Birds And Walls

To be or not to be is not the question.

No. Not like birds. Never like birds. Not so small, insecure. Not so dependent on weather. No. Not like birds. Not so delicious. God, no! Not so beautiful. Not so in love. Not in flight. Not with wings – but who wouldn’t want wings? – and with so close to clouds and lightning, no, never! Not with a heart that beats thousandtimes a minute. Not so fast. No. Never. Not like birds. Not so loud, so singsongy all the time. Not of a flock. Not to be left behind. Never a slave to freedom. Not in poems. No. Never like birds – but wings!

Then like what? Something that doesn’t fly? Like a wall, maybe. Solid dust. Like the berlin wall. Fall for something one never stood for? Sounds sweet. Too sweet, rather. Not so sweet. Not like the Berlin wall. Never. Some ordinary wall, then? A normal red strip made of bricks and mortar and blood and sweat and piss. Cornerstone to every good fight. Literal possessor of the beyond. Marker of the civilization. Refuge of the rich. But too confusing. Yes, too unnecessarily confusing. When one is a wall, is there a wall shaped soul that runs through every brick and halfbrick and will one be the same wall when someone replaces one of the bricks with a brick from another wall? Or is there something of a central brick that has the soul and provides the moral nurture other bricks may require and will one be the same wall if that central soulbrick is replaced with some brick from other wall? What was the answer to Theseus’ question? Who can answer? Who cares about the soul of a wall? Who cares about anything? Maybe, and it may sound funny, they don’t even have a soul. Ha. Not so confusing. Not like walls. Never.

But if only walls had wings (but would not fly,) and if only they knew where their soul was, and if only birds were lesser bird and more wall, and walls were lesser wall and more soul and souls were lesser soul and more substance and they all three, one drunk evening, fall in love and decide to spend rest of the eternity together and –

But this entity, call it Walrus (I don’t know why), whose soul would it have? A bird’s or a wall’s? Or maybe the soul would be outside, could be seen – hiding a bird and a wall inside. Neat. No?


Killing Lizards

In the course of this conversation between a father and a son there will be blatant lies, veritable facts, and some truth, or perhaps no truth at all.

Night, somewhere.

– I taught you how to catch lizards – you learnt how to kill, yourself. I must have also told you that they would never bother you and wouldn’t care if you kill them or not. They won’t be sad if you kill them. They won’t be happy you if you don’t. They won’t be anything else leaving what they actually are. If there’s one thing one can learn from them that’s that. And that’s what’s special in lizards, and even bugs and other lesser ugly looking things. They never stop being themselves. While a tiger would roar just when whipped to roar, a lizard would drop its tail and vanish, or would fall trying vanishing. They never get tired of being themselves. They are what they are. Body and soul. And you don’t have to talk to a lizard to find out if its angry or hungry or scared – and they are only these three things – it is for everyone to see, this state of blissful unity. And it is unmixed – a scared lizard would never be a hungry lizard.
– So I shouldn’t kill them?
– Why shouldn’t you? I was just saying they don’t care whether you kill them or not.
– So I’m not bad when I kill them.
– No you are not. But just being ‘not bad’ should’t be enough for you.
– Then why did you stop me from killing one?
– Because you can kill it later.
– I can?
– Obviously. But first, look at that lizard over there.
– Just look?
– Yes, and don’t think about it.
– But –
– Shhh. Look at it there at the wall. Just take a peaceful, unthinking look. Don’t even think that you don’t have to think.
– But I can’t stop thinking.
– Alright. What exactly are you thinking?
– A number of things. I am thinking how its funny when they drop their tails.
– I told you not to. You shouldn’t think. It is very important.
– But its hard not to.
– You see that tree at the turn where the last lamp-post is. Run to that and come back as fast as you can.
– Its more than a kilometre.
– Go.
– You want me to do that? Its dark.
– You’d get your answers.

– Don’t sit. Stand straight. Breathe, slowly.
Now, look at that lizard. What do you want to do with it?’
– Nah-thinh.
– Why nothing? Don’t you wanna watch its tail drop?
– Noh.
– Why? I’d want some more words from you.
– ‘Cause I wanto sit dow, down. I, I want to sit dow, sit down, andrinksome water.
– And, what about the lizard? Its wriggling tail?
– I doun know.
– What is it that you don’t know?
– I doun kay-a, care. Wah-ter, please.
– Sure.

– You know why you couldn’t think of anything else but water?
– Because I was tired and thirsty.
– Don’t you think there’s something more to that?
– What? Like something where I am aware of every single tissue of my body? You believe that, seriously?
– No. But I believe in something more preposterous.
– What?
– I believe that it isn’t a blessing to have all your senses intact or being aware of every single tissue in your body. What would you accomplish with that information? Its all bullshit. But God! if I could only see and not feel, hear and not see, smell and taste and not see hear feel, and do not feel absence of what is absent, it would be perfect. But right now its like a brilliant group of rogue senses that betray at any given chance. And I don’t want that. I would want to be without distractions.
– Like a lizard?
– Much like them.
– You truly want that?
– Want what?
– To be senseless?
– Yes.
– Should I want that too?
– How would I know? The greatest and possibly the worst thing about any truth is that it is only yours, completely and painfully so. You’d have to search for your own truth. And you’d have to work hard for it.
– I feel I should start with lizards.
– Killing them?
– No. I think not.

An Ordinary Mind

Dear T,

Lets start from where we left. Rather, you left – in a hurry, as if the world depended on you buttoning your shirt. You jumped off the window and you ran to save someone. No one knows who. Neither do you. But you ran, nevertheless – you were always a great runner, and its a pity you waste that on saving people who do not, in the least, want to be saved – away from me. You must remember you were thinking of running away even when there wasn’t a hint of confusion between our bodies – when our noses sauntered hand in hand and your lips were like a fallen leaf lapping every ounce of the infinite space, before falling on its back. I could have made you the tree in the last image but trees don’t run and also, a fallen leaf carries with it the utter imbecilic insignificance and crippled roving of your thoughts that night. What was I thinking? you must think, if you have forgotten. I’ll tell you, because I have not.

Not only can I read minds but I can write them. And you were lucky I left yours untouched that night. But it was hard not to look beyond those brown eyes. Last eight years there hasn’t been a night I haven’t gone back to that serene confusion in your eyes, to that moment when I decided I would have a look what’s beyond the shiny surface. You remember you always told me that you were just an ordinary man, and I always strictly disputed that and told you that you had the most beautiful mind. Well, that night I came to know that you were right. I was seeing the inordinate ordinariness of an astonishingly singular mind, almost special, if I can say, in its singularity. I started noticing the incongruities of my body – the little more hair here, the little less hair there, the insolent rise of the nose, the disastrous fall of the breasts – that stood like absolutes in your eyes, and I ended up, stranded, twice removed from myself. Its not that you weren’t trying. You were. You always wanted to get past the carnal pitter-patter but the sheer ordinariness of your mind doesn’t let you go beyond that extra facial hair. I sometimes almost pity you. It must be frustrating to have all the strength in the world but still not enough to face a soul.

But what was I thinking? I remember that too. As I told you earlier I decided to look what’s beyond. And as I found nothing but a vivid nightmare, as real as your nose, I started hating – first myself, then you. And that hatred was not something abstract, it was right there, flesh and blood, holding you and kissing you – it was like being pregnant with it. I could feel my blood curdling to create another me inside my body and I felt it grow and take hold of my entire being, right from the red meaty parts to the little hair on my lip that I saw in your eyes.

It was good that you left, or else I would have killed you. And what would have been the fun in that? There’s nothing that salvages an average moralistic mind as death. More fun is to see you live, while others die. More on this in the next letter, or newspaper – whichever comes first.


P.S. Something on my soul; flourishing.

This letter is a part of a superhero series that I’m working on. To know more about the man this letter is addressed to, click here. And the lady who has written this letter, well, I hope I will soon write more on her.

Bughum’s First Lady

Between the binding spirals of this diary is written between.

What has gone
is going to be
I’ll draw with my toes.

How is it that you never fall?

A child is the sweetest dictator if there is one. Puffy cheeks, brilliant lips, fiery eyes, conspicuously risen tummy – pointing fingers, demanding trials, mauling innocent Barbies – mutilating, destroying, executing. A child creates the world in his own image and gets rid of it as soon as her world collides with other more detailed, strange worlds. That’s her first lesson in democracy. But it is hard to get rid of what you have created with your own little clumsy hands. So the world remains, with all its grotesqueries and wild dreams and collected stones. The new democratic, egalitarian world of the growing child is always brimming with the possibilities of a rather violent military coup, waiting to transcend conformity, and establishing again, a conformity of a transcendental nature, with superlative principles and ideals and the similar nonsense. To sum up: a child is the living proof of why humanity hasn’t gone far. And to further sum up: I hate children.

I had a pretty gory childhood. I came out covered in blood. Everyone was so happy that they forgot to wipe all that blood off my nose. I must have sneezed my larynx out when finally, someone had the courage to do the obvious. I was wiped and wrapped and served to my mother who devoured me with her teary eyes. She was crying because she knew I was way more beautiful than she could ever be. She brought her nose closer to mine. She was trying to be the archetypal mother image. I sneezed sarcastically. How could such a small thing sneeze, she thought. She was hurt and from that day on nothing remained as it used to be between us. She always wanted me to be as I was, when I was inside her, you know, for nine months and fourteen days – feeling secure, being small, not talking much. But I sneezed. My mother never wanted a son who would sneeze. Well, to be frank, I never wanted a mother who wasn’t much to look at. We both grew up hating each other but we never fought – we just left each other to live – and we behaved as if nothing ever happened between us.

The strangest thing happened when I grew young and she grew small: I started to look like her! – her, when I saw her from the outside for the first time, when I sarcastically sneezed. She died of a cold. Her nose could not keep up with the changing world. I was there when her body was leaving her. How could one so small and old be so beautiful? I thought. I couldn’t resist from bringing my nose close to hers – she sneezed as I did so (she was always a bit theatrical). When I was burying her I could see that I was burying a very beautiful face – a face that outdid mine in its wet nose beauty, as beautiful as I once was. And in the end, she was herself what she wanted me to be – secure, small, not talking much. I was crying because I knew she was way more beautiful than I could ever be.


I cannot write prose today
Cannot form sentences of meaning
Draw murders, make people
Fall in love.

I cannot squeeze the heaviness away
Cannot shred and serve it in neat lines
Constructed – without adverbs –

I cannot tell you the story which I told you
When I often told you stories – as they were all lies
And it is difficult to remember them all today
I’d not lie.

(Do you ever feel like that dark banality that gets written between flashes of meaning? That talks of mountains, rivers, palaces, hedges, horses, windows and whatnot, that seems would go on forever. Do you ever? Do you remember once you told me something very profound so I would kiss you – or was it me? ‘This world will end in desperation of a frantic imitation where each day, hour, second wants to be some other day, hour, second not respectively and everything wants to be something it is not and cannot be.’ I kissed you then – or was it you?)

I cannot write prose today.
I do not have the words for it.

Bughum’s First Love

People often mistake acidity for love, for both include a burning chest, and a near-smoking heart. It was love, unfortunately, in my case. And I was able to make the distinction because I’d always been acidic as long as I could remember. If more than two-thirds of our body is made of water, I can well assure you that the rest of it in my case was pure acid. I knew my acidity well. Love burnt different. It was a little lower, the fire, near the juicy core of heart, where it tried to smoulder a thing which was inside another thing which, as mentioned before, was made of more than two-thirds of water. It was rather an ambitious coup – though the surplus acid must have helped.

It was like the first headache, first love was. Do you remember your first headache? I do. I distinctly remember. Before that I did not pay much attention to my head – I’ve always been much of a nose-man – but the pain – as of someone, out of sheer whimsy, deciding to renovate the space inside your head was shifting your membranes, often dropping them, nailing portraits of an abstract oddity, on their walls, and un-nailing them because they ‘just didn’t go with the pink flesh there’, dragging heavy things from one corner to other, leaving them midway too, to increase the volume of the Radio, as some obscure metal-band were screaming their lungs out– made me aware of the astonishing pain-in-the-ass-ness of the head. My first love felt a lot like my first headache – a little worse.

And since it is customary and since you’d want to know, I’d have to – though I wish to God I didn’t had to – talk about this person I first fell in love with. To begin with, she was a she. ‘Was she beautiful?’ you’d ask. ‘Are icebergs beautiful?’ I’d ask. ‘Well yes they are, but they are too cold and can kill you,’ you’d answer. ‘There’s your answer,’ I’d answer. She was one of those women who looked very pretty on a balcony. She called me Bug. She loved cauliflowers. She ruined me. If there ever was a Bughum left after futile rigours of politics and communism and fencing, she made sure nothing remains of him. Oh! She was as cunning as a lizard – the really clever lizards, not those foolish ones who drop their tail at every visible opportunity. I loved her as Beckett loved nothing.

It was a hot Thursday evening when I could muster enough gut to talk to her. She was sitting at the balcony of a several storied house, like Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, clad in something very rich. There was a party that was to start. We both were invited. I saw her, and I started seeing things. For instance, I started seeing that it was ‘meant to be’ and that something ‘larger’ was ‘on work’ to have made us come to the same party. If only I could have seen that the host had invited almost the entire nine planets to the party.

So, I saw her and ‘Uh,’ I said, and then, did not say a word for a very long time. (I have always believed that first there was the word. And then, there was an utter confusion as what in God’s name to do with it, as it was so completely useless). Then, to elaborate on my ‘Uh’ I said something profoundly silly: ‘A more brilliant nose was never made. Will you marry me?’

I was standing there like a cloud bursting with sweat. My eyes were open to their limits, against the will of the entire body, especially legs that wanted to run away to a more secure place where there were no parties and girls with brilliant noses. But I did not move even a millionth of an inch. I stood there, with my entire soul and body, waiting for an answer. She smiled, and then laughed, and then laughed a lot. And when she was done laughing, even she said something profoundly silly too: ‘Maybe, I will, if I like your name. What is your name?’

‘Bughum. Lwoyoblrig Bughum.’

Lwoyoblrig Bughum is an out-of-work balladeer and an ex-wannabe politician. To know more about him click here. Bughum’s nose, as you must have gathered, runs quite in opposite directions to his brain. In his own words you can read it here. Bughum also dabbled in communism, unsuccessfully, for a while. To read about his radical political philosophy click here.


Superheroes don’t die. Not in real world. It is a curse on their community. They’ll have to live to see the worst – which can always worsen. They’ll have to hear the news of someone dying while they were saving someone else from dying. They’ll have to hear the news of someone dying while they they were trying to save them.They’ll have to hear the news of someone dying while they were having a coffee in the next block where that someone was dying. They’ll have to hear the news of someone dying while they were sleeping. They’ll have to hear the news. And they cannot do much. They survive, somehow.

With great power comes great impersonality.

The bad that tears through this silken world like a seasoned tailor’s scissor, requires a heroism of a higher kind which isn’t available to them. They know that they are walking blunders and would do more harm than good. They know that they are nothing but the embodiment of a super-ego. They know that for most of the world they don’t even exist but in comic books. Naturally they’d want to kill themselves. And naturally, they try.

I know of a superhero who almost killed himself. He could not sleep that day, or the day before that, or before that. He could not continue with his vigils at night. He hadn’t gone out for a month. His lose grey flannels were on the verge of giving away, but he kept wearing them. They were as old as his heroism. In his tiny room, this man of gigantic consciousness and super-strength, withered away like a heartbroken teenager. He last shaved when he was last on a date, and since then it seemed a century had passed, every moment hanging on his beard in black and grey, every year stretching like a trench below his eyes. His forehead was becoming unbearable for his brows to lift. His nose had blackheads as if nailed with a hammer to it. His chin had grown to a point where he could see it with his eyes.

Before he was to try killing himself he looked outside. The night was sitting on his wiindow swinging her legs. The wind came gatecrashing like a stubborn journalist. The stars rubbed their eyes in disbelief. It was same as before. Metaphors took place of reality. The ceremeony began.

He started with the fan-rope-stool combination. The ceiling came off, bringing down with it a bewildered couple who would have eventually made love had their bed not fallen down a storey. He looked at them as if it was their mistake. He went out in search of a pistol, which he found quite easily, in hands of a frail man who was out to kill someone. First he took his pistol away from him and shot him. Then, he put the pistol inside his mouth and pulled the trigger. There was an impressive sound. He mouth was producing curls of smoke. He coughed. He lit a cigarette, and went on. Walking on the road he found an empty Jack. He broke it on his head, and took the pointy part to his wrists. He tried slashing. It was like slashing a rug by a needle. Nothing red appeared, except some unimpressive white – a testament to his extremely dry skin. He was miffed. He climbed on top of one of the longer bulidings, and jumped. His grey coat was torn, and the buckle of his belt came out. He stood up and threw away his coat. He ran for his death. He was crying and screaming. It did not look very superhero like. He stopped on a rail crossing. He decided to die before the most beautiful creation of mankind – a train.

He waited for the piercing sound. He took off his brick patterened red tie. He was standing on the tracks in a paling white shirt, and a greying grey pant. Before the train the white light hit him. “Light travels faster than the speed of train,” he chuckled. He was sure that the light after death would be brighter. Then came the train and he collided head on with it. There was a deafening sound of something big running into another something big. The coaches collided, hitting, mounting on each other like annoyed school kids. The coal in the coaches was crushed to pieces. He was thrown a mile away. His shirt had come off. His pant was somehow burnt. He took it off, along with his underpants. He was lying naked on a mound of coal. A coach was burning next to him. He legs were shaking. It was a step in the right direction. If only he could get hit a number of times by a number of trains. “The driver must have been grilled. Coal is stronger than humans. What if it was filled by them?” He dropped the idea, and left the burning spectacle to burn all night. He knew he was close to river.

A few minutes sprint and he will be on the bridge. He started running, but stopped. He looked back at the burning farm, the flaming wind, the smouldering coach. A thought wandered to his mind, stopped and looked through his eyes. The suicide seemed possible. He decided to take the bigger chunk of the devastated coach with him. He dragged the hot iron leviathan with his bare hands. He was feeling his flesh receding to his bones. He was feeling alive after ages. He reached the bridge clanking his way to the middle. He destroyed the railing to keep the jumping area unclutterd. The broken bogey stood smoking on the bridge. He went inside the coach and carved a hole in its floor. Then, by sheer strength, and an unsurpassable will to die, he put his head in that small hole. It was like a necklace that covered his head and the sky above his head. A burning iron necklace which one has to support on their shoulders. He jumped off the bridge.

The river woke up as a sleeping man hit with water. The superhero went to the bottom of the river. It felt warm. The necklace felt heavy, as he was down on his knees, his body digging deep in the river bed, and his head outstretched inside the bogey. There was finally some blood coming out of his neck, curling in water like smoke. Some of it went back to him along with the green water through his nose and his ears. It seemed he could not breathe, that he could finally end it all.

“Water, water, everywhere,” he thought, “but not enough to die.”

The First Meeting


(an hour has passed)

– Do you write often?

– Oftenesque.

– What have you written recently?

– Kind of going through a horrendously draughty spell, writing wise, I mean, sometimes, I think – when I am reading Musil or Kafka – that I should drop it all off, and just come out plain honest to myself crying out loud, ‘You cannot write even if the Muses fucked you, you pretentious little fucker.’

– But then you do keep writing. What saves you? Or does anything save you at all?

– God, save! Does anything save me! – ‘save’ would be too comforting a word. I know that, in this life, I’d never be satisfied with whatever I write or with whatever others write, and even if by some baffling miracle I become satisfied at some point, I’ll give the smug feeling a week’s time and it will rot before me as morbidly as something dead. There is no saving a writer, or one who pretends to be one. I can only hope, in future, for some kind hippie critic to somehow get ‘touched’ – how I hate that word – by what I write and convince some hundred other hippies to believe that it is something that ‘touches’ them. And I do not see that happening till the proverbial ‘end of the world’. So something saving me is out of question, but ironically, and a sweet ironically at that too, the act of writing really comes close to it, even if for a very, very short time.

– (smiling) So, what has fake-saved you, recently?

– (laughing a little) Well let’s see. I wrote something about an indecisive man, a really shallow, superfluous bore, who thinks he is good at flirting, and how one day he decides to leave everything and goes to Kashmir for some transcendental quest to find himself.

– Does he find himself?

– Yes he does. He finds himself to be a boorish pervert, an immaculate lier, a heartless cheat, and yet a very uninteresting person in general. He gets so fucking horny one time that he thinks of doing it with the Himalaya in his dreams. And then not to kill himself of ennui he starts fishing, and gets pretty good at that. I am yet to finish it. May be I’ll round it all off with a really moving scene of him trying to fuck an open door.

– You are a cynic.

– Who’d you want : a bunch of well meaning optimists, liking a facebook page to stop rape, conserve water and – Oh thou Irony – electricity, and to add to it an international zing sharing a link to free Tibet, or, some ruthless cynics, who are the only ones who can see a problem as a problem and not narrow it down to something as a fucking shallow ’cause’ to ‘support’.

– But you aren’t ruthless.

– Ha! I know people who are. I can arrange a meeting if you want. They’d be so excited to see a girl! Some of them will not even find you intolerable.

– Do you find me intolerable?

– (smiling) Mildly.

– (laughing) Do you want some more coffee?

– Sure.

– What else?

– Nothing. I’m full.

– I mean what else have you written recently apart from that curious tale of the wannabe Himalaya fucker.

– Oh, that. Huh. Yes, I wrote something about being on the bad side and being on the good side.

– Yes?

– It is a kind of a handy test to ascertain which side you are on. It is rather very interesting: if the side you are on acts all intelligent, does not entertain criticism or suggestions of any kind, is loudly religious, has lots of men, and has women who aspire to be men, supports uniformity, propagates conformity, is pretty sure of itself, is rabidly enamoured of an image – be it of a nation, a person, a religion, a God, or a cricket team, – is never shy of defeating humans to uphold a non existent ideal, is unabashedly capitalist (a short pause as the coffee arrives) is relentlessly communist, is revising history, is banning books, is fascist – come on! – is dynastic, believes in Plato and his shit about forms and ideals, generalises, tries to explain – by which I mean is shameless enough to explain absurdities of human life with a straight face and then sell off their explanations as the only truth, – is biased, is ostensibly unbiased, is unbiased but only when convenient, is demanding a substantial fee for admission, has weak geography and weaker history, uses the word ‘justified’ somewhere in the same paragraph which also has ‘killing’ in it, is populist – because believe me, there is nothing as a popular opinion, only the powerful opinions gobbling up the smaller ones, – is concerned with what people do with their spare time, or in their bedrooms, is a management institution, is a big sucker for words as ‘performance’ and ‘productivity’, while doesn’t give a fuck on how you feel working for it, is inspiring young men and women to be something else that they are not, is out there to make clones of them in its own image, then, most probably, you are on the bad side.

(They are religiously sipping their coffee. A longer pause.)

– That was a really long list. What do you think makes a good side?

– (sips in one big last gulp of coffee to finish it off) Uncertainty.

– (laughs) It’s good. Will you write more on it?

– I think I will, but it won’t matter, you see, I don’t really want to write much on politics and religion, and even if I do I don’t want people to read what I write on politics and religion. I put it in the same category as that of fondling oneself in public. One shouldn’t do that.

– You mean to say that a person’s political and religious beliefs should not be on display for everyone to see?

– Yes, kind of. (an undefined pause of a minute or so) I should go now.

– Okay.

– Will I see you again?

– Do you want to?

– (smiling) Yes. Why not?

– (smiling) Why not, then?

Come, Let’s Play

Come, let us play
I’ll be myself for a day
And you be what you were
Before the war.

Conscience is a tricky thing to have in love –
Let’s not call it love, then.
Let’s be a little more scrupulous, have some conscience –
Drops arms for a day –
Shake hands and say
We ought to do this more often.
Let’s be civil .

Please let me – I’ll pay the bill.

I write with my hand.
I dance with my legs.
I had a dog. I had a cat.
This, this and that.

Let’s talk of weather.
And talk of things living, dead –
And of ways to use them.
And do what our ancestors before us did.
Let’s die together –
In each other.
Let’s kill.

Please let me – I’ll play the bill.

There Will Be Words

A married man must come back. The little excursions of the day must end. The roving mood should be killed and buried. Friends, even the foe-ish ones, should be left in mourning. The feet  should be convinced that they can make the journey – the most tiring of them all. The soaking, juicy shreds of the paan should be carefully chewed. The shreds stuck hopelessly in that despairing cave of a mouth should be carefully removed – in moments of seeming annihilation it is better to keep oneself busy – there have been people who have stuck to their routines even in the worst of times – I’ve heard of Nazi soldiers never missing an early run or breakfast. When in doubt, start rolling the rock up the hill, and watch it falling down.

Cavities keep him busy.

Look at him dropping his shoulders like an old zoo bear. The shortening distance increases the heartbeat. The world looks very unworldlike. The houses grow. And in a while there will be words. She would speak. Oh yes, she would. He would have braved fiercest wars, cruelest heroes, cavities filled with bits of paan and what not. But words? They’ll be there staring him at his deathbed along with his children. And what if they are there after death, too? Would he not die again hearing them? What would that be like, dying twice in a row? If something worthwhile is to be made of this world, it should be made without words. Plato missed the point. He should have banished words. Killing the messenger was never a wise choice.

Look at him standing before the door pretending to knock. Isn’t he funny? Isn’t he sad? Isn’t he something? Like the water when the sewer is unclogged, like the child when the sun is set, like the moon that makes us mad, like the bowler having bowled his ball, like the trader who has lost it all, like the birds of winter, like the failed son gone away to make some good – a married man must come back.

This is a part of a series of marriage sketches that I’m planning to do, fairly regularly. Epitaph Of A Liar & The White Kettle are also part of the same series.