Infinite Guilt

Well, that’s it then. All that is left is to pay the rickshaw off, and then I have to go inside the house. Which I do, and I ring the bell and I walk in and she opens the door, and she knows that I would be coming sometime around now, something still makes her freeze in the doorframe, and then she clasps me to herself in that way I hate, that way which always makes me feel I am still thirteen and not thirty. I disengage myself and let the bags plunk to the floor.

In the middle distance beyond her, he stands watching both of us, a half-smile on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. He stands there watching half-mockingly as if this was a little comedy being played out for his benefit. I say nothing to him; nothing seems to be adequate, not sufficient.

 I change, and she leaves us to the TV and goes off to mind dinner. The evening news is moderated by the clinks and rattles of steel against steel, as we sit side by side and do not converse. 

Dinner is to be served; he and I sit on opposite sides of a small table, much like two gladiators sizing each other up: the table is the warzone, place mats defensive positions, and spoons are swords which will be waved during the conversation. She is the arbitrator neither side is willing to listen to. 

Predictably, she serves the chapattis, he serves the guilt.

‘I hear you have quit this job too.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I did not like it.’

‘You did not like it? What is there to like about a job? You do it, you earn a salary and you live a life. Did not like it!’

That puts me on the defensive.

‘I cannot spend the rest of my life filling forms in triplicate and covering up other people’s errors in whitener.’

That stings. I can see it in his eyes, even though his face is neutral.

‘I did not spend my life just filling forms in triplicate. There was a purpose to whatever I did something larger than what you are ever going to understand.’

I do not reply to this obvious mistruth. She serves me another chapatti, and a conversation restarter.

‘But this time you will stay for a few days, no? Go to the village, spend some quiet time, and figure out what you want to do.’

‘Figure out what you want to do’, he mimics her, ‘what has not happened in thirty years will happen in three days. What do you want to do, after all?’

I am not hungry any longer.

‘I have told you a hundred times. I want to write. And I will make a living doing that. I will be going back tomorrow morning.’

And I leave them, him to his unfinished dinner, and her to a hungry night. In wars between two people who love each other, the one who arbitrates should be prepared for a lot of injury.

_____

It is morning, now. The not unpacked bags are slung on my shoulders again as she clasps me to herself as if she wants the very essence our beings to meld together. Her eyes are sad like dusk in the mountains, and tired like a long day’s end. I can tell she has not slept, her hair is tangled, and her face tells the story of all her years, all the battles she has been spectator to, the crow’s feet around her eyes the silent scars gifted her by our egos. I hold her tight, as if I am not going to see her again. There have been too few of these embraces, I realize, and now, there will never be enough.

He stands in the middle distance, watching us. The half-smile is nowhere in evidence. I notice for the first time that in the half-light he looks very, very frail; almost all his hair are silver now, and his eyes promise stories of valiant defeats that I will never share. As I release mother from my embrace and move towards him, I notice the peculiar way he is holding his left arm, the hurt from the accident must still be there. I stand before him, and we say nothing to each other. And then I turn and walk out of the door.

‘Goodbye mom. Goodbye dad.’

Remembering you

I forget the last time I saw your face, was

it under an acacia tree I last saw you? Was it

just drizzling, or was it, like in memory,

a relentless torrent, the ones poets say they walk in

so no one sees them crying? (As an aside, was I crying, did

you think so, too?). So many details, colours now faded, I

have grown older, and my grief is now more

narcissism, really- self centered, and monotonous. What

would you make of me, now?

I still complain, you know- carry some regrets, some

residual (speaking scientifically) effects of having known

happiness, for once- (remember that time we went to that

restaurant- authentic Chinese, was that a hungry lunch or

what!) – and the hundred laughs that came from one ruined

afternoon. And then, one bright evening,

one sudden decision, one character’s change of

act- and the whole play moves to tragedy.

I think of you, now (only when peaceful), on

sunny afternoons, I see your smile- in the cold silence

interrupted only by birds, I still hear you going

on and on about the cold winter, the newspaper, the

ad that was on TV. Some afternoons, I can

feel your smile on my face. And those days,

there is not a cloud to be seen.

Revenge

How very difficult it is to understand

other people. For example, I know

six hours from now, you will wake up and fire up

the stove- that you need that coffee even before

you have brushed your teeth. I know

that you will find you favorite shirt

has an ink-stain, and is unwearable now, but

you will give it one more shot.

You remember, that one time we

went atop that ferris wheel, how

I loved the ups and downs; how you hated

it all. I can imagine your screams of fear

mingled with the tinkling of steel

on porcelain. Every morning

I wake up to a cold bed, and

hope six hours from now

you will be on a ferris wheel. Because

You tell me what do you think I am doing right now.

Details

Thirteen dog-eared pages, pauses in

the story. Seventeen stubs in the ashtray, brown

with crushed black tips, holding memories of

lost embers; a dirty spoon, unwashed plates and

swollen eyes. It is the weekend and you have

not been sleeping. Thirteen thirtynine, the watch

reads, it would be time for lunch, were you hungry. There is

silence unbroken by the rattle of spoon

against coffee cup. This book has three hundred and fifty nine

pages, you have not slept for two thousand and twenty five minutes,

thirty nine books on your shelf are unread, the three bottles of

beer in the fridge are not enough, the fan is turning a grayish black

with accumulated dust. These are details. Note them.

Colours of your life, measured in heartbreaks and infinite boredom,

populated by details, lent color. Made complete.

Alcohol: Raymond Carver

That painting next to the brocaded drapery
is a Delacroix. This is called a divan
not a davenport; this item is a settee.
Notice the ornate legs.
Put on your tarboosh. Smell the burnt cork
under your eyes. Adjust your tunic, so.
Now the red cummerbund and Paris; April, 1934.
A black Citroen waits at the curb.
The street lamps are lit.
Give the driver the address, but tell him
not to hurry, that you have all night.
When you get there, drink, make love,
do the shimmy and the beguine.
And when the sun comes up over the Quarter
next morning and that pretty woman
you've had and had all night
now wants to go home with you,
be tender with her, don't do anything
you'll be sorry for later. Bring her home
with you in the Citroen, let her sleep
in a proper bed. Let her
fall in love with you and you
with her and then...something: alcohol,
a problem with alcohol, always alcohol-
what you've really done
and to someone else, the one
you meant to love from the start.

*

It's afternoon, August, sun striking
the hood of a dusty Ford
parked on your driveway in San Jose.
In the front seat a woman
who is covering her eyes and listening
to an old song on the radio.
You stand in the doorway and watch.
You hear the song. And it is long ago.
You look for it with the sun in your face.
But you don't remember.
You honestly don't remember.

Lying to mother

Have you, in the morning, walked around this

place? What does it look like, coloured in the

gray promise of an unformed day? Have you

seen the sun rise here?

Last night mother called, and she asked, will

you agree to the rules? Some of them are stated, and

most of them, spring out of the woodwork

only after you have broken them. I told her

I do not see any reason, not to

be ‘on board’. I told her, my

independence is forfeit.

I do sometimes wake up early, the times

when we go to sleep: this city looks strange at four, angular

cobblestoned, with such a lot of houses

coloured boredom. I walk in the mornings, a hungry

ghost feeding on sleepy desires: I imagine stories

based on the colours the houses are painted. I

take my hurt, and every morning, I colour it

the shade of other people’s failures.

Tomorrow, when she calls me, I will

not pick up the phone. Or I will, and tell her that I

am in love and not tell her that that someone

already broke my heart. We will

laugh over it, imagine futures which only one

of us will know are lies, we will write each other’s character. And

tomorrow, when she calls me, she will hang up happy. Tomorrow,

I will lie to mother.