Yesterday, he moved into the basement. I have lived there for three years. It was late, around eleven, and I was gently coaxing the aging trio of locks on my front door. They turn more easily if spoken to like children. The door of the empty apartment opened behind me. I turned around and looked at the intruder. He had long dreadlocks and I was frightened. I may have gasped.
He said, “I did not mean to alarm you. I moved in today.”
“Great. Welcome.”
“Can you tell me where the garbage room is?”
“Take a right at the elevator. It’s at the end of the hallway.” This time I tried to be polite. I smiled sweetly. I am a girl, after all.
Today, I am upset. For seven months I have been the lone phantom of this basement. Yabei left in the summer, after she graduated. No one took her place. She was accommodating and I miss her. She would let me play my music loud. Now I play it louder. I use my vacuum cleaner late at night. I laugh and talk carelessly on my telephone. I leave my bicycle and my doormat in the hallway. I dig my nose. I whistle. I fart.
But what now?
I am in my office. It is a tiny room and I share it with Nadeem. He is a bulging Pakistani and, like me, also laboring for a phd. In the morning I held a micro-economics section for my undergrads. I like sections better than lectures. The nicer kids – the kind you want to get to know – talk more in sections. I am grading assignments and Nadeem is day dreaming. There is a faint grin on his face.
I hear my neighbor hammering when I get home. Dull thuds slip out from under his door. I strike it with my fist.
“Stop that! Stop!”
He is at the door, and looks at me uncertainly with a quizzical frown and clear eyes. He is trying to look friendly and sincere. ”I didn’t realize it would be so loud. I am sorry.”
“It’s not the noise.” I walk angrily into to my apartment.
There is no more hammering in the night. But in the morning, he knocks and says, “I wanted to apologize again for last evening. I will put up my blinds while you are away. What time do you get back?”
“Never before seven.”
“Great.” Then he adds, speaking like a student cautiously beginning a classroom discussion, “I was wondering if you had any two inch nails. I have run out.”
Again I frighten him. He is not prepared for my scream.
“Get out! Leave me alone!” I slam the door shut.
I rush to my tiny office and to the distracting effervescence of Nadeem’s humour.
He is hammering when I return in the evening. I turn around and leave – my basement - and go to Karen’s place, and I sleep there.
The nightmare returns. It is my grandfather’s face. I never saw him - he died before I was born. Before my father was born too. There is pain and heat and a long nail. It is recurring, and I have learnt to sleep through it. But the nail! It lingers when I am awake.
I am a Dom. No, said like that I accept that I am. This is better - I am considered a Dom, in India at least. The Doms are a caste. They are a filthy polluting caste, the least touchable of the untouchables. They are the thin creatures that lurk in the cremation grounds and the burning banks of holy rivers. They tend to the dead and live with the stench of charred human flesh. They, at best, are the servants of dead Hindu corpses. They light the pyre. They help the son of the corpse break the skull of his dead parent with the skilled jab of a bamboo stick (else it explodes and the brain creates a mess).
So there, I am a Dom. Every other Hindu considers himself my master. Every other Hindu believes, deep within, in the Laws of Manu, written by a mythological ideologue one thousand five hundred years before Christ, nine hundred before Gautam Buddha.
Chapter eight is the best (I keep a copy on my shelf). Law two hundred and seventy two: “If a Sudra (the lowest caste) arrogantly teaches Brahmins their duty, the king shall cause hot oil to be poured into his mouth and into his ears.” Law two hundred and seventy one: “If he mentions the names and castes of the Brahmins with arrogance, an iron nail, ten fingers long, shall be thrust red-hot into his mouth.” Law two hundred and eighty two: “If out of arrogance a Sudra spits on a superior, the king shall cause both his lips to be cut off; if he urinates, the penis; if he breaks wind, the anus.”
Chapter nine, law one hundred and thirty two: “ Having killed a cat, an ichneumon, a blue jay, a frog, a dog, an iguana, an owl, or a crow, a Brahmin shall perform penance similar to that for the murder of a Sudra."
I should stop. My life, it seems, is as important as that of the ichneumon, an animal I have never seen or heard or heard of. Not that I grudge the ichneumon. For why should I – or anyone - presume that I am more worthy than it?
At home, no one talks about my grandfather, my father’s father. My other grandparents I know and have seen. But there is a silence about my grandfather within which a rumor circulates of a horrible death. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. For what then will I want to know of his father? His mother? Their parents? Were they fed red hot nails, too? Because Manu said so? Three fucking thousand years ago?
My father never talks about his father. He is a bureaucrat in Nagpur, and has a reserved job in the government. I am his daughter. I live in America, and I study economics here.
Dreadlocks in my basement has taken to annoying me every way that he can. He plays his music loudly. He laughs loudly. He speaks on his telephone late at night. He digs his nose with glee. Maybe he farts.
But, if that is all, all that is alright.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Bureau Chief
“What are you thinking?” he asks, looking into the rear view mirror.
“Nothing.”
“No, what are you?” turning to look at her.
“I am looking at the construction outside. I am not thinking anything, really” she says.
The road to Delhi’s airport is being rebuilt. But it is dark and there is no rebuilding now. It will start again in the morning when engineers in yellow hard hats with rolls of drawings tucked in their armpits will arrive to oversee hundreds of laboring women. The women will not be given any hats. They wouldn’t wear that male attire anyway.
“I think we’re in an epochal period of boom. There are constructions sites all over the city. I am amazed at the amount of money there is in this city – private money, public money, black money.” He sounds excited.
His car is a year old. It is a Hyundai, one of the bigger ones. Two weeks ago and just arrived in Delhi, she had decided that he now drove like how he walked – erratic in pace and sometimes with a swagger.
“If this is epochal, I wonder how the Chinese describe their boom.”
“By the way did you read that Arindam Nair is going to head New York Times' Delhi bureau? He’s the first Indian to do so.”
“Yes, I read. Every newspaper here has it on the front page. I didn’t realize the New York Times was so popular, considering its not read here at all.”
“It is not in the reading – I have never even seen it - it’s just that they thought this guy could do it.”
“He is Indian and this is Delhi. I am surprised that the Times thought the Americans before could run it.” She is playing with the latch on the glove compartment.
“The last one was Cambodian actually. I also read that three Indian Americans got grants from the Guggenheim Foundation this year. Seems like its been a good week for India. Makes me sort of patriotic.”
“Yes, I read that too. I also read that there were another one hundred and sixty three who were not Indian American.”
He adjusts his rear view mirror and is silent for a minute.
“You’ve been away too long to understand any of this. It’s like you’ve forgotten how difficult it is to accomplish anything here, and how big a deal it really is when something does get accomplished.”
“Balls. I thought all this bizarre even then, before I left. Its stupid to think that every insignificant accomplishment is symbolic of breaking free, of revealing ourselves to be the true achievers we really are. It is chauvinist bullcrap and only shows that we are riddled, riddled with under-confidence.”
She pauses and then adds, ”And it’s only been two years since I’ve been in LA.”
“Still, it’s not like you have to struggle here anymore. You act like – no, you’ve become – an outsider. One who can judge wisely from a luxurious distance; riddled, riddled with superiority.”
“Well, I struggle in LA now. And I am sure you judge me as wisely and as luxuriously from a distance as you think I do you. You should if you don’t.”
“You don’t get it. You no longer know the meaning of struggle or success.”
After a five minutes he pulls up at the departure curb at the airport. They hug and pat each other on the back and she walks away pushing her luggage trolley. She turns once and shouts backs to her brother, “I heard an Indian just became head of LA City's sanitation department. I am sad that I will be missing out on all the celebrations here.”
“Nothing.”
“No, what are you?” turning to look at her.
“I am looking at the construction outside. I am not thinking anything, really” she says.
The road to Delhi’s airport is being rebuilt. But it is dark and there is no rebuilding now. It will start again in the morning when engineers in yellow hard hats with rolls of drawings tucked in their armpits will arrive to oversee hundreds of laboring women. The women will not be given any hats. They wouldn’t wear that male attire anyway.
“I think we’re in an epochal period of boom. There are constructions sites all over the city. I am amazed at the amount of money there is in this city – private money, public money, black money.” He sounds excited.
His car is a year old. It is a Hyundai, one of the bigger ones. Two weeks ago and just arrived in Delhi, she had decided that he now drove like how he walked – erratic in pace and sometimes with a swagger.
“If this is epochal, I wonder how the Chinese describe their boom.”
“By the way did you read that Arindam Nair is going to head New York Times' Delhi bureau? He’s the first Indian to do so.”
“Yes, I read. Every newspaper here has it on the front page. I didn’t realize the New York Times was so popular, considering its not read here at all.”
“It is not in the reading – I have never even seen it - it’s just that they thought this guy could do it.”
“He is Indian and this is Delhi. I am surprised that the Times thought the Americans before could run it.” She is playing with the latch on the glove compartment.
“The last one was Cambodian actually. I also read that three Indian Americans got grants from the Guggenheim Foundation this year. Seems like its been a good week for India. Makes me sort of patriotic.”
“Yes, I read that too. I also read that there were another one hundred and sixty three who were not Indian American.”
He adjusts his rear view mirror and is silent for a minute.
“You’ve been away too long to understand any of this. It’s like you’ve forgotten how difficult it is to accomplish anything here, and how big a deal it really is when something does get accomplished.”
“Balls. I thought all this bizarre even then, before I left. Its stupid to think that every insignificant accomplishment is symbolic of breaking free, of revealing ourselves to be the true achievers we really are. It is chauvinist bullcrap and only shows that we are riddled, riddled with under-confidence.”
She pauses and then adds, ”And it’s only been two years since I’ve been in LA.”
“Still, it’s not like you have to struggle here anymore. You act like – no, you’ve become – an outsider. One who can judge wisely from a luxurious distance; riddled, riddled with superiority.”
“Well, I struggle in LA now. And I am sure you judge me as wisely and as luxuriously from a distance as you think I do you. You should if you don’t.”
“You don’t get it. You no longer know the meaning of struggle or success.”
After a five minutes he pulls up at the departure curb at the airport. They hug and pat each other on the back and she walks away pushing her luggage trolley. She turns once and shouts backs to her brother, “I heard an Indian just became head of LA City's sanitation department. I am sad that I will be missing out on all the celebrations here.”
Top Gear
I am riding my bicycle in top gear. It has been three weeks since I began to do so - to always ride in top gear. The bicycle has thirteen lesser gears and it must be a waste not to use them all. But I reasoned that the pain induced by the fourteenth gear must have to be good for my thighs and calves and maybe buttocks too. By good, I mean that these will become leaner and not bulkier. It’s not that I have pressing weight issues, but more that I invent inconveniences for myself and am then forced to overcome them because I fear my own non-performance. There may be another reason too. I am a bicycle courier – a recent one – and my kind as a rule rides gearless bicycles. Perhaps I am trying to belong. But in a way that not surprisingly for me is unreasonable and psychologically knotty. If so, I could at least have chosen gear seven as the symbol of my camaraderie. But it had to be fourteen and will remain so.
Anyway, I glance down at the grey lever and it is set at maximum torture. It remains there even when I am starting up or riding uphill, and even though my thighs really hurt, and I do not then concentrate as much as I should on the traffic. There is an intersection ahead and I slow down and stop for the grey Toyota that is coming on my right. It is driven by a man in dark glasses. Maybe forty five and maybe a T employee. He sees me and stops too. He jerks his head asking me to ride on, and then looks away to check for traffic on his right. This happens all the time and I usually ride on with an invisible wave of quick gratitude. But my thighs are killing me now. So when he looks back, I am still stopped. He jerks his head again, this time more dismissively than his first. I respond by looking at him vacantly and massaging my right thigh, hoping he would understand that we could get this done much quicker if he just drove on. He now uses his hand to gesture impatiently. I jerk my own head for him to drive on. This does not come naturally to me, and maybe it appears stronger than the minimal rudeness I had intended. I stand my ground because I really cannot move and am reluctant to accept and be grateful for his artificial magnanimity to my lesser and unequal mode of transport. We continue to exchange gestures till the car behind him blows its horn.
He rolls down his window as he drives past and says very coherently, “Hey asshole, this is a stop sign, not a competition.”
Anyway, I glance down at the grey lever and it is set at maximum torture. It remains there even when I am starting up or riding uphill, and even though my thighs really hurt, and I do not then concentrate as much as I should on the traffic. There is an intersection ahead and I slow down and stop for the grey Toyota that is coming on my right. It is driven by a man in dark glasses. Maybe forty five and maybe a T employee. He sees me and stops too. He jerks his head asking me to ride on, and then looks away to check for traffic on his right. This happens all the time and I usually ride on with an invisible wave of quick gratitude. But my thighs are killing me now. So when he looks back, I am still stopped. He jerks his head again, this time more dismissively than his first. I respond by looking at him vacantly and massaging my right thigh, hoping he would understand that we could get this done much quicker if he just drove on. He now uses his hand to gesture impatiently. I jerk my own head for him to drive on. This does not come naturally to me, and maybe it appears stronger than the minimal rudeness I had intended. I stand my ground because I really cannot move and am reluctant to accept and be grateful for his artificial magnanimity to my lesser and unequal mode of transport. We continue to exchange gestures till the car behind him blows its horn.
He rolls down his window as he drives past and says very coherently, “Hey asshole, this is a stop sign, not a competition.”
The Ticket
Karen Lovasz rests her cheek on her knuckles and her elbow on the open window of the Subaru Outback. She is not wearing her sunglasses. They are still lying on her desk in the library because the Greek had called and she had had to leave in a hurry. She squints into the bright, flat landscape. She is driving in the car pool lane. Large bales of hay and small highway churches with baby steeples slip by horizontally. The dark earth dips beyond the highway and stretches barren till the horizon where the clouds hang.
The Greek is asleep. His open mouth forms a shallow oval. He has a large forehead. He looks a few years younger than her son. His email on Wednesday had said he was a runner on his way to Dallas for a race along the Trinity. He had known she was driving to Dallas for the weekend and asked whether he could get a ride. He studies soil mechanics at the University in Austin. She remembers him from the science library. His name is Aristos Zafiropoulos. She repeats it slowly now in her head. Eight syllables, if she has the pronunciation right.
She had picked him up at Ninth and Lamar and had meant to ask him how he knew of her trip to Dallas. But he fell asleep after fiddling for ten minute with the radio. It still plays his last channel. She is looking at him. He wears track pants and has an athlete's body. Austin is good to athletes, at least the kind who like hills, water, and trees. His sleeping form is cramped in the passenger’s seat. His knees are against the dashboard and he will wake up sore. She thinks of his race.
“Aristos,” she cautiously says, trying to get his name right even if he will not hear it. But he is a light sleeper. The knees come off the dashboard and he massages them. He looks out his window and says nothing.
“We are near Waco. We should be in Dallas by eleven.”
A siren sounds.
She says with exasperation, “Why do they allow sirens and phone rings on radio ads? It doesn’t make any sense. Someone could die.”
Aristos turns and says, ”It is a real siren.” He has the thick accent of the Mediterranean.
“Damn!”
There is a police motorcycle behind. Its lights are revolving. Karen is flustered for a moment and looks around the car, not knowing what she is looking for, or what she may find. She slows down and stops.
He walks over with a measured gait, adjusting to walking after hours of sitting on his heavy motorcycle. He is at her window. He wears a small round helmet and has raised its visor. He wears sunglasses inside. There is a belt around his waist that exaggerates his girth when he walks, but now bending into the car the belt camouflages the bulge of his own belly. There is a gun in the holster. It is sinister and quiet and the Greek is fascinated by its proximity. He could touch it if he reached out, if he wanted.
“You were doing eighty-five, ma’am. License and registration please.” The plastic badge over his right breast says ‘Otis, Jr’. He walks back to his motorcycle, a regal highway beast that is reclining rakishly on its asphalt. He returns in a few minutes with the ticket, and holds it at the open window.
“One hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Five dollars for every mile that you were over.”
The Greek has not understood - “That doesn’t make any sense.”
It is said in his thick Mediterranean tone. He also flattens his face into a grimace, raises his shoulders and dismissively gestures with his visible and upraised palms.
Officer Otis, Jr. bends further and looks at the Greek.
“Por favor, senor?” He questions blankly. The Greek is silent.
“Habla Español?” After another silent pause Officer Otis, Jr. asks, “Are you a US citizen?”
“I am Greek.”
“May I see your documents and your passport, sir?"
“I am not carrying them. I study at UT Austin.” He hands over his University card.
Karen’s head is now turned toward the policeman. “I work there. I am a US citizen. I know he studies there.”
“Ma’am, please.”
He hands Aristos back his card, looks at Karen, and then slowly pulls out a notepad from his belt.
“Well, ma’am. I will have to ticket you for riding alone in the car pool lane.”
“I don’t understand.” She has not understood.
He repeats himself.
“But what is this?” jerking her head toward the Greek.
“He has no documents, ma’am.”
“But he has himself, doesn’t he?”
Officer Otis, Jr. looks at her through his dark glasses. There is a stern expression on his lips. Karen breaks into the giggles of a fifty-three year old woman. Her shoulders shake and she holds the wheel with both hands, and hunches over it. She glances slyly at Aristos for a second and says, “Yes, alright. I want this ticket. Can you please write it slowly and in capitals? I will want to frame it.”
Another ticket passes through the window. As he leaves, Officer Otis, Jr. tells the Greek, “I know you are not an illegal alien, but next time remember that you and your passport are one. They never part.”
Outside Dallas, when the highway is sixteen lanes wide, the Greek says, “Maybe I should pay for not being able to prove I was in this car.”
“It’s alright. I’ve been in Texas for three years. I often think of moving back to Boston. I could be an assistant librarian there too. It does have many more schools.” Her accent is of Boston. Each of her vowels stretch and become two distinct sounds. The first is elongated and connects to the shorter second after a climactic search for the perfect version of the city’s tone.
She looks at him with excitement in her eyes, “But then something like this happens, and I think ‘How can I leave?’ I love it here.”
The Greek is asleep. His open mouth forms a shallow oval. He has a large forehead. He looks a few years younger than her son. His email on Wednesday had said he was a runner on his way to Dallas for a race along the Trinity. He had known she was driving to Dallas for the weekend and asked whether he could get a ride. He studies soil mechanics at the University in Austin. She remembers him from the science library. His name is Aristos Zafiropoulos. She repeats it slowly now in her head. Eight syllables, if she has the pronunciation right.
She had picked him up at Ninth and Lamar and had meant to ask him how he knew of her trip to Dallas. But he fell asleep after fiddling for ten minute with the radio. It still plays his last channel. She is looking at him. He wears track pants and has an athlete's body. Austin is good to athletes, at least the kind who like hills, water, and trees. His sleeping form is cramped in the passenger’s seat. His knees are against the dashboard and he will wake up sore. She thinks of his race.
“Aristos,” she cautiously says, trying to get his name right even if he will not hear it. But he is a light sleeper. The knees come off the dashboard and he massages them. He looks out his window and says nothing.
“We are near Waco. We should be in Dallas by eleven.”
A siren sounds.
She says with exasperation, “Why do they allow sirens and phone rings on radio ads? It doesn’t make any sense. Someone could die.”
Aristos turns and says, ”It is a real siren.” He has the thick accent of the Mediterranean.
“Damn!”
There is a police motorcycle behind. Its lights are revolving. Karen is flustered for a moment and looks around the car, not knowing what she is looking for, or what she may find. She slows down and stops.
He walks over with a measured gait, adjusting to walking after hours of sitting on his heavy motorcycle. He is at her window. He wears a small round helmet and has raised its visor. He wears sunglasses inside. There is a belt around his waist that exaggerates his girth when he walks, but now bending into the car the belt camouflages the bulge of his own belly. There is a gun in the holster. It is sinister and quiet and the Greek is fascinated by its proximity. He could touch it if he reached out, if he wanted.
“You were doing eighty-five, ma’am. License and registration please.” The plastic badge over his right breast says ‘Otis, Jr’. He walks back to his motorcycle, a regal highway beast that is reclining rakishly on its asphalt. He returns in a few minutes with the ticket, and holds it at the open window.
“One hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Five dollars for every mile that you were over.”
The Greek has not understood - “That doesn’t make any sense.”
It is said in his thick Mediterranean tone. He also flattens his face into a grimace, raises his shoulders and dismissively gestures with his visible and upraised palms.
Officer Otis, Jr. bends further and looks at the Greek.
“Por favor, senor?” He questions blankly. The Greek is silent.
“Habla Español?” After another silent pause Officer Otis, Jr. asks, “Are you a US citizen?”
“I am Greek.”
“May I see your documents and your passport, sir?"
“I am not carrying them. I study at UT Austin.” He hands over his University card.
Karen’s head is now turned toward the policeman. “I work there. I am a US citizen. I know he studies there.”
“Ma’am, please.”
He hands Aristos back his card, looks at Karen, and then slowly pulls out a notepad from his belt.
“Well, ma’am. I will have to ticket you for riding alone in the car pool lane.”
“I don’t understand.” She has not understood.
He repeats himself.
“But what is this?” jerking her head toward the Greek.
“He has no documents, ma’am.”
“But he has himself, doesn’t he?”
Officer Otis, Jr. looks at her through his dark glasses. There is a stern expression on his lips. Karen breaks into the giggles of a fifty-three year old woman. Her shoulders shake and she holds the wheel with both hands, and hunches over it. She glances slyly at Aristos for a second and says, “Yes, alright. I want this ticket. Can you please write it slowly and in capitals? I will want to frame it.”
Another ticket passes through the window. As he leaves, Officer Otis, Jr. tells the Greek, “I know you are not an illegal alien, but next time remember that you and your passport are one. They never part.”
Outside Dallas, when the highway is sixteen lanes wide, the Greek says, “Maybe I should pay for not being able to prove I was in this car.”
“It’s alright. I’ve been in Texas for three years. I often think of moving back to Boston. I could be an assistant librarian there too. It does have many more schools.” Her accent is of Boston. Each of her vowels stretch and become two distinct sounds. The first is elongated and connects to the shorter second after a climactic search for the perfect version of the city’s tone.
She looks at him with excitement in her eyes, “But then something like this happens, and I think ‘How can I leave?’ I love it here.”
Some find it odd
- Did you just say "fatherfucker"?
- I said, “Check your blind spot, crazy-ass fatherfucker.”
- That’s bizarre.
- Asshole! Get off the road! Why bizarre? Everyone should before changing lanes.
- No, not that – but that you would say fatherfucker.
- Some find it odd.
- Because it is.
- Not as odd as grandfatherfucker. But, see how it sounds all important and -- well -- grand?
- Do you use that too?
- Yes, but only for effect. Not when I am really pissed off.
- I am just used to the simple motherfucker.
- Most are. But my logic is that of the purist non-vegetarian. If you eat one animal you have to eat them all. After all, what makes sheep more edible than cats? And what makes mothers more fuckable than fathers? If you use one incestuous relationship to vent your anger you have to use them all.
- I am not so sure. Humans are animals too, and even purist non-vegetarians, as you describe them, do not eat their own kind. So if you go all the way with your swears because you think purist non-vegetarians go all the way with their diet – well, they really don’t.
- Alright, point taken. I go all the way merely because I care to go all the way.
- Yes. But you are intellectualizing the act of swearing. My understanding – and neither of us can claim to be experts – is that the swear is anger spontaneously released by voicing tabooed sexual relationships. These are things that have been repressed since infancy, and when one finds a situation, a valve to discharge it as an adult, bubbling out they come. That you would employ logic and pre-thought to deliberately say “fatherfucker” makes it a swear no longer. It’s merely an intellectual position – admirable or not – but not a swear.
- Then what you are saying is also this: if I were a woman, then as an infant I would have been naturally attracted to my father and brothers – I know, but let’s just keep this purely heterosexual for now – and that attraction would have been repressed. Then later as an adult I may find myself in a situation that makes me angry or emotionally unstable enough to release that repression by saying fatherfucker or brotherfucker or some such thing. Right? But how many times have you heard such swears before today, even from women? Why are fathers and brothers protected? What makes them special? I think it is unfair to exclusively use motherfucker as the universal swear. Fatherfucker and motherfucker should be evenly used and I am doing my bit to better the world.
- Strange means you employ. But still you are not a woman, and therefore your swear is fraudulent.
- But I could be a homosexual man. Would then my usage of ‘fatherfucker’ fit into your logic?
- I don’t know. And neither do you. I mean, how can we, both laymen, even begin to venture there? Is infantile attraction genderless, or already homosexual and heterosexual? Does a baby even know whether it is a boy or a girl? Is it attracted to mother and father equally? Or at all for that matter? What do we know about any of this?
I know. And it’s not that any of this swearing means anything. You swear, you stay sane. You don’t, you don’t.
- I said, “Check your blind spot, crazy-ass fatherfucker.”
- That’s bizarre.
- Asshole! Get off the road! Why bizarre? Everyone should before changing lanes.
- No, not that – but that you would say fatherfucker.
- Some find it odd.
- Because it is.
- Not as odd as grandfatherfucker. But, see how it sounds all important and -- well -- grand?
- Do you use that too?
- Yes, but only for effect. Not when I am really pissed off.
- I am just used to the simple motherfucker.
- Most are. But my logic is that of the purist non-vegetarian. If you eat one animal you have to eat them all. After all, what makes sheep more edible than cats? And what makes mothers more fuckable than fathers? If you use one incestuous relationship to vent your anger you have to use them all.
- I am not so sure. Humans are animals too, and even purist non-vegetarians, as you describe them, do not eat their own kind. So if you go all the way with your swears because you think purist non-vegetarians go all the way with their diet – well, they really don’t.
- Alright, point taken. I go all the way merely because I care to go all the way.
- Yes. But you are intellectualizing the act of swearing. My understanding – and neither of us can claim to be experts – is that the swear is anger spontaneously released by voicing tabooed sexual relationships. These are things that have been repressed since infancy, and when one finds a situation, a valve to discharge it as an adult, bubbling out they come. That you would employ logic and pre-thought to deliberately say “fatherfucker” makes it a swear no longer. It’s merely an intellectual position – admirable or not – but not a swear.
- Then what you are saying is also this: if I were a woman, then as an infant I would have been naturally attracted to my father and brothers – I know, but let’s just keep this purely heterosexual for now – and that attraction would have been repressed. Then later as an adult I may find myself in a situation that makes me angry or emotionally unstable enough to release that repression by saying fatherfucker or brotherfucker or some such thing. Right? But how many times have you heard such swears before today, even from women? Why are fathers and brothers protected? What makes them special? I think it is unfair to exclusively use motherfucker as the universal swear. Fatherfucker and motherfucker should be evenly used and I am doing my bit to better the world.
- Strange means you employ. But still you are not a woman, and therefore your swear is fraudulent.
- But I could be a homosexual man. Would then my usage of ‘fatherfucker’ fit into your logic?
- I don’t know. And neither do you. I mean, how can we, both laymen, even begin to venture there? Is infantile attraction genderless, or already homosexual and heterosexual? Does a baby even know whether it is a boy or a girl? Is it attracted to mother and father equally? Or at all for that matter? What do we know about any of this?
I know. And it’s not that any of this swearing means anything. You swear, you stay sane. You don’t, you don’t.
Drive Safe
- Drive Safe. Okay?
- Fly Safe. Okay?
Too late. The response is swift and comes with a smirk. I deserve that, he thinks.
He kisses her grinning face and rolls his bag into the terminal.
“Drive safe. Okay?” – What was he thinking? Okay posed as a question is meant to make the reluctant conform – like a parent would admonish a child or a man establish his dominance. Why could he not have left it as a neutral “Drive safe” - nothing appended, nothing expected, nothing implied? Why did he have to say anything at all? Eitherway, she would drive as she usually does. How fucking stupid!
On the plane, he has a window seat. It has a headrest that can be adjusted to support the sides of his head if he falls asleep. The seat has an Elizabethan air, like it is the Queen herself – no, the first one – large and fleshy and with ruffles around her neck, over a dark royal gown. He shuffles in sideways, holding on to the seats ahead, then lets go and falls into her lap. It will be midnight by the time he gets home. But this is still better than taking the redeye. At least he will sleep in his own bed tonight. He pulls the airline magazine out of the pocket in front of him. The plane roars, pushes him against his seat, and keeps him there till it takes off.
- Diet Coke, please – he says when the steward looks asking, saying nothing. He goes back to the magazine. It’s like television, meant for short attention spans with single page articles alternating with full page advertisements. He flips all the way to the end.
“Drive safe. Okay?” – What the fuck? He will call and speak to her in the morning and explain. And apologize. She surely did see it the way he sees it now. Her response had been knowing and brutal. It’s only fair that she should know he knows.
The plane has begun to smell of sandwiches. They are being sold in the aisles. He is tempted but had eaten before flying. He puts the magazine back in the pocket and reads the plane’s safety booklet. There are six emergency exits. The closest one to him may be behind him. He resists turning back to look.
But does one have to say everything? Is one to be always honest? Doesn’t the tiresome description of every thought, every emotion make the relationship just that – so tiresome? Hasn’t he already had his fill of tedious, honest, bare-all, self-revealing relationships? And what would he say now? That he had not meant to say “Okay?”, but had anyway? That she should not read into it? That he thought her response was witty and that he was impressed? That he was – oh god – sorry?
The booklet goes back into the seat pocket, and his attention shifts outside to the flashing red light at the tip of the wing. Below in the darkness are the gold pinheads of a gridded city – linear streetlights and neatly clustered parking lot lights. The city continues endlessly. Phoenix? Maybe.
Will he really speak to her in the morning? He will. But will he say any of this? There are times that she says and does bothersome things and he waits for explanation – even mere discussion – but does not receive any. And it’s not always he who is emotionally inaccessible. So how equitable should this exchange of explanations, this uniformity of transparency? And who judges and says - Alright you two are now even. But he is really honest and he should probably talk. But shouldn’t this be one of those things that are better left to slip by than confront? It was after only a single fucking word!
His head is resting against the plastic pane of the window. The city has finally ended and it is all dark below. The wing continues to be illuminated by the flashing light. It is hypnotic he thinks and continues to look at it for a while before looking at his watch. Two more hours.
How much of honesty is mere arrogance? I will be honest because I can. I will be honest because I consider myself an honest person. My honesty is only for myself and I will subject everyone to it because they and I expect it of me.
He shakes his head twice, swiftly, and then rests it against the head rest. An air hostess is standing in the aisle and holds a gaping plastic bag in her hands and she asks, “Any trash, sir?
- Fly Safe. Okay?
Too late. The response is swift and comes with a smirk. I deserve that, he thinks.
He kisses her grinning face and rolls his bag into the terminal.
“Drive safe. Okay?” – What was he thinking? Okay posed as a question is meant to make the reluctant conform – like a parent would admonish a child or a man establish his dominance. Why could he not have left it as a neutral “Drive safe” - nothing appended, nothing expected, nothing implied? Why did he have to say anything at all? Eitherway, she would drive as she usually does. How fucking stupid!
On the plane, he has a window seat. It has a headrest that can be adjusted to support the sides of his head if he falls asleep. The seat has an Elizabethan air, like it is the Queen herself – no, the first one – large and fleshy and with ruffles around her neck, over a dark royal gown. He shuffles in sideways, holding on to the seats ahead, then lets go and falls into her lap. It will be midnight by the time he gets home. But this is still better than taking the redeye. At least he will sleep in his own bed tonight. He pulls the airline magazine out of the pocket in front of him. The plane roars, pushes him against his seat, and keeps him there till it takes off.
- Diet Coke, please – he says when the steward looks asking, saying nothing. He goes back to the magazine. It’s like television, meant for short attention spans with single page articles alternating with full page advertisements. He flips all the way to the end.
“Drive safe. Okay?” – What the fuck? He will call and speak to her in the morning and explain. And apologize. She surely did see it the way he sees it now. Her response had been knowing and brutal. It’s only fair that she should know he knows.
The plane has begun to smell of sandwiches. They are being sold in the aisles. He is tempted but had eaten before flying. He puts the magazine back in the pocket and reads the plane’s safety booklet. There are six emergency exits. The closest one to him may be behind him. He resists turning back to look.
But does one have to say everything? Is one to be always honest? Doesn’t the tiresome description of every thought, every emotion make the relationship just that – so tiresome? Hasn’t he already had his fill of tedious, honest, bare-all, self-revealing relationships? And what would he say now? That he had not meant to say “Okay?”, but had anyway? That she should not read into it? That he thought her response was witty and that he was impressed? That he was – oh god – sorry?
The booklet goes back into the seat pocket, and his attention shifts outside to the flashing red light at the tip of the wing. Below in the darkness are the gold pinheads of a gridded city – linear streetlights and neatly clustered parking lot lights. The city continues endlessly. Phoenix? Maybe.
Will he really speak to her in the morning? He will. But will he say any of this? There are times that she says and does bothersome things and he waits for explanation – even mere discussion – but does not receive any. And it’s not always he who is emotionally inaccessible. So how equitable should this exchange of explanations, this uniformity of transparency? And who judges and says - Alright you two are now even. But he is really honest and he should probably talk. But shouldn’t this be one of those things that are better left to slip by than confront? It was after only a single fucking word!
His head is resting against the plastic pane of the window. The city has finally ended and it is all dark below. The wing continues to be illuminated by the flashing light. It is hypnotic he thinks and continues to look at it for a while before looking at his watch. Two more hours.
How much of honesty is mere arrogance? I will be honest because I can. I will be honest because I consider myself an honest person. My honesty is only for myself and I will subject everyone to it because they and I expect it of me.
He shakes his head twice, swiftly, and then rests it against the head rest. An air hostess is standing in the aisle and holds a gaping plastic bag in her hands and she asks, “Any trash, sir?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
This is to myself
A phone call comes
It asks
“What has changed since last night?”
“Five, fresh new hours of sleep,” I say
For sure
I could say more, like
“Also that half hour of crying
And then again
But mostly trying
And failing
At two thirty at the dining table
In the sodium light
That comes through the window
And muddies the purple of the tablecloth.”
“You don’t sound too sunny.”
The phone call goes away
Not knowing half
How cloudy I am
Is my proudest accomplishment then this:
Atheism?
"There you god fearing fucks – you lose, I win!"
From the top of my cynic hill
I could shout down
From the top of my rising escalator
I could shout down
Shout them down
Show them
The morning has gone by
And I need a nap
Because I tire easily
Need my quicksand bed
To devour me
For I lay awake till four
Sparring with her snores, my thoughts
I slept then
and when I woke
I could not remember my dreams
Another call
“What do you want to do tonight?”
“Eat something, please.”
“Fine, Lebanese then!”
I am happy again.
This then is for me
A poem. My third
Of the kind written seriously
That makes it out in one piece
Begins honest, an oceanic memo maybe
Perceptive and impressive
But ends, ends up like this
Yes, sorry. I know.
It asks
“What has changed since last night?”
“Five, fresh new hours of sleep,” I say
For sure
I could say more, like
“Also that half hour of crying
And then again
But mostly trying
And failing
At two thirty at the dining table
In the sodium light
That comes through the window
And muddies the purple of the tablecloth.”
“You don’t sound too sunny.”
The phone call goes away
Not knowing half
How cloudy I am
Is my proudest accomplishment then this:
Atheism?
"There you god fearing fucks – you lose, I win!"
From the top of my cynic hill
I could shout down
From the top of my rising escalator
I could shout down
Shout them down
Show them
The morning has gone by
And I need a nap
Because I tire easily
Need my quicksand bed
To devour me
For I lay awake till four
Sparring with her snores, my thoughts
I slept then
and when I woke
I could not remember my dreams
Another call
“What do you want to do tonight?”
“Eat something, please.”
“Fine, Lebanese then!”
I am happy again.
This then is for me
A poem. My third
Of the kind written seriously
That makes it out in one piece
Begins honest, an oceanic memo maybe
Perceptive and impressive
But ends, ends up like this
Yes, sorry. I know.
Voyeurs
I am second in line at the window. My change is ready in my palm, but the teenage boy ahead is rummaging in his pockets. I wait, glance into the station. A train is pulling in. I watch as a crowd invents itself at the edge of the platform. I realize that I have begun to lift up my right leg, and gingerly bring it back down. It is not that I mean to kick the boy, but that I have a new pastime. When I am standing and I lift my right knee and then straighten out my leg, I hear a clicking sound. It really is an audible click and not just a sensation. It has happened every time since I hobbled in twenty-third in the three-mile last weekend. The click is not accompanied by pain – there is some of that as well, but only when I rest my weight on the leg – but this, this urge to click I am cannot fight. Yet, it is not as bad as plucking hair from one’s own nostril. I did that for a few weeks a few years ago. Trichotillomania they call it, and it causes less hurt than most would believe. Anyway. The game I play with my knee makes me feel like a pilot, about to land, anticipating the thud of an airplane’s wheels as they lower and lock into place. But there is no belly landing that the clicking of my injured knee will prevent. In fact, I must be making things worse, and every click is really one of protest.
I get my token and make it past the turnstiles and rush to catch the train that is still at the platform. It is repeatedly sounding its twin alarm as the doors close and then suddenly open again. It is like a child playing with the controls, annoying deliberately. I run but the knee hurts and I will not make it. The doors finally close and shut me out as I am almost there. I make a momentary expression of dejection, which dissolves into a meaningless combination of facial contortions. I look quickly down and away to avoid looking into the eyes of those inside. The train rattles noisily into the tunnel.
I make the next train easily enough and also get a place to sit. It is directly across one of the large panes of glass that are the coach’s windows. I am sandwiched in between a man and a woman whose faces, I know, I will not turn around to see. I have learned to become timid like everyone else in this city, which is big enough to have networks of subterranean transit tubes but not the rude way of life that naturally evolves within. My train is always full of sincere, polite faces that smile at their feet or at the mottled black floor of the train. I like to think I am the lone cynic under the city, defiant against miles of treacly tunnels.
The train is going as fast as it can. The noise is unbearable. Because I am not supposed to look at anyone I look at the pane of glass in front of my face. Actually, I am looking into it. Outside, speeding alongside the train, is my parallel world. It keeps pace effortlessly, and is populated by the same people - I and my silent travellers. But over there they are laid bare to observe and dissect. Their bodies are relentlessly slashed by the fluorescent lights that fly by in the tunnel. I no longer find that distracting. I see that the man on my left is middle-aged and reading a newspaper. His briefcase is on the floor between his legs. The girl on my right is looking into the window too, and I cannot be sure if she is looking at me. I continue my survey. My eyes linger lazily on all the women I see. I am on the other side of the glass and have no fear. A woman in her forties holds my gaze. She is sitting a few seats on my left. Her posture is very erect and I know that is why I continue to look at her. She must be tall too, because her legs make a neat right angle at her knees. She does not read, nor does she listen to music. She looks straight ahead. I move on.
I see myself and my survey comes to an end, like it does every morning. I know I have become a voyeur, but mostly it is I that I spy on. I inspect everyone, spending as much time as each deserves, but in the end I just look at myself looking back at me.
Today, my head is tilted a little to the left as it always is when I think I am looking straight ahead. It is morning and my hair is damp and has lost volume. I like it better like this than when it is dry and fluffy while returning home in the evening. I always place my bag on my lap and my palms over it, locking my fingers together. I look docile and accommodating. Even I, who know myself, would not be threatened by the appearances of this package. I do not at all look a worldly skeptic and I am disappointed every morning. I am like everyone else on this train, meek and private and full of hope. My face is thin and expressionless (I once smiled at myself). I know that in the evening on the way back I will rest against the side panel of the last seat and support my forehead on my palm, believing I am tired, and then play with my hair – like a French intellectual interviewed on a BBC documentary. But my hair is not long enough and even if it were, it is thick and would not fall with silky elegance.
I am distracted as the train brakes hard at the station before mine. The man in black jeans standing in front of me falls forward on to the sky-blue shirt of the man reading a paperback. This man is tall and the shorter man’s face is in his chest, his lips on the shirt pocket, placing a clumsy kiss aimed for the heart. He straightens up, and sees that he has left a tiny island of saliva on the blue shirt. Nothing is said. I look away before they realize I have seen. Then I become thin and extract myself from in between the man and the girl. I feel a stinging pain when I stand.
I get my token and make it past the turnstiles and rush to catch the train that is still at the platform. It is repeatedly sounding its twin alarm as the doors close and then suddenly open again. It is like a child playing with the controls, annoying deliberately. I run but the knee hurts and I will not make it. The doors finally close and shut me out as I am almost there. I make a momentary expression of dejection, which dissolves into a meaningless combination of facial contortions. I look quickly down and away to avoid looking into the eyes of those inside. The train rattles noisily into the tunnel.
I make the next train easily enough and also get a place to sit. It is directly across one of the large panes of glass that are the coach’s windows. I am sandwiched in between a man and a woman whose faces, I know, I will not turn around to see. I have learned to become timid like everyone else in this city, which is big enough to have networks of subterranean transit tubes but not the rude way of life that naturally evolves within. My train is always full of sincere, polite faces that smile at their feet or at the mottled black floor of the train. I like to think I am the lone cynic under the city, defiant against miles of treacly tunnels.
The train is going as fast as it can. The noise is unbearable. Because I am not supposed to look at anyone I look at the pane of glass in front of my face. Actually, I am looking into it. Outside, speeding alongside the train, is my parallel world. It keeps pace effortlessly, and is populated by the same people - I and my silent travellers. But over there they are laid bare to observe and dissect. Their bodies are relentlessly slashed by the fluorescent lights that fly by in the tunnel. I no longer find that distracting. I see that the man on my left is middle-aged and reading a newspaper. His briefcase is on the floor between his legs. The girl on my right is looking into the window too, and I cannot be sure if she is looking at me. I continue my survey. My eyes linger lazily on all the women I see. I am on the other side of the glass and have no fear. A woman in her forties holds my gaze. She is sitting a few seats on my left. Her posture is very erect and I know that is why I continue to look at her. She must be tall too, because her legs make a neat right angle at her knees. She does not read, nor does she listen to music. She looks straight ahead. I move on.
I see myself and my survey comes to an end, like it does every morning. I know I have become a voyeur, but mostly it is I that I spy on. I inspect everyone, spending as much time as each deserves, but in the end I just look at myself looking back at me.
Today, my head is tilted a little to the left as it always is when I think I am looking straight ahead. It is morning and my hair is damp and has lost volume. I like it better like this than when it is dry and fluffy while returning home in the evening. I always place my bag on my lap and my palms over it, locking my fingers together. I look docile and accommodating. Even I, who know myself, would not be threatened by the appearances of this package. I do not at all look a worldly skeptic and I am disappointed every morning. I am like everyone else on this train, meek and private and full of hope. My face is thin and expressionless (I once smiled at myself). I know that in the evening on the way back I will rest against the side panel of the last seat and support my forehead on my palm, believing I am tired, and then play with my hair – like a French intellectual interviewed on a BBC documentary. But my hair is not long enough and even if it were, it is thick and would not fall with silky elegance.
I am distracted as the train brakes hard at the station before mine. The man in black jeans standing in front of me falls forward on to the sky-blue shirt of the man reading a paperback. This man is tall and the shorter man’s face is in his chest, his lips on the shirt pocket, placing a clumsy kiss aimed for the heart. He straightens up, and sees that he has left a tiny island of saliva on the blue shirt. Nothing is said. I look away before they realize I have seen. Then I become thin and extract myself from in between the man and the girl. I feel a stinging pain when I stand.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Just random shit
This blog's opening promise
Is this
A story a week
Maybe a poem every other
Drawn mainly from a folder
Excitedly named Shorts two years ago
Last updated -- well, according to my hard disk --
"A year ago."
(Smug, perpetually whirring motherfucker).
A confession
The first few weeks will be a breeze
Some easy copypasting from stuff
Just random shit
I wrote and saved in Shorts
In Cambridge, for myself and a group of others
But that will dry up soon enough
And this post - my first in my first blog
Will
Push me and guilt me
to write more
Just random shit.
Be nice, this is the first
Or don't, this is the first.
Is this
A story a week
Maybe a poem every other
Drawn mainly from a folder
Excitedly named Shorts two years ago
Last updated -- well, according to my hard disk --
"A year ago."
(Smug, perpetually whirring motherfucker).
A confession
The first few weeks will be a breeze
Some easy copypasting from stuff
Just random shit
I wrote and saved in Shorts
In Cambridge, for myself and a group of others
But that will dry up soon enough
And this post - my first in my first blog
Will
Push me and guilt me
to write more
Just random shit.
Be nice, this is the first
Or don't, this is the first.
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