Like a Masochist

To me, a novel is basically an account of people.

So when I read, I read about people and interpersonal relationships, of a struggle to make sense of life, to understand ones place in the scheme of things. I find myself getting increasingly involved with ordinary people and something unique and extra-ordinary emerges out of each and every so called ordinary.

On reading Shashi Deshpandes collection of short stories, a number of characters with extreme inner anxieties and doubts were flung in the forefront. I could identify with some aspect of each and every character - as they were constantly engaged in questioning and evaluating the meaning of ideals, attitudes, actions and reactions of people in personal interactions and relationships and in the process themselves.

Since it turned out to be an expose of sorts – people no matter how ordinary or extraordinary, have been mercilessly dissected by her – even though at the end of every story, they may or may not have come to a final understanding or resolve.

A central theme is the “Quest for Identity”. Her main concern is the urge to find oneself, to create space for oneself, to grow on one’s own, which holds true for the men and women in her stories alike.

“He did not know what he had intended to do when he first entered the water. Perhaps he had hoped to cool the fire that was in him.”

“Why is she asking so many questions now? Do you have to come as close to death to ask questions about life? Must we live unquestioningly, unthinkingly, until death comes upon us?”

Despite usage of flashback and role played by memory, the entire setting of the characters is in real time. One cannot help but turn into a mute, even invisible spectator to the sequence of events.

“Even today when I remember his letters, it’s like being jerked back into the state they threw me in. the memory knocks the breath out of me and I cease to be a woman of 40 to whom a man and what he does to my body become and matter of routine and habit. I go back to being a girl, standing outside a door, knowing little of what’s inside the room, certain nevertheless that I want to, no, that I fiercely long to be inside the charmed room.”

Most of the characters have an ambivalent need for independence on one side and on the other a need to belong, and such are the responses at different stages of life. Even though the man is the provider of the family, the woman forms the core of a family. Any and every quake begins and ends at her. As a result, a number of relationships become very geometric based on hierarchy and a policy of not asking questions – ‘Mother-Daughter’, ‘Mother-Father’, ‘Mother-Self’.

“I have never known her needs, never spoken to her of mine.”

Several marriages are built on the principle of attraction highlighting a streak of rebellion on the part of the women.

“I join him in speaking of family and old friends, as if there is nothing else in coon between us. I ruefully think of how I’d planned the evening. I’ll tackle it at last, I’d thought…”

Each and every character is caught in a tryst, a search – and it remains a constant across gender, across age, factions of the society and across every story. Thereby bringing out a voyeuristic streak in the reader, without directly relating to the subject of whose life is being observed - from a distance, using stealth (in this case a keen imagination) to chance upon their most weak and private moments.

Complete TT: Tragic but touching.

taxes

When constanly bombarded
with images of unattainable happiness

Pay Toll.

Sub - Microscopic Infectious Agent

Travelling from one end of the world to the other -


Like a virus in search of a host.

Ganga

He sat there at the banks of the Ganges,
Lost in deep thought - his flute set aside.

And my ears ached to hear to hear him,
The notes: high pitched, melodious.

But he wouldnt play.
I waited. My patience flowing like the breeze.
And the water and him, as placid as the other.

My longing reached him,
and as is snapped out of a spell - he played.
The melody filled the air, it consumed the water -
And I was floating in a pool of calm.

I was the instrument he played.

Act I, Scene XIII

I screamed for help, and the whipping continued.
Whips for screams.
Everyone looked, sadness in their eyes.
In a still and stunned silence.

My body was beaten to pulp,
Even the blood would sting -
As it would find its course.
And the body went numb with pain.

I staggered at every step,
begging him for mercy
begging the onlookers for help.
Heads shook and backs turned.

"Cut!".

The make up man is summoned to remove
make-up excellently done.
The extra's are paid.

The director and I smoke a joint.
He says something about something.
I nod my head in agreement, act interested
The lights are blinding.

I can only think of unpaid bills and a 3 year old alone at home

Touch the Perfection

I hate those who flash smiles,
That perfect 32.
Making me feel inadequate - I smile sheepish. Conscious.

I despise those with gorgeous bodies,
Admired and desired by all.
While I try and hide these 'curves',
In yards of cloth.

I abhor flawless skin,
Smooth - reflecting character.
My own indented, coarse and ugly.

Hair like the night, captivating - chokes me
"feel mine!", I scream.
Sparse and cropped - jute like.

I writhe in pain.

But then -
I love eyes - expressive and reflecting clarity
And hands -
Which bear each one's detiny,
So different yet so similar.
And a peculiar abnormality - a crooked nose.

But then,
When I cant hear,
Cant speak,
Cant see -
How do I trust this perception I created in my head?

Im beautiful he says.
I feel it.

Sanity

Childhood.
I told them, I saw dead people around me.
"Child's imagination", and I was dismissed.

Adolescence.
The number of corpses grew.
"Television!", they blamed.

Adulthood.
I still see them.
"Asylum?", all heads nodded in unison.

The visits became irregular,
Scant,
And then stopped.

Nobody wanted to see or feel me around, insanity around.
It was limited to beautiful and perfect.

As I sit here, with a vacant set of people -
I no longer see dead.
I feel weightless.
Elated with my own discovery.

I was never crazy,
And no one realized - It was them I always saw.