Things That Bang

Rubber like locks on doors work generally but once a thief or a sperm decide to make an entry there isn’t much one can do. The entry is butter smooth and the result- devastation.

My pregnant girlfriend is waiting for me in my apartment along with a locksmith who is fixing the mutilated lock of my main door. I, on the other hand, am clutching a carton of milk and standing behind an old lady emanating the smell of moth balls and sweet cloying death waiting to happen.

At the back of her head the hair is no longer a blizzard of growth but a gentle trail of sparse lost snowflakes revealing the smooth skull exposed in its paleness. Ironically her balding head reminds me of my girlfriend’s young pink skin peeking through the mousy pubic hair. They both have thin bush I muse and slowly shuffle along behind the dying human.

I clutch the milk carton close to my heart and ignore the face of the missing child splashed at the back. One child missing and another who will never be born. Justice for little ones lies in the hands of adults and rarely is it fair.

Temptation to bring up a little mini me flickers but the decision is made. Birthing a baby with fangs is not something vampires do.

Vampires don’t have their homes broken into either. Nor do they visit grocery shops to get milk to make coffee for the nice locksmith.

Yes, I am prone to talking to myself and why wouldn’t I be? Lonesome vampires with centuries behind them tend to hold lengthy megalomaniac dialogs tinged with right amount of carefully crafted self loathing. Today I am no longer a vampire biting voluptuous women willy nilly but one constrained by rubber and doors entailing privacy. Welcome to New Age Vampirism.

The woman before me speaks in a husky whisper. She asks for a lottery ticket. Whatever for? I want to question her. Her frail heart would not last the end of the week. Her fucked up heart murmurs its dying intent to me. But I maintain my peace. Death -the joker card dutifully remains a good messenger to my senses.

The old lady before me scratches the card with a ragged nail. I rock on the heels of my shoes. Disappointment whistles through her sagging throat and the pimpled boy behind the counter holds back the urge to scratch his crotch. Impatience shimmers manically in his eyes.

One short hard scratch to dislodge the damp knot of hair is the sole requirement of his day. He is cursing us. Waiting for the two of us to leave – the bag lady and the thin nondescript milk carton clutching dude.

Reading minds of horny teenagers. How normal and mundane life has become for me, the defanged vampire.

The woman shuffles away muttering her disappointment and I lay some crumpled bills on the counter. He tilts his stud punched chin slightly and speaks like a bored automaton “Wassup?”

The perfect end of English by a crotch clutching fuck wit. I give him a feral smile and his adam apple bobs in the swan like tube of a throat.

Yeah! Baby, I am what your mama warned you against. I am what causes you to wet your bed. Now scratch that itch. I tell him silently.

He vigorously scratches, sighs and promptly forgets the reason for fearing me.

The exact change is handed over and I walk out of the store to suffer more human drama in my apartment.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 09:39 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

People don't wake up one fine day and decide they will be obnoxious. It starts from the diaper stage. There are little people toddling around us who are sociopaths waiting to happen. Its a matter of degrees. Some turn into hefty Tony Sopranos and some into the next door loud mouthed Shyster with the shiny Ferrari.

We happened to stumble into the latter kind at the grocery store this evening. Unfortunately he was pint sized and his victim was my son. As we shopped he tried to chat me up with his puppy eyes and rough played around Aayan. He grabbed him, shoved him and basically tried to treat my scrawny little boy like a punching bag.

His mother, dressed like a tacky Fashionista Barbie but with the life condition of a sullen dimestore janitor refused to step in and restrain her kid. She ignored her kid as if he was an abandoned roadside mutt and he made the most of it till he finally grabbed my kid in a WWF arm lock and yanked his arm as if to break it.

The mommy in me kicked in. There is play and then there is bodily harm. I grabbed the kid's hand with which he twisted Aayan's elbow and firmly said - Too rough. Let him go.

But the little bully didn't hear me. He seemed in some LSD zone. He kept yanking my son's arm and Aayan started whimpering. I again said - Too rough. But he continued to yank and I couldn't believe the kid's zoned out condition. I was louder - Let him go.

Our eyes finally met and he knew that I knew. The game was over. The little bully ran off to his mother who watched the entire episode from a corner and did nothing.

Aayan burst into tears and the store came to a halt. People turned and looked. Some asked what happened and some who already witnessed the episode looked concerned. But I didn't respond. Instead I took my crying son around the store and spoke to him. He told me the boy was rough and I responded with the truth that the boy was naughty and his mother should have spoken to him.

We walked around till Aayan regained his composure and went to the billing area where Aaman and Parita waited for us. While we were gone Aaman had a word with the mother. He told her that she should stop her kid from playing rough.

The woman repeated the same words to her son. Too little too late. We walked out a little displaced by the entire episode.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 08:25 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 09:58 AM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 11:05 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

I want to paint the world but lack the talent. Day in day out I produce crap. Tore one painting and threw it in the bin. Next two I filed away in my art file under the tag -uglier than flesh splashing down a tiny thong. Little bit of humor is necessary to ward off frustration. Today was no different. Another mistake made and another moment of -'I gotta stop putting myself through this shit' surmounted.

Maybe my ugly file will become the fat lady shaking happily in the tiny thong. Maybe I will let it all hang out and snuff that little jeering jerk of a voice snickering at my pathetic attempts to produce what painting books ramble away so effortlessly. Humbling experience to suck so bad at something but a bone hard streak of determination won't let me throw the towel in.

Nothing spectacular to produce and blog about. But providence worked through my cousin (an artist if you must know) who pointed me to Danny Gregory and his art is personable, gorgeous and his advice -encouraging.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 09:06 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 09:37 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 08:51 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Strange shadows beckon my vision and things that move insidiously in darkened corners leak fear in my heart. The bed feels strange, the fluffy pillow awkwardly soft against my neck, my legs lie tangled in a sheet and beads of sweat emerge and pool in the narrow ridge between my tender breasts.

I lie on my back and try not to let terror clench an irrational fist in my mind. My eyes stare at the still fan with its soot darkened blades, the one thing the landlord had forgotten to get cleaned along with forgetting to give me the number of the shop where I could pick an inverter up.

Bangalore is suffering one its usual power cuts. The entire community lies enthralled under the glamour of sleep. But I remain awake and suffer the trumpeting approach of terror, real or imagined being a matter of perception and the lateness of the hour.

I blink away a single drop of sweat that rest heavily against my eyelid and watch the still blades of the fan phantom swing gently as if being lulled into death sleep by a sneaky earthquake but the room, the materials within its four walls and I remain still.

The soot leaves the fan in gentle waves and cling together midway between my body and the ceiling above. My fingers tremble and bunch up the sheet’s poppy flowers in a blundered watercolour stain and the heart misses more than a few necessary beats.

The soot gathers into a tangible form and reaches down. The flow of dust gathered together by an unknown force lightly rests against my breath deprived chest and begins it journey upwards.

I lie paralysed and protesting the approaching death with the blinking eyelids.

Dust to dust , ashes to ashes screeches a voice in my head. Come be mine, be me. You and me. One for the city, one for the humans within. One for you and one for me. Love me like I love you. Mine forever, one you and me. It croons and I suck in the dust and remember the metallic taste of chalk – indicates iron deficiency, so said my kindergarten teacher to my mother in a class painted with Capital Letters and Numbers on the walls.

What a thing to remember I wonder as the dust resides in my lungs, fills my belly and drowns my senses. The blades of the fan swing crazily, the earthquake of demonic instruction taking yet another victim.

I gasp and take in my last breath- breath tainted with abomination. No! screams my heart. No! My slender frame jerks and darkness forms bottomless whirlpools in my mind. Death drags my wavering mind and a loud noise permeates the macabre. It resonates and assimilates in the dying vestiges of sanity, bangs against the doors of light and yanks me through levels of hell towards destination unknown.

I jerk upright and nearly fall off the bed. I grab my naked breasts, feel my midriff and look around wildly at the room that no longer offered sanctuary. Standing naked I take in deep breaths and stare at watch keening away the 5:30 alarm.

A dream I tell myself. A nightmare. I correct myself. My knees tremble but I refuse to look at the bed, a place of revulsion and mental rape.

Blindly I try to grab a robe that lay against the bed side table. My mind feels like a charred field devastated by an unseasonal fire and my heart pumps like an adrenaline junkie. The watch shifts the hand an inch towards 5:35. The slight mechanical twitch is perceived by my senses easily for the stillness of the night continues to remain and dawn a few more minutes away.

Goosebumps travel through my frame and I shudder. I grab my belly and let out a scream that too goes unheard. It hadn’t ended. My frantic eyes focus on the fan where there is no soot and then at the dust drowned body lying on the bed in a twisted mass of poppy flower sheets.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 10:32 AM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Meeting you brought back memories of a young past when worries were innocent and times were simple. Neither you nor I are what we used to be. For those few minutes we spent talking we seemed to be in a time warp and yet barriers stayed up- unscalable and protected. We promised each other we will meet. Will we make calls to catch up, I wonder?

Its weird how life brings back people we think are so far gone from us and then it all comes tumbling back. Wish I could say there wasn't any pain in the parting. The deliberate rupture caused by my demons that demanded isolation.

You look the same as I had left you. Older physically but the same warmth nestles in your eyes and your persona- steady. And I too am the same in ways of the past- still demanding space, still fighting cursed imps and burning bridges but this time all in my mind.

To renew the bond explanations would be required and raking up the past isn't something I am good at. Maybe its best we treat the meeting a cheap shot taken by fate. For I will hurt you again, not that you will ever let me but why take a chance.

It sure was nice running into you but I guess now I will run away from you for your own good.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 07:46 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 10:01 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)

The blades of the scorched grass glistened with a steady hot stream of piss and before the vinegar smell could permeate the surroundings the dirt of the unmarked grave silently accepted the unconscious slander. The woman with a significantly lighter kidney rose from her young flexible haunches and quickly adjusted her petticoats and saree with its liberal patterns of Swarovski crystals strewn across in cheerful patterns.

She looked around at the field of sunflowers that drooped towards the direction of absentee sun for orb of fire was setting in the opposite end of the sky in a shade of hazy red and she hissed “Aarti?! Hurry up.”

Her piss partner in crime rose from behind the thick trunk of a banyan tree with an embarrassed grin, smoothed her richly embroidered saree and quickly followed Darshini into the back of the waiting BMW.

The two men sitting in the front of the smooth mechanical beast grumbled about the poor countryside and its lazy inhabitants, ignored the women folk and as the car turned away from the dusty fields onto the road they began to discuss matters of bulls and bears and money made and lost.

The car wove through the traffic effortlessly and hungrily ate the miles that lay between Chandigarh and Delhi and the passengers within remained blissfully unaware of the fifth presence that now travelled with them. The ghost of the unmarked grave now hitchhiked in the body of Darshini.

Darshini rested her head against the plush black leather coverings and numbly stared out at the shabby north Indian countryside. The declining patches of fields taken over by monstrous industrial plants, the shabby cemented blocks of homes with their rust attracting prison windows and the never ending parade of brown humanity crawling around like heat crazed cockroaches.

In the cool interiors of the luxurious car she felt a mean streak of self pity spring forth some inadvertent tears. She raised her henna coloured hands over her eyes as if she was tired and discreetly wiped away the tell tale signs of sadness.

She stared back at the ugly scenery and reminded herself again that she was better off than those living poor lives but her heart spoke about simple joys of lives lived in slums, the bonds created by hard lives and the numerous little naked toddlers running around narrow alleys with little black threads hanging over their chubby butts to ward off the evil eye.

Her heart spoke about her being the clichéd bird in a golden cage; she being the barren canary who couldn’t lay an egg whereas her sister in law who had promptly gone off to sleep once the car started and rested her head against the car window was ripening. Darshini let her eyes rest on the six months pregnant belly that Aarti lay her hands over. It was a natural protective action of a pregnant mother but something Darshini was yet to experience.

She imagined the foetus swimming in the dark womb and felt a tightening in her belly. She imagined the maternal love welling in the heart that beat above the foetus and tried to ignore the fetid smell of jealousy. She wasn’t a mean woman she told herself and she was happy for her sister in law who stood by her side through thick and thin. She wasn’t an ungrateful woman just an incomplete one.

Closing her eyes she let the rhythm of the car lull her to sleep and the ghost residing within her drank in her unhappiness and wondered why he had let himself feel the emotions of humans.

Tied to his grave, he watched the world pass by with detachment. How many years had he stopped being human? He couldn’t count. Perhaps a hundred years, maybe more? There were no emotions felt, no anger remembered over his death, the murder committed against him by his own flesh and blood and the burial of his body to hide the evidence of crime done had not let him move on.

He lived and watched, tied to his grave like a chained dog long forgotten by his master. Darshini’s slander gave him the right to possess her flesh and without much thought he took residence and he came to rue the impulsive deed.

Sadness engulfed him and made him remember dimly his own heartbreak and the loss of his family.

Her hankering for a child reminded him of his own orphaned daughter and he wondered once again whatever happened to his little family. Time had flown and those he loved were dead memories and he was left alone, a disembodied numb energy. And now in the prison of Darshini’s body he struggled against the buffeting winds of grief and madness.

Darshini woke with a start. A vivid dream had engulfed her unconscious mind. The joyous peals of laughter of a two year old running into the arms of a strong sun burned man in dirt stained dhoti still rang in her ears. She dreamed of her breath being crushed out of her little body as her father squeezed her against his sweaty chest. She couldn’t understand the love laced with pain that emanated from her father. And in her little hands she held the handsome face of her father. Darshini remembered the gentle face, the gleaming teeth behind the thick moustache, the leathery cheeks and the stubborn chin.
In her wakened moments she realized he wasn’t her father nor she his little girl but the heartbreaking joy felt real. She belonged to someone. The love was unconditional. She wished she hadn’t woken up.

“Darshini? Are you awake?”

She met the quiet eyes of her husband in the rear view mirror and gave a nod.

“Could you call Ma and tell her we will be home in another hour?” he asked as he overtook a slow mammoth truck packed up with goods like a muffin top- a hazardous vehicle no other vehicle wanted to be stuck behind.

Darshini pulled out her Nokia phone from her small evening bag and speed dialled her mother in law’s number. Sounds of religious bells rang in her ears along with a pious voice singing shlokas in Sanskrit. She waited for a few minutes and was about to cut the line when her mother in law answered.

“Yes, Beta? How far are you from home? How was the wedding?” the sleep crusted self assured voice of her mother in law grated her nerves. The lady was nice, enough.

“Wedding went well. Surabhi looked very pretty in her bridal clothes and Ashok looked very handsome.”

Darshini went on making polite conversation and Aarti woke up as well and smiled at Darshini. Darshini’s lifted her lips in a reciprocal smile and stifled the restless urge that coursed through her senses. Open the door and jump out clamoured her senses. She could see herself jump out and get lost in the teeming humanity, to be lost forever and never to return to the web of niceness layered with unspoken pity.

The ghost identified with Dashini’s tumultuous rage. He was familiar with the overwhelming clouds of despair that drowned the human spirit in a deluge of grief and powerlessness . He held on to the masts of her spirit that lay low in melancholia and wondered what broke her heart. The hurt went deep within the caverns of her soul. His anger ,her anger, their grief, he wondered if she could feel his presence or was so she mired in darkness that her soul had lost its rights to safeguard its own body?

Her impatience gave him the impetus to speak in her mind. Why? He asked and she ignored the question and his presence. He was startled at her lack of reaction. He spoke louder in her mind Why do you suffer?

She heard the voice speak boldly in her mind and bit her lip. Her eyes swept across the car and she gripped the phone tighter against her ear and spoke hurriedly “We will be home in another hour’s time, mom. Pradeep wants a cup of tea.”

“ Me too!” Karan turned around and gave his sister in law Darshini a smile packed with happiness. His playful eyes and twin dimples in his lean cheeks
irked the hollowness within her.

She spoke again in the phone “Karan also wants tea, Ma”

“Don’t worry. I know you people will turn home hungry. My children are so spoilt. I know none of you eat properly at the wedding. I will have some hot fresh aloo paranthas ready for you along with tea ready by the time you get home.”

Her mother in law’s generosity rubbed salt against her heart.

“Ma, You don’t have to put in so much effort. And I shouldn’t have woken you up so early as it is.”

The older lady laughed in her ear “I love feeding you. Don’t worry about me. It’s just one of the ways I make sure you youngsters can’t live without me.”
Her light hearted banter made Darshini wince. She wanted to be without the old matron of a mother in law, she wanted to be without her husband, her brother in law, her sister in law. She wanted to be without the urge to have a baby. What was wrong with her? She was blessed with a happy home but she wanted to throw it all away. She wanted to drown in the dark pit and never crawl out of it. She wanted to die and never breathe ever again.

Never breathe again? What is wrong with you?! Do you know what death is all about? He asked in her mind and she promptly negated the question. Voices spoke in everyone’s mind. Only the sick took them seriously and she wasn’t sick.

Her fingers trembled as she disconnected the line and shoved the phone back in her purse. Tears clouded her eyes and she blinked them back. Why did she want to cry at every given moment? Damn! She admonished herself and missed the concerned look her husband flicked her in the rear-view mirror. Misery was her constant companion and she was so tired of herself, tired of the hunger that eat her from within, tired of the hunger to be happy, tired of the irrational desire that a baby would fill the dark void with innocent brilliance. She wanted to put an end to it all once and for all.

Hanging. That's how most take their lives. He remembered those days when the skies refused to weep for the earth and cracked soles of human feet hung from trees.

She tilted her head slightly and a slight whimsical smile slipped across her face. Suffering had become an addiction and she knew no better. Death seemed like a feasible option but hanging was an ugly mess. She preferred sleeping pills. Drink down those seemingly harmless pills and never wake up. Be gone forever. Oblivion.

There is no such thing as oblivion. He whispered and remembered eternity of suspended living. The life of an insignificant wraith chained to a tragedy long past. He wondered if there was any way he could get across to her and show her the preciousness of each moment lived.

Delusion that death wiped away all pain gave the foolish courage to take their own lives. But to feel nothing after the death was far worse. But there was no way he could let her know.

He heard the faint beating heart of the unborn child. An empty shell still waiting to be housed by a soul. But it wasn’t his right to take what could easily be his. He wouldn’t commit another wrong. If only he could reach through to the woman. His own pain was a residual of past, leavings of a ghost but she was alive.

Happiness is a state of being. It is the perseverance to go on despite all the hurt in the world. It is to believe and to hope. He whispered softly and remembered the warmth of his child snuggled in his arms, the love of his wife and the life he had led no matter how short and for that he was grateful. Peace descended over him and for few precious minutes Darshini felt a balm over her exhausted heart.

He left Darshini as easily as he had become one with her soul. The detachment was natural for he was still one with her in compassion.

The moment passed and Aarti took Darshini’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Darshini let her hand lie in Aarti’s warm clasp for a few minutes and then removed her hand and curled it in a tight fist. She had come to hate unexpected human contact.

She continued to stare at the countryside with unseeing eyes.
They reached home sometime before six and her mother in law hugged her at the thresh hold and she bore the hug in silence, then muttered something about wanting to freshen up and broke loose. Aarti and Karan followed in. Her mother in law caught the arm of her elder son, last to enter and asked in a whisper

“Pradeep, did she take her medicines? How was she there?”

Pradeep ran a tired hand over his eyes and replied “So far so good mom. She hasn’t been irate but there still is something going on within her. And I feel we should ask the doctor for more effective meds.”

Her mother in law peeked inside the house to make sure no one was listening

“But beta, those pills will numb her down completely. She won’t be the Darshini we so love.”

Before walking in Pradeep replied “At least she will stay alive mom. Better numb than dead, don’t you think?”

His mother sighed in frustration and followed her son inside the house and went into the kitchen where her daughter in laws were pulling out plates to lay the table for fresh aloo paranthas.

Posted by Deepti Lamba at 08:07 PM Stumble It! digg this del.icio.us Fark It | Permalink | Comments () | TrackBacks (0)