In the post-modern world, he'd read, there are no moral absolutes. He'd tried finding solace in other philosophical abstractions, in the works of men and women who had devoted their lives to the pursuit of elusive answers. In their defence, he thought, the questions were engaging enough. But this time, there were far too many miscalculations in his moral mathematics.
The cigarette hung impossibly suspended between his index and middle fingers. He turned towards her, and watched the last rays of the Bombay evening do a tap-dance across her face. She turned away, and now her almond eyes seemed to be taking in all of Malabar Hill, on the other side of the water. There was nothing to be said.
The title has nothing to do with the post. The title has everything to do with everything else. Cryptic, no? Ha! I'm like that only.
The real point of the post is this: Afternoon naps are the closest I'll ever come to seeing God. Afternoon naps are when my fears come alive, when my dreams die. Afternoon naps are oddly satisfying, and they leave with me with voids in places I never thought existed. Afternoon naps tell me, "You're a douche, everything is not going to be okay."
The breeze is carried in through the mesh on my window. Snatches of conversations outside the mess. The words float in the air, mocking me, watching me make a fool of myself. As the thin cream curtain billows to the purring of the blades of the brown fan on my ceiling, the words dissolve, and become something else. I imagine the rusty shutters behind my thin curtain. I think about getting up, pushing my curtain aside, and running my index finger up and down the shutters, and watch the red-brown flakes fall off. I think of it as a new start, but the afternoon manages to convince me that I'm a sucker for beauty. It seems to whisper from somewhere near my desk, "You're only romanticizing the breakdown. Again." I forget about heaving my upper body to set in motion the process of getting up and touching the flakes. I am drowsy. My sleep is dreamless, mostly, yet, when I wake up, it feels as if I've dreamt.
In the afternoons, I am convinced that there are indeed such things as ghosts, ghouls and wailing banshees. Not only of the past, but of the present and of the future. I'm oddly satisfied that I don't scream, don't pull my hair out and shout out loud. There is indeed beauty in the breakdown.
P.S: This one's for you, Fudge. For introducing me to the phrase 'beauty in the breakdown.'
Don't Call Me a Traitor Tonight
(inspired by Agha Shahid Ali's "Tonight")
Written in Political Science Class on 18/09/10
I am the brooding silhouette by the window,
I am the sliver in the darkness,
A refugee in the prison of belief,
There is one of me, there are more of me,
I am bending, sweeping the streets of my own memory,
Now, picking up the fragments of my own history.
My reality convicted me, it was my imagination that pardoned,
At the gallows of my own conscience, I die a happy man.
Layla, don't call me a traitor tonight
Layla, don't call me a traitor tonight.
Life, my fickle friend
Almost exactly a year ago, on this blog, I’d advised a friend to look you in the eye, and say to you “Game on, bitch.” You didn’t quite like that, did you? Considering you’ve not been very kind to me since then. I know, I know. I took you for granted and all that jazz. We were best buds for a long, long time. In fact, I don’t ever remember falling out with you. And then, you punched me in the face. Smooth move. Well played. I knew I deserved it, so I didn’t say much. I thought we’d shake hands like gentlemen and it’d be like old times again. Clearly, I was wrong. You kept punching me, especially when I least expected it. And then you started pushing it. We had a situation. They would call it ‘disproportionate reaction’ in law school. I know there are more people in your corner. This prolonged battle has drained me out, physically and mentally. You’re winning it right now. No doubt about that. But I think there’s still something left in me. You know what; I’m not going down without a fight. I’m going to lose this honourably. I’m in this for mamma and papa, and I’m going to keep fighting as long as I can. Notwithstanding frustrating ankle injuries just a couple days before inter-batch football starts. Notwithstanding disillusionment that is bordering on indifference. Notwithstanding the cold and cough that continues to plague me 15 days of a month. So yeah, the game’s still on, bitch. I’m still fighting.
Moares
