I spend more time on wheels than on the ground, firm and rooted. It’s a job I’ve grown to love, hate and now I go through the motions with as much apathy I can muster. I had given up on a steady relationship with anyone and enough to find a significant other. I speak to my parents while waiting for connecting flights or picking up my dry cleaning. I do not have a postal address of my own. I do not own or rent digs of my own, and I do not worry about paying my bills. I do not have a favorite restaurant and neither do I worry about buying cereal for breakfast.

The job has its perks. Yes, it does. I see places, meet people and get to experience, albeit forcefully and not always pleasant, various degrees of weather, culture, comforts, languages, habits and people.
The people.

As universally alike a species we are, the differences between each within a group, community, organization and geographical area are subtle. The nuances that make each tick (or not), the habits that define each, the society that surrounds each, the languages that enhance the accents. What at first was an inconvenience and an annoyance, slowly grew on me. I took in the differences with caution, on guard and realized quickly, that the similarities I saw in the differences, fascinated me. Initially it was about figuring out why they did what they did, or why the person thought what he did. Am not sure, when it happened, but the ‘why’ phased out to a ‘what’. It seemed to remove a fair amount of stress and tension within me. It was information gathering rather than reasoning. The ‘what’ was more than enough.

I was not a talker. I liked my peace and quiet, the voices in my head creating enough chatter to not want anymore from outside. I was not the kind of guy who’d strike a conversation with you in the next seat just coz we both were reading the same article on the New York Times, or headed to the same destination. I was not one who cared to network, and no sir, I did not own a LinkedIn account. That does not mean I have an invisible wall around me. I have now come to realize the signs of the occasional traveler. They *want* to talk. To tell all, to the person next to them, to ease the jitters of the travel.

I once met an old German lady who told me vivid and intricate details of her stay in Hannover during the regime. For three hours she spoke at length of names, people, marxists and the storekeeper and the baker’s lives of the past. She helps translate German literature works for an International Organization in the city. Her son had married a second generation Egyptian-American and her daughter lives with a professional wrestler in the Bronx. She opened a little black book to run through the names of her grandchildren she couldn’t recall. A powerhouse in that short 5 foot frame she carried as she waved me goodbye.

Then there was this one handsome cab driver in DC, my very first eye-opener to when I sub-consciously quit asking ‘why’, say 13 years ago.

‘What’ ticked him to drive a cab late into the night was my question instead. Me, in my polished shoes and an expensive overcoat huddled into the line at the airport, caught this young man’s attention. He approached me and in  soft African accent asked:
“Sir, Maryland or the suburbs here?”
“Suburbs.”
“Can I give you a ride? Or would you rather wait another 20 minutes?”

I hesitate. I was still young and my frame still boyish. Being accosted by a strange yet polished man without a visible cabbie license at the airport at 11 in the night did wake my sensors.

“Sir, I live in the suburbs. About 10 miles away. I need to get home and this is my final ride. Didn’t want to wait another 30 minutes to discover no one wanted to go south and then I drive home alone.”

His frankness was appealing. I nod my head, heave my attache across my shoulder and follow him. Surely, he looked safe. Once we ease into the highway, he nods at me through the mirror.

“So what do u do sir?”
“The usual. Work and travel for a living” I reply in a non-committal tone, to dissuade further conversation. It was late and all I wanted to do was check in and sleep.

He smiles and focuses on navigating the three lanes towards merging.

“This isn’t what I do all day sir.” he states as a matter of fact, with an air of self-assurance that he could indeed read my mind.

“Oh! so what do you do?”
“I write code. As in software code. I work for CACI, have been for the past 8 years”

My eyes blink out any vestige of sleep left in them, and I smile, visibly surprised.

“Really? That’s great. DC area is chock full of government contracts I hear?” Taking care to not sound overly condescending or surprised that he was actually driving a cab for me, and in all reality could very well be earning more than I did!

“Yeah, that’s why I love this place. I came here about 12 years ago, did an odd job here and there, put myself through school and learnt how to code. It pays well, my wife doesn’t work anymore, have a home in the ‘burbs and kids are all at home.”
Questions pop before I can even process them.
“Where are you from?”
“Ethiopia. Came in as a refugee. Times were tough back there..”
“It’s neat that you took this opportunity and are doing well. You have kids, you said?”
“Yes sir, we got to do what we got to do. Have three kids. The last one’s a baby, and she’s a darling. Look, here I have them.” Pointing to a small postcard on the dashboard “Coding’s been good to me so far. Love my job, love what I do. Both during the day and evening” He smiled.

Silence.
There is a burning question in my head and I blurt it out before I could process the elegance and the respectability of it.

“So you like to drive?”
He laughs.

“No sir, I sit at the computer all day. It gets lonely after a while. I make money, I play with my kids for a bit in the evenings, talk to my wife and I do have friends around, but that’s not what life is all about now is it? I love people. I love their stories. As a cabbie, at the airport, I meet at least two interesting people a week. The money I get is small change to how rich my thoughts are when I lay down at night. It’s always the people. So many lovely wonderful people out there. You know that don’t you, sir?”

We smile at each other through the rearview.

It’s always about the people. The people you meet along the road you travel.

Gotta love the road.

***

I settle into my seat in the A/C first class coach and look at the elderly gentleman across. Thick silver hair neatly combed to the side, clean-shaven with a pair of bright eyes behind the steel glasses, a classic picture of a retired college professor. His daughter had asked me to “keep an eye” on her father at the Chennai station. The man though elderly with his best years behind him didn’t look like he needed any help whatsoever. I was a little worried he’d start a conversation that would keep going, in bits and pieces till he knew me inside out. The kinds of friendships one strikes while sitting in 36 hour train journeys like we were stuck in. Not to be rude or anything but I had a lot on my own plate and needed this time to be alone wth my own thoughts.

20 minutes into the journey, the old man whips a shiny black Nokia cell, dials, waits for a few minutes and speaks into it.

“Hello! aahh, hello, it’s me. So what are you doing? Me? I just had my coffee and wanted to talk to you. Did you take your medicine? The blue pill? Oh good, how about the white one? Make sure you drink enough water with it. Doctor said it could upset your stomach. Yes yes, I am fine. Nithya made me some idlis this morning, but the chutney wasn’t like yours. She tries to follow your way of cooking, but what to do, she has to satisfy our son-in-law too right?” He chuckles.

After a few minutes he hangs up with a wistful smile on his face and our eyes meet. He explains as a matter of fact.

“My wife. I have to remind her to take medicines, or she will forget. You know how women are, always very busy in the kitchen and children. You are married?“

I nod my head, smile to convey; “I know how women are” and poke my head back behind the newspaper.

The train lurches along pausing and gaining speed and we pull into Vijayawada. I get up to stretch my legs and perhaps find something to eat. I look at him and ask if he needed anything?

“Oh no no, my daughter has packed some curd rice with pickle. This outside food always upsets my stomach and at my age I cannot afford to fall sick. Just a burden on the children no? But is it okay to get down, the train will stop here for a little while no?” He asks anxiously.

I assure him we have a 20-minute wait and if Indian Railways were to be trusted, we will have at least 10 more too.

While I buy some bottled water, he walks around with his palms clasped behind him. Surveying the passengers and the conversations beyond them. I see him dial a number but hang up after listening a few seconds. I nod at him and lead the way back into the coach.

After slurping through his curd rice, he dials again. This time he spoke: “Hello! ahh hello, it’s me, had lunch? Yes, I ate. Nithya packed some curd rice for me. Her little one creates such a ruckus this morning. Nithya has so much trouble handling him alone with her work at office and the father doesn’t help much, so she has to do all by herself. No no, she is alright. After all whose daughter is she? Don’t worry ma, our daughter is strong, just like you. We have done our job, and if we have done it well, then she will be just fine. What do you say? Okay, you go take rest now. Remember to take that green pill okay? Alright.”

He climbs up onto his berth and very soon I hear soft snores filter down. I watch the fields and the barren ground rush past me through the hazy smoggy window, mirroring my mind.

The gentleman made calls every few hours. I was compelled to listen to him; a veritable mix of proximity in space and mind. The tones varied from tenderness to admonishments, to care, love and assurance. The camaraderie and the lightness with which he and his wife carried on a conversation was enviable.

He always hung up with a smile. Occasionally wistful, sometimes as if the smile bore a weight, sometimes it never made it to his crinkly eyes, but smile he did. He’d throw his head back and close his eyes, almost like he was re-living the call. His cell phone clutched to his chest across delicately weathered fingers. He’d then open his eyes; offer a small monolog of explanation, a remnant that hung around in the air. He’d then polish the piece with the back of his shirt sleeve, and tell me for the umpteenth time that this was a gift his daughter got him on his birthday a few months ago, so he could call and stay in touch. He’d beam with fatherly pride and place it in his shirt pocket and continue reading a well-worn copy of Rajaji’s Mahabharatha.

“Are we at Gwalior? My wife grew up here you know? I came to this city just once to see her in 1962. She loves the place, not me. I am a true Chennai-ite at heart. The bookstall is still here?!” He laughs and slips back into silence.

A bad tepid coffee and some Marie biscuits later, he pulls out a small plastic album. Hesitating for only a few brief seconds, he points at each different picture. Scrawny fingers jabbing at images, jostling with the rasp in his voice. I thought I heard his voice tremble just a bit as he paused longer on the last picture. It was one of his wife and a little girl. Replicas in the way their gaze held the camera, the lips that curved with the weight of the shyness, the way they clasped their hands in their laps. His son’s daughter. The one he is going to visit now.

“Hello! ahhh, yes, it’s me. Am almost there, another few hours and I will be at Vishwa’s house. Did you take your medication? I took mine. Yes, even the eye drops too. Oh, btw, we passed by Gwalior this morning. You remember the station bookstall on platform 3? It’s still there.” Voice fills with excitement and raising just a bit high. “Time files no? The children grow fast don’t they? Yes ma, Vishwa will take care of me, he always does. Sometimes he gets upset and that’s only because he is going through the family stage, or else he’s a patient boy. I will be quiet and see in what way I can help at their home. Ok? I won’t say a word. Are you happy now? Okay, I think we are coming close to the station, I should pack up. Don’t want to keep him waiting, he will be rushing to work, today’s Tuesday no? Okay, I will keep the phone down now. Alright.”

We wait with his suitcase on the slowly emptying platform. I look at my watch and propose he use his cell and call his son.

“No no, he will be here any minute. Must be Delhi’s traffic. I hear it takes 30 minutes to cross 2 kilometers these days.”

Shortly, a handsome young man of my age darts across and with a show of recognition, approaches us. “Sorry dad, it’s the traffic. Had a good journey?”

“See, I told you, it was the traffic“. He says to me and then turns towards his son: “This young man has been a big help on the train.“

I shake my head, and smile, turning to leave, and the father and son follow.

With just a step ahead of the father, the son walks alongside of me, drops his voice and asks: “I hope my dad didn’t trouble you. He tends to talk a lot these days. He feels lonely, my mother just passed away three months ago.”

 ***

 Back in Chennai, Nithya, pauses at the answering machine on her way out the door to work, and with a practiced heavy hand, hits the ‘delete’ button.

Am obviously a little late, but the prompt intrigued me enough to want to take a stab at it, so here goes.

***

All eyes turned towards me as I almost fell into room. The carpet had ripped at the entrance, thanks to our new canine friend we adopted just a month ago. I was, after all, the man of the moment and I had walked into the room bringing with me gasps. Of pin drop silence and shock.

In anticipation of celebrations, family and friends had traveled from far and wide. Including the frenemies that we, as a family could not ignore.

To give you perspective, I was getting dressed for the evening and in a moment of unbridled happiness and not waiting for further instructions on the evening’s schedule, I dart across my room and into the corridors. Hearing the voices from the larger room that we usually host people for drinks, I make my way up towards  it. I didn’t find a soul on my way and I wondered at my good fortune. What are the chances of given free reign in your own home, without a man not given instructions on how to dress, walk, stand when there was company under the roof?

Nada.

One makes hay while the sun shines. In this case, run untethered and unencumbered. The door was wide open and sounds of glasses clinking mixed with my Uncle’s baritone guttural laughter greeted me. My cousins were at their wildest best, and I presume they must also have an inkling on this untethered atmosphere, coz out barged two of the best dressed ones and ran the other way. Right on their heels was my older cousin, the bully. I remember being very intimidated by this guy as he was a head taller than me and was not afraid of using that height. He did not see me and had eyes on the girls. It was at this particular moment, I walked into an atmosphere of revelry and laughter, only to stifle it all in a moment. All my peers, stopped in their tracks and stared. Aunties covered their open mouths with the edges of their pallus, some mouths still stuffed with the remains of half eaten samosas. Uncles stopped mid-way through their drinks and one coughed up half of some really expensive 60’s wine.

Oblivious to the split second reaction I produced, I still had the grin on my face and beamed all around.
It was at this juncture that my cousin brother stepped in from behind me and started laughing, his normally brown face now going a deep crimson.
That was all the cue everyone else needed, and the whole room burst into loud, undisguised mirth. The kids pointed their fingers at me and laughed, the ladies chided and yet again covered their faces and mouths and laughed and the uncles guffawed.
It felt odd.
It did not seem like they were happy and laughing with me, they were laughing at me.

You see, I was naked.
Butt naked. Not a single shred of cloth covered any part of me.
My hair all tousled and unbound falling in long tendrils across my forehead and neck.
My fair chest, hairless with fat in folds and hanging loose.
My member out there in all its moderate glory.
My dimpled knees in plain view

And just like that my favorite aunt rushes forward, scoops me into her arms and around her large dupatta and sings softly “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” as everyone else joins in.

I had turned three years old.

I desperately, passionately and vehemently feel the burning desire to connect. Connect the thoughts in my head to the words that these thoughts should shape into. It should be natural I’d imagine. After all, isn’t that precisely what I’ve been doing all these days, months and years since you walked into my life? You walked, waltzed, hid, scuttled and ran, in and out of my life a few times now. Over time, I got used to that.

The absences, the hurt, the angst and the smiles that forgot the tears.

The laughter and the screams.

The declarations and the curtain of lies each of us hid under.

The truths that couldn’t be called truths anymore coz they morphed into lies that breathed honesty in every syllable uttered.

Confusing and confused, the web got darker, thicker and stickier.

Yet, through all of that maze, we reached clarity. Both of us had it. We did, didn’t we? Yes, we did. There was this spark of clarity that threw blinding light on us, drawing us into the other’s nakedness. I could see you, and I know I didn’t hide from you.

You, am sure found your peace, coz you wanted this. You wanted and I gave it to you. Sure, you’ve asked before and I have given you, and trust me, I want to give you whatever you want, but up until now, couldn’t give it you wholeheartedly. There was a selfish streak within, to be happy despite causing discomfort. See, am not so noble after all. I craved you for selfish reasons.

I was the happiest with you in my life. I am not sad now, but even.  Yet, it isn’t the same kind of abandon and reckless happiness that makes me sparkle. The stars in my eye, the sheen in my skin, and the glow in my face. The heart raced just a bit quicker in anticipation, and the words.

By God, the words. My precious words. They flowed. Abundant, thick, luscious and juicy. Angst, love, lust and wisdom vying with each other. They danced to the tune my heart sang in. They scampered into little couplets, sonnets, arrangements that I never knew I could put them in, all by themselves.

Orchestrated by everything within me ignited by you.

You left.

The orchestra’s disbanded itself.

I drop a tear or two some days when I can afford the luxury to mourn.

For my babies, my words. My muse.

These months, I have nightmares. My letters mock me, full of scorn and anger and an occasional revenge. They threaten to leave me if I don’t do something quick. They lay in a pile, tired, bored and rusted. Lethargic, fat and unhealthy. Almost sick. Breathing their last few moments before they leave to find a better home.

I am going to have to let them go. Can’t have blood on my fingers. Not the blood of my words.

The trade off has been fair.

Your peace for my muse and words.

It’s bittersweet.

Like Belgian dark chocolate. The kind that I sent you last and ones that dried up and tasted like hard rocks in the cold? Yeah, they taste bittersweet. Like how my tears would taste, if you’d kiss me. Now.

whispering the same
in repetition
silencing a misty cacophony

waiting
yearning
pining

to awake in the music
to dance in the echos
to shimmer in the ripples

to be alive

an orchestra in order
bows bent
backs straight
in attendance
in anticipation
in repetition

to wake up and dance and shimmer with life

for
his breath to surge
his eyes to rove
his finger to trace

to render her
tactile

Flirtatious and flippant, she moved with purpose. Unaware of the effect she had amongst the row of men that waved from across the lines. It didn’t seem to faze her. It didn’t seem to make her heady. Her dancing feet firmly rooted, she pranced in and out of his life a few times now.

A whirlwind with every entrance. Leaving him breathless and harried. A high that was at once sexy, heady, thrilling as much as it drove him up the wall.

She was a child-woman. Excitedly she’d waltz into his life, with a bit of a tear threatening to flow down her rounded brown cheeks. He’d succumb. As much as a strict front he put on, he let her have the power on him. Every single time.

Every time she revealed a little bit of herself.

Animatedly she’d pull herself aside and show a secret. One. Each time it was just one, or maybe two. Not more. Guarded secrets. Ones that she treasured with great pride and a sense of urgency to protect.

He’d peeled away at her childishness one day. She let him.

Next it was her enthusiasm.

The way she held her pen while she wrote volumes to him.

Then came her spunk.

The sensuous curve of her neck.

The eyes that spoke volumes with different shades.

Peel by peel by peel.

His fingers trembled with every reveal.

She in turn glowed under his touch.

The finer fluff done, he probed further and braced her jealousies and insecurities.

Fascinatingly repugnant, yet strangely goading him further, he delved deeper.

The layers got difficult to navigate, murky, there was no clarity in where he was headed. Common sense told him to retreat now, but he was curious. He wanted to know everything about her. He felt that when he first met her and now there was a hesitation. A voice floated down “Be careful for what you wish for, you may just get it” He wondered briefly if this complication was necessary at all.

Outside his mind, the game continued. He stopped asking in hope that she would stop revealing. He was no masochist.

He exclaimed one day,”You are crazy! One day you surprise me, the next you shock!”

She smiled shyly. “There’s more. Just one last one”, she said with a twinkle in her eye.

With a sense of finality and relief and a sadness that accompanies the revealing of the mystery, he stood waiting. With a deep breath and a smile, she opened her palms and it shone. Clear and radiant, it lay there dazzling against the pinkness of her palm. It was her final treasure. It was herself.

Shielding his eyes to the brightness, he says with disappointment “A shiny clear stone!”

Her eyes drop, and she closes her palms. Her pulse raced and before she fell to the floor in a heap, she held onto her diamond just a bit tighter.

]]> http://cesmots.com/2009/09/27/peel/feed/ 8 http://cesmots.com/2009/09/14/name-this/ http://cesmots.com/2009/09/14/name-this/#comments Tue, 15 Sep 2009 02:08:50 +0000 rads http://cesmots.com/?p=615 Hey you,

I’ve always been meaning to ask you this:

What is that thing that continues to propel someone to keep opening up to the same person?

• Despite the said confidante not wanting or caring and has explicitly said so.
• Despite the confidante who once welcomed warm open thoughts now has nothing more to offer but a cold shoulder.
• Despite the fact that the confidante has completely shut down every part of themselves to this person

What do you call that overwhelming feeling that consumes a person’s rationale, logic and lessons learned and without a thought or hesitation continue to trust and lay bare the heart and mind. Open. Raw. Vulnerable.

What do you call the person?

What do you call that moment in time, when that moment can last a long lifetime? Or that’s how it may seem. When the mind throws itself back and it’s lost in a black hole coz there really is no discernible starting point to it all.

Stupid? Is that what it is? Naive, gullible and stupid?

Can one be selectively stupid? Like a choice?

Like “I’d like to be stupid with just you please? Nope, not you and you and you, but just you. And if you don’t mind, I’ll have a bagel with that as well.”

What if the trust is so far beyond the threat of the outcome of stupidity? Hurt. Continuous repetitive hurt.

What if being hurt doesn’t hurt anymore?

What if all you wanted out of all of this was a touch? Touch across the distance, with the words that quickly stand in attention and form a line. A phrase. Perhaps one day, I dare dream of a touch for real. Maybe I am getting ahead of myself. Let me just be for now.

You see that overwhelming thing I spoke about before? Yeah, it’s a lifeline. The vest that sails it all through, the thing that the world calls pain, and the people living in it call you stupid.

I think.

In overwhelmingly unknown terms,

R

A repost of an older post, this time with audio.

Stay_fable

Stay.

Stay
Just a bit longer, stay
I want to kiss you once more

The night as a witness to our desire
Hush,
Close your eyes,
Can you feel me?
Like I did just hours ago

In the silence of my darkness
Your breath as my beacon
I caress you with my fingertips

Stay
Just a bit longer
Make love to me once more

Brushing wavy tendrils away
Your stubble grazes my chin
A passion on a sway
Yet again
Your lips cradled in mine

In the crescendo of our heartbeats
Your voice as my refuge
I echo you with my eyes

Stay
Just a bit longer, stay
I want to kiss you once more

The night’s growing old
Dawn’s stealing quietly through
My spine feels a cold
Hold on, don’t let go

In the warmth of this raging amour
My dream as my anchor
I shut my eyes tight

As you must know
I wake with the dawn,
Poof!
There you go.

Stay
Just a bit longer
Make love to me once more

I can account for about 10 of my regular readers who came forward and let me know, but the rest are left un-named so far. It is indeed gratifying to know that there are readers out there for their own reasons remain silent and watch from the wings, quiet and appreciative, like little content shy guardian angels.

For a blog of perhaps 30 odd subscribed readers, 19′s a fine number. It brings a smile to my face to the kind of endorsement this “contest” has brought to the surface. Not that one needed a “contest” to prove one’s mettle or capabilities or loyalties, but these are the bridges between the said and the unsaid.

My fables mean the world to me. Each is born of a different need, all sharing the same sentiment of wanting to be expressed in a language that speaks the truth to me and interpreted differently by everyone else. They originally started off as a vent, and have now morphed to mean a lot more.

My fables own me. The words that charge out do not come out of careful deliberation, something that’s very evident for a fine-tuned reader as I tend to publish un-edited pieces. I, Rads am not responsible for the premise of most, they appear when they wish and of their own free will. One just has to look at the dates and the frequency to know that one doesn’t plan such writings. They do not stick to the traditional ‘Short Story” description. They aren’t grand, they don’t always tell a story pretty, they do not have an ending, never mind a happy one, and they do not always leave the reader wanting more, or spellbound even, but they are my fancies and I write for me.

Please do not misunderstand my intentions. I am no snob by saying this, and am surely not treating my reader irreverently. The whole intention of jotting them down on a public blog is that what gives me joy and a satisfaction, I love to share. It’s out there not for accolades or for praise or even critique (all have always been welcome however) but purely for the need to leave it out in the open. Closed containers eventually stink.

As a few of you are aware, I am averse to online contests. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but this is my take. Real life has its share of challenges, competitions and races. Blogging (both my blogs) has been a hobby to me, and will always be. To ones who see it the way I do, am sure you understand that mixing the two adds stress and kills the creative spirit that should remain unblemished till that point in time when the artist is ready him/herself. Also, there’s this need to better oneself each time. Race within and the rest takes care of itself.

So why did I ‘nominate’ myself? On a whim, and to prove a hunch I’ve had all along. I had no haughty notions of winning. In fact, I didn’t think I would even gather more than a handful of supporters. This is a pleasant (and a little unsettling to an extent) surprise. As many of you have said, my fables are difficult to understand and even require a few reads to ‘get’ them. Even then, many are unsure if they interpret it the way the fable was meant to.

What the reader should understand is that what the reader perceives could very well be different from what I have in mind. I love that option. Where one can take a bunch of words and make it their own. It’s fantastic. There is immense happiness when one does ‘get’ it the way I wrote it, but when  give room for interpretation, and people run with it, it speaks volumes of the readers themselves.

I stop.

Thank you once again for reading my fables.

So she suffered through the health, unable to miss school, and get pampered like the other two would. Once she even tried getting completely drenched in the rain. Came home and hoped the next day she’d be burning with fever. No such luck.

..and then one day she looked up the papers for her number. The Engineering and Medical entrance exam results were out. She searched frantically, willing to see the order of her numbers on her ticket would match the ones strewn all around. There was a 7 in place of her 6 and then there was a 1 instead of her 2. Hers didn’t display. Her heart now sank back into place and kept sinking. She wasn’t the chosen one despite her 98.3% at her boards and 47.4 in the entrance test. She sat still in the corner and waited for the screams and the shouts that would echo for the next few days to come from her mother. Miserable, she waited.

The blows came, from her father. Just like that, out of the blue, he yanked her up by her long braid and slapped her hard. Shocked, she watched him mutely. The anger in his eyes mixed with disappointment shaped the blows that kept coming. She fell on the floor, and he would lift her up and push her down again. The broom came, her dark legs bore surprising brown welts for weeks together. The stings were painful, but the tears didn’t come very much. Still in shock, she kept saying this to herself. Daddy? Really? Daddy was angry? She had let her daddy down. Mom was supposed to be angry, not Daddy.

The next morning, she woke up with rashes all over her. Fever at 103, her bony frame could barely move from the bed. Mom got her some milk, and she lay cowering in bed cursing her luck about that seat. That afternoon the fever went up and her friend dropped by with the news on all who got in. A fresh set of pain and shouts and disappointed frustrated withering looks from her daddy.

Daddy never shouted at her. She was daddy’s little girl. She must have really disappointed him. She remembered that first breaking of the news, the rest of the days after that were a haze.

***

As a young woman, she managed a beautiful home and children and her husband was a gentle soft man. So much freedom she had and the curious cat in her continued to explore and enjoy the little adventures the world kept throwing at her. So she made friends over the net and played scrabble on Yahoo Games. She was awesome at it. There were the silly message boards and she would make sillier rhymes and call them poems. Nicks loved her. She became the most well loved ‘aunty’ on the board. A few young boys doing their graduate studies here felt an affinity towards her. She’d call them her “boys” and she would send neat little packages of pickles or some sweets she made. They were after all so far from home. A loving respectful bond developed and she found a new sibling love through them.

Unfortunately for her, one particular boy didn’t reciprocate similarly and in his dazed hormonal state thought he was in love with her. Young boys act on their hormones and he immediately produced a long winding document professing his love for her. She chuckled at it while reading and instead of admonishing sternly, she reasoned with him and forgot all about it.

That evening, she left her inbox open and ran to pick up the kids.

After dinner, she cleaned up and went to bed. A rude jolt wakes her up and it’s her husband beating her and dragging her by her hair, slapping her, pushing her. Called her a whore. A cheap woman that would sell her wares to grad students. Mutely, she looked at him shocked. Really? It’s him? Her dear husband, who would never ever raise his voice with her, who accommodated all her needs, he was actually inflicting pain onto her. It went on and on and she reasoned and wept, but he felt letdown.

The next day she woke up with a fever of 103 and miserably in pain all over. When she went to wash, she saw a large zit on her face next to her eye. It hurt. By afternoon, her torso and back was filled with tiny pustules. She remembers him taking her to the doctor, and being declared that she had the attack of the chicken pox.

She remembers shuddering at his voice that day. Really? How could a gentle soft man do this to her? She had let him down. She should never have spoken with all those young boys. ..but she was a married woman. After the doctor’s visit, the rest of the days were a blur.

***

Many years later she befriended a nice man. Sharing similar tastes and likes, the bond grew strong. A friendship that not many would understand, but which she prided in. It was beautiful. She knew she could never replicate it nor try explaining it, so she enjoyed it in her privacy.

During a particular vulnerable moment, she let her guard down and confessed a few private details to another. One thing led to another and the words changed meaning and course and hell broke loose.

Just like that she heard a loud harsh voice going on and on at her. Nothing he’d screamed. I feel nothing towards you. Nothing. You heard me? I’ve gone over this multiple times, I have nothing for you. She stood listening, shocked. Shocked at the mellow laughing voice that had taken a rasping grating edge. Anger in supreme form. More words were thrown at her while she stood in the hallway outside the restroom and whimpered. Her heart raced, and an already fragile state rattled.

Really? It was him? He is actually angry at me and shouting at me? It can’t be happening. I don’t understand, how could he act this way with her?  He was disappointed with her.

That night she shook violently in bed and was hot to the touch. Delirious she kept denying she said any untruth. Her husband couldn’t make much sense of what had happened to his wife, but he was a responsible man. Her temperature touched 104 and not knowing what else to do, he dragged her to the tub and doused cold water over her to bring the temps down.

The next few days her fever spiked and her faculties swayed in and out. She doesn’t remember much of what happened in the days after that, it was a huge blur, but she remembers every word that led to it. She knew she was at fault. She had let him down. She had let her friend down.

***

The three wonderful gentle important men in her life and she let them down individually. These random acts did not define them, they were just disappointed with her. She loved and respected them all, differently. She knew they cared for her too. Cared enough to take the liberty to admonish her. She was very fond of them all, and when she thought of them, a smile played on her lips.

***

She now sits in her dim study staring at the blue computer screen. Her brain a pudgy mush. Blind barren spots around the sharp ragged edges of the events.

The multiple virus attacks were vicious. The CPU needed work. Anti-Virus should be installed.

The doctor however told her son that she would most likely not recover from Alzheimer’s, and the onset of it went way back.

She looks at her son from the corner of her eye and waits. He was the last important man in her life. She convinced herself that she’d let him down some day. So she waited for the attack to come. This time she was learning from history. She would at least not be shocked, and she had a large dose of Tamiflu and Acyclovir stocked away in her dresser drawer next to her bed.