After the Storm - A very short story

She waited. 2 minutes only. Then she walked out of the door holding her orange tote bag in her arms, leaving it all behind. The wooden window cracked and blood and gore oozed out. But she didn’t see. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t turn back. The pollen grains in the air teased her nostrils and her eyes watered. She blinked and crossed the road. That thing followed her till the checkered fence and couldn’t take a step more. Not step, not step. It. That thing wooshed. That thing couldn’t woosh ahead anymore. It stayed shushed at the lamp post. The solar panel of the government issued lamp post hissed at the empty street. She took the last lone rickshaw, sat on it, “Chalo.” The lamp post burst out and the glass shattered on the wet tar. The last shards tried to reach the rickshaw, as it rolled away downstreet.

The downward slope helped the haggard old rickshaw puller speed on empty streets. She adjusted and shifted her old bag on her lap. Her precious cargo. The railway crossing was open. The ancient, rotten wood and stone fixture was blinking its genial green light. Old Ramji and she raced on un-bothered by potholes. The old tamarind tree at the end of the town shimmied and swayed back and forth. That thing back at the ancient house she left behind howled and cried. The old kite that had been stuck outside the window for months now shook free and floated on behind old Ramji’s rickshaw. The level crossing lifted up just in time to catch the kite and destroy it for the second time in its life. She opened her umbrella and held it over herself and the thin almost skeletal rickshaw puller. The precious cargo shifted inside the bag. The skies which had held its breath till they reached bridge over the river at the end of the town let go with all its might.

The thing. That thing whined and stomped, back in the house. But she was miles away now, tucked in her own bed. The rain plundered on outside. Old Ramji sat huddled in the shaded verandah over a cup of hot masala tea. He would spend the night in. indoors. Safe from the rain. Safe from that thing.

The old faded orange tote lay discarded at the bottom of the bed. Her precious cargo now cuddled in her arms. “Oh! The horror the horror!” She crooned to the orange tabby she just stole from her ex-boyfriend, “He kept you on dry food, baby. That thing!” as she deleted the Ex’s texts (He is my cat!!) from her cell phone.

Fuck your sensibilities, bitch!

Censorship in the name of saving our sensibilities is an old ruse we Indians use to stop anyone whose views are different from our own. Forever the ostrich, we feel that if we can’t see the objectionable views, they don’t exist in the minds, hearts or art of others. M.F. Hussain, Salman Rushdie, and Tasleema Nasreen all know how it feels to be censured, exiled, banned, threatened to shut down, or even threatened to kill in the name of protecting the public’s ‘sensibilities’

The internet is a wonderful way to come together to share views. It is a wonderful way to learn what the other is thinking, even if we find it slightly jarring or distasteful. The beauty of Facebook is that you create your own content. If your friends are all dog lovers, your Facebook content is going to be a lot about dogs. On the other hand, if you and your friends are racist bigots, most of the post will be about related content – and you will not disapprove.

We are not in Communist China, but a democratic India and it seems neither feasible nor fair to pre-screen data – for one man’s poison is another man’s daily dose of humour. Pre-screening all data seems not only impossible but also violating an individual’s right to expressing their thoughts.

Google India, which along with 20 websites is facing criminal case for allegedly hosting objectionable material, on Monday told the Delhi High Court that blocking them was not an option as a democratic India does not have a “totalitarian” regime like China. Trying to turn India into anything like China is not only a bad idea which might affect the voters’ mind in the next polls but also against our right to freedom of speech.

“Unity in Diversity” cannot just be a token phrase but the feeling should seep into the everyday fabric of the Indian. To keep India the way it is and then move forward without diminishing our diversity, we need to keep moral censorship at an arm’s length. We should toughen up and accept that we live in a varied, dichotomous society where every member has their own wonderfully individualistic views on politics, religion, art and life in general. This heterogeneity should be encouraged as this is what holds us together.

We don’t need a moral watchdog to save our sensibilities. We should instead self-censor if the need be and remove unwanted content from our Facebook accounts by ‘removing’ it or ‘blocking’ it and even Reporting Abuse - Pornography, hate speech, threats, graphic violence, bullying, and spam are not allowed on Facebook.  We can report abuse and keep off unwanted content even off our T.V screens; even on our Google search pages we can tighten filters if the need be. The bottom-line is that we the general public have to take a stand and keep the politicians from taking a decision on what we want to watch or say or do.

My favourite vegan salad

Spinach-Papaya Salad

Ingredients:

Spinach Leaves - 1Bunch (Wash thoroughly in cold water)

Papaya - 1 half

Lemon juice – As much required

Grated Coconut – As much required

Method:

           Mix in a salad bowl

           Serve

False Friends Forever

My fangs grow purple with perseverance

my heart cold with melancholy

I have tried and tried to be one with the crowd

and my glass slippers shrunk in the rain.

We were bosom buddies once

but I grew old and and grew quiet

I broke your vase and you lost my number

I am alone in the dark heaven outside your door

My Fangs grow brown and rust in exile

something gnaws at my lifeboat

Loneliness begets loneliness

and happiness however false, friends.

Alexandra

Flat and silver

Your tongue still pierces me

Like no other.

Toes made of clay

Finger tips dead from years

Of staying away.

Leave that box girl

Walk out.

It’s been 19 months already

19 thousand years may be

The lock has fallen off

On its own accord

But still inside you stay

Sounds of a whip past

And your clay feet stay

The box is half rotten

And you still stay rooted

To that sweet spot

And I have memories of your tongue

And the clefts and the nooks in your body

Wet me still, Alexandra.

I have wandered 19 days

Or 19 centuries may be

And I called out your name

Once I had almost smelt you out

But a cover of lavender and sorrow

And bundles of guilt

Confounded me and I lost the trail.

But the lock has fallen away girl

And I wait, with the table set

With my skin and nails and hair

The ground beneath still remembers

Your toe-ring and your quick gait.

Walk away Alexandra, and come home.

The gates are open and

the blood hounds are long gone.

Follow my scent of longing and love

And come to roost Alexandra.

And if you want I will prepare you

A new cage and hang it in the porch

And come and sing for me

And your voice still rings in my year

And I wake up on a lone still bed,

Flat and silver, your tongue….

afternoon shade

In that dizzyingly shiny box of fallen leaves

Left at my door step by that night-time angel

She’d breathed in a funny laugh of sunflowers, and

Out came a lucid day filled with that familiar smell