Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts

Friday, February 01, 2013

Chapter 4: headfuck

"Okay, so you wanna get fucked? Head Fucked?" They now stare at him blankly, but in rapt attention - that was previously focused towards "veg" subjects, ranging from canine care to herpes prognosis. At this moment, the room had been abuzz with conversations. Two or three strains among these voices in the buzzing room also engaged in a discussion of this swole alumni - one of their very own - among them, not corrupted by a single day of indiscretionary eating, denying the existence of atrophy, and looking as good as they never even did at their prime. Those voices discussed of his enigmatic profile - that blurred out of imagination on magnifying into detail, and how even his facticities were unconfirmed. Now they all were bringing him into their vision's best focus, so that their confused eyes could convince him to help their imagination at a game that they'd obviously never even heard of.

"So, who all here know Frank Sinatra?" There were many raised hands.
"Well, he's dead."

"Just a sample of how it could be... a headfuck... grabbing, humorous, and DARK. Alright, should we go for one?" He saw some nods in the silhouettes. "I won't do it unless there is a 100% audience, which means ALL of you..." More heads nod, until all of them are seen pulsating - albeit arrythmically - at the same time. That is when his voice fills the room again; "Great. Green flag. So I'll begin..."

"But there are a few rules:

1. Positive criticism is appreciated
2. Negative criticism or taking offence is banned. A single wretched voice condemning me to damnation, or summin' like that, and I'll stop.
3. Nobody is allowed to punch me - now or afterwards.

All agree?"
They merrily did, acting as if they were in a fucking Walt Disney fucking Mickey Mouse episode.

"I have been..." he began, pausing to collect words for his upcoming fuck. These 'fucks' were a part of every avant-garde wind-out session among his university colleagues; liberal arts colleges do bring in that something extra. Everybody wanted to fuck. Everyone loved getting fucked; the harder the fuck, the more they loved it. Their fucks could be anything that can grab an audience 'viscerally'. Among these people, messing one's head was considered highest recreational activity (albeit some had, by now, extended its underlying philosophy to their professional and public matters). On any meet following a good fuck, they'd go "Woah, she fucked us hard the last time," or "Oh, Jimmy, you rarely fuck us these days. Can't get something up?"


Though this 'fuck' was a metaphorical one, tonight he decided to use a literal 'fuck' to fuck them up.
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Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The Reflection Sees it All

Previously: The reflection leaned against the almirah mirror, intently reading into its owner on other side of that wafer-thin barrier. He could see himself over several years from this close. He could read on his face what it felt like with on those days. He could see how bad he was at his own authority - every muscle seemed to have a sovereign reign which is why he couldn't fan either of his ears. He could see the fractured appeal of his fractured noseline, now in a new shade of tan thanks to a week in the Leh sun. He could make out, for the first time, of the look of a shamed conscience, as in when a slave is scolded by his god. He could think of several goofy muscle-configurations that make him ever-less likely to fornicate. He could notice that he would not age well. He could make out that he was stocking on too much sesame. He could conjecture that he has been arrested in development and lost in translation, from the fact of his single look. He could see the asymmetry in the division of his face - since his discovery of unsymmetrical left and right feet, this was concerning. He then combed through his hair with his fingers, to collect them in a bunch and pull them back, as if he were fashioning a ponytail; he could see how that smoothed the fabric of wrinkles on his forehead, and wondered if a good crop on the top would serve a cosmetic solution to old age.
Vanity would not be the right word at this point, though its close.

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Tuesday, January 10, 2012

For Out of Sin Comes Joy

Search fearlessly for every sin, for out of sin comes joy

---
After a few minutes of confusion at the bus station where he had just got off, which in the meantime had him absorbing scenes of local life as he stood like a lost puppy - every banal act made into a Haiku with the yellow tint of the autumn - and her circling the wrong block thrice, she finally picked her up.

They seemed in a pleasant state from their short exchange of words in her car. Their eyes were still hesitant to settle comfortably in each other's presence, fleeting about like sparrows between anything of minor detail, but the other person. They finally got to her doorstep; a nice, polished teakwood welcome for him. He was nervous of all the new colors inside that he'd have to confront. What the home of an MD looked like, he had no idea. Any such outing was generally a savage affair for his senses - "your invitation enough is distressing to my intestines," as he used to tell his friends. But that nervous feeling was pushed aside by another churning his senses subjected him to.

As soon as they entered her home, he flung the bag to one corner, and as its motion came to cease under the showcase holding her medical degree, he gave her a deep loving stare; their eyes finally met to lock in on each other. He held her face in his palms. Something transcendental in anticipation. And their lips locked in a kiss. This was the sensory overload that offset his anxiety about the interiors - her warmth, her scent, the resonating - albeit with a goat-like tonality - of her voice in his ears. Their kiss lasted for 3, or maybe 4 hours, neither of them willing to let go, not because they could not be without each other, inseparable and all that, but because they'd been without each other all these years which had left them in a sudden void of a more innocent childhood they once knew. It was some kind of assurance that they were still the same.

Love for the other never brings people to these kind of things; its a selfish ulterior motive of selfishness, of reclaiming a snapshot of their life, of being lost in play, that brings them here.

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Thursday, January 05, 2012

Everything Wrong

As we sit together, sipping the cafe latte, she tells me that everything about my life has been wrong, and that I must take my time to realize this. I take my time, then I leave, leaving her with a halfway consumed coffee mug and the receding sound of my footsteps. Not even Moroder's promise of eternity from a distant JBL can convince me to stay back now. Her final stare goes down into my conscience like a glass of fine scotch, but its uninviting nonetheless.

I get home and put on Moroder just to sort of replay through the dawn of that realization. Seeing the life that I'd lived, I'd assumed it would make me a good man, a public confirmation of that coming as I chance upon a field of flowers in a remote hill village nearing dusk, hand in hand with her, a pandemonium of parrots violating the skies and flying away into the horizon, their receding cacophony giving way to the soft sound of the water stream up ahead; then we kiss, and later push related status updates on Facebook. But now I only lock lips with one of my toothbrushes, then fall into a hard spot of trying to forget her (and remember sleep) which only brings in more memories, prepare some coffee as an indirect influence from the more recent memories, and decide to end my life.

The next morning I do not wake up.
Then I do. And with no visible dismemberment of my identity (or the hole in my heart), perform my vegetable functions as usual.
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Saturday, June 05, 2010

Untitled

They all had gathered in the drawing room. It was 12:30AM in the night; hence every moment of their forced waking was a restless one. Their restlessness was also met with an anxiety that grew with every soft step of mine across the room. Silently, I circled the small table at the center, my eyes distracted into studying its minimal features, as if they could reveal to me the exact words to represent the gravity and urgency of my thoughts in a simple fashion. I cannot remember how much time I’d spent testing their patience; they stood there like lethargic vegetables, feeling perplexed at my present behavior, and only too willing to crawl back into their beds. However, they were sympathetic enough to assume that I had come across some interesting incident or an idea that had been lost in the process of translation into speech, and by the mathematics on my face they tacitly bargained into sanctioning me time to express myself. Well, they had to wait anyways; I could not let them get back to their beds without breaking to them the news of my death...
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