Daydreams and Afternoons

In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon
All round the coast the languid air did swoon
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream

Tennyson—The Lotus Eaters

I awaken, it has not been a long departure, the day is still pubescent, I look out; the sun is not high, but shadows have started being trampled upon. A few naked patches of brown—the garden deficiently bald. A little green where the now rusted and rarely used garden tap leaks, nourishing weeds and birds alike. Bevies of sparrows descend on that trough—their river, content in play until a cat appears. A single hibiscus plant in bloom; still alive due to those pink flowers considered auspicious. The once crimson turnstile used as a merry-go-round by generations of children leans dangerously to one side. Beyond it the street: partly dug up, partly paved, always crowded. And then a stone wall that encloses an ugly three-storied structure. Ulka leaves the compound through a wicket gate; standing in the verandah i can see many a men trying to exchange glances. Their eyes search for a hint of nakedness, or so I think, I generally herald morning sun my tattered pyjamas . I switch off the fan, the sparrows are thankful; they use the bedroom as a playhouse. Waking up is a ritual with me, it should be, they are many people who never wake up…I let a loud yawn escape into the street, I am not flatulent, which is sad; for farting is a better way to greet a dead day. I am mesmerised by the dancing shadow of a Jambul tree, its movement imitated by a Tulsi plant that thrives in its shadow.

The doorbell rings, I do not bother to open it, those who are expected know that they will find it open; the stack of papers is placed in correct sequence on the edge of my computer table. The newspaper boy knows that I bear an animosity towards the HT. HT is crushed under the weight of its opponents. He is a fast learner, but I hate his face; it is nothing to do with his looks, but I have always suspected that he has twenty more teeth than the average human does. Ever smiling white teeth, which shine like flashbulbs.

The Times gives me company in the loo; now the front door is pushed open with a thud that threatens the foundation of the building. Hazrat has arrived, invaded, marched into, and destroyed the sanctity of my temple with her tempestuousness. She knocks violently, “Didi ki chai” A low grunt escapes me, which spells chai. I scan through the headlines; bird flu is jumping to humans, (I have to be careful not to cross Ulka’s path, she is parrot nosed, and her hair which looks like it is desperately trying to run away bears close resemblance to crest feathers of wildfowl.) Abdul Kalam is busy propagating his myth about the interlinking of rivers, the honourable president may be good at sending rockets into space, but his knowledge of geography is a little limited. ‘Shiva’ the lone male rhino, confined to a 250 square feet cage is lonely; zookeepers are trying to find him a mate. I should send Hazrat. I visualize the act and laugh. … Imagine what their babies will look like, babies with horned appendages instead of noses. The roar of the flush and the hiss of the kettle are a simultaneous occurrence.

It is time to work; a bath can wait. I scan through the remaining papers. The same bloody stories. Let me first acquaint you with the Feng Phooie of the hall. Light yellow walls, a low table that serves as both book shelf and shoe rack. A cluttered dining table with legs buckled like an old mule supports an enormous number of borrowed books, one bed pushed against the window, the other perpendicular to its right edge. Beyond that a tamarind tree, barking dogs, more people, rodents, roads, the Arabian Sea…Africa.

Naked tribes dancing in the light of a bonfire under a diamond studded sky. Hungry children dying like flies, Scrofulous flies in high office that that have developed a taste for human suffering. They ought to be swatted, eradicated, but the entire system suffers from malversation. The eidetic storyteller, his little brain covered by a deeply furrowed exterior, still has the strength to chant about his people, their torments, and their stories in passing. His sacred cane and agate tchotchkes waiting their turn to be inherited by youthful hands. Hands capable of ushering in change, he wails in grief, he chants his own threnody, there are no young men in his village now, those who are left, don’t have hands.

I descend into a dream, scarred by my thoughts and scared by the emptiness and enormity of this bottomless cavern I force myself to awaken, it is late afternoon.