushes harder against herself. Scared stares reach her. He sits across from her, without leaving her eyes. She opens her eyes and it devours everything. Soft fleshy children fly away from her. The tables rip. Rubies sparkle throughout the restaurant, on white washed walls. Flames erupt from stomachs. Screams from throats. Her salvation attained. Her Kashmir, her love, her peace—attained. She reaches across the table and kisses him. His Kashmir, his love, his peace—attained.