Friday, July 30, 2010


In the last few moments before the bell rang, Sushi stopped being desperate. She just let go, and she let the world go fuck itself. It was all over, and she refused to pay attention.

But the more important part of our story is the minutes and hours she spent worrying.

She sat in the last row of the classroom, and she sat with a sweaty neck, and a sweaty hand. She never knew what she should do with her hands. They were always asking to help out, to make something move, to push something out of the way, to make some room for her to think, for her to relax.

But, now, in this moment, they hardly had anything to do. They just lay in her lap, staring up into her face with a forlorn look. They were saying they won’t always be around and they had no problems if she thought she was better off without them. They said they were more than comfortable with leaving. Right now, if possible.

But they held on nevertheless, they just lay in her lap.

Sushi worried and knit her brow and dangled her feet in the air. She was overcome with something. It was like a big round-snouted pig was sitting next to her. Not that it was a dirty pig, but that it was a pig. It let air out, it moved with strange solemnity, and it basically made her go crazy.

And then the teacher herself descended on the scene. And she made Sushi stand up. And she made Sushi go away. And then it was all going to get over. It was all suddenly getting over.


After the lunch break, she preferred to make a move with things and meet Jyotsna immediately. She was not going to let any delays torment her, and drill holes in her back, and she was going to be cool-headed, and it was obviously going to be alright, and she was right on track to recovery, and then she went up to Jyotsna’s class.

Jyotsna wasn’t there; she had been sent to the library by a teacher just before lunch and she hadn’t come back yet. So Sushi went to the library.

The library was another affair. It was full of these little kids from first standard or second standard, and they were fighting over books. They wanted to kill their friends because their friends would not let them take the books they wanted to read. They would strip one of their friends, and would unbutton another friend, and would kick yet another friend in the butt because their books were being taken away, and they just couldn’t sit there and watch, could they? They had to take action.

And Jyotsna wasn’t there. She wasn’t even sitting in some dark little corner behind a tall shelf of books. Sushi knew; she looked. Everywhere.

So Sushi went to the grounds. Jyotsna wasn’t there of course, but she might be. Everybody can be in the ground if they are nowhere to be found. When you don’t have anywhere to go, you go the grounds.

Jyotsna wasn’t there either.


Sushi went to the corridor behind the principal’s office, and had a drink of water from the little ceramic basin under the small photograph of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. And she grabbed her feet quickly, and she ran up the stairs. She went straight to the class, holding her skirt by the sides, and thinking to herself. And she took her seat.

She could feel her heart doing strange dance movements, and this scared her. She looked up and into the outside air. The mountains beyond the grasslands were visible, and they were very far away; too far away. The school ended right below her window, and then the wilderness took over, and for miles there was nothing but grass, deer and sunlight. She tucked her head in her arms.

She would kill Jyotsna when she found her. She might pull her hair down and beat her ass with a hard granite slate. But no.

She could not kill anybody.

If she ran really fast, she could jump over the school boundary wall. It was probably 4 feet tall. But she would need Jyotsna, and a couple of hours to gather the courage.

“You are taking way too much time to make up your mind. If we are gonna do it, we might as well do it right away, and be done with it.” Jyotsna would say such things to her, coaxing her, and reminding her that they were friends.

But Jyotsna wasn’t there.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010



During one of those nights, when I sat in the windy verandah of my home, gazing at the bare electric bulb. When I sat all curled up in my chair, with my back to the front door, sheepishly obscure thoughts speeding through the grass like squirrels. When either mom or dad refused to call me inside and have a fresh cup of warm tea, and I imagined them snoring to death. During one of those nights, I received the phone call. It was an affectionate call from a long distance. I trembled slightly as I heard the first few words buzzing in my ear. I was to feign a big deal of indifference about the call, but I was glued to the receiver just then.

The voice belonged to a girl. She must have been running, because she had quite a pant. Words flowed with the breath, wobbling atop the very tasteful windy sound of the girl panting. I held the receiver close and I listened to her talk. I have forgotten the words, but I have nothing to say about the panting sound. She moved on and on and on, blabbering about things I had no interest in. After a while, I sat down on the carpet to talk, curling into myself like a small baby, freshened up and frenzied into life by this sudden phone call.

She revealed quite a lot of herself to me. She kept telling me. She just knew me so well, she knew so well that I was interested in her, and that she should tell me everything. So she did, she methodically displayed everything before me, and it unfolded beautifully. About ten minutes into the call, I wanted to fly with a long, winded swoosh and land on the earth again, and give this lady a hug. I had such warmth inside me for her, and she did not know. She had no idea.


Gimme a number now. C’mon do it now. Umm, umm. This evil world hasn’t got one person who I can call right now. Let not to such extent this world’s affairs fall. Oh, you could give me a single number right now, and I’ll be more than done. I’ll be giving somebody a call tonight, and I’ll be telling them somebody.

The phone was such black hues and shit. It was all the blacker in the yellow, flickering light. Shadows on the telephone made it look like some giant insect preserved in a museum. I picked up the receiver, and my hands felt such quivering energy. I lunged for the numbers, I punched them in, and already somebody’s phone was ringing.

“Hello there, stranger boy. Will you please listen to me for a while?”

“Hello? Are you there? Yes? Yes? You’re there alright, aren’t you? Oh, please be louder. Oh please. OK, OK, nevermind, there’s nothing I want from you. Could you please listen to me talk for a while. Yes, right now. Oh good, I should begin? Yes? There’s nothing you have against telephone pranksters or random callers, do you? Anyway, I’m not one of them. Anyway, let’s start. OK?”

“There’s this story I was told once by my grand-dad. He had such amazing moustache hair, brown coloured. He sat me down in my little plastic chair, and I was lost in his story for that whole day. He had a gravelly throaty voice, you know, and he told me this story, and I’ll tell you the same story right now. You just stay where you are and listen…”

Monday, July 12, 2010

Sitting Here

I am sitting here
I am not waiting
Just hoping
For that hour of bright
Sunday morning time
When I shall hold my pen
And write some.
And every word come out
With an unbearable
Unstoppable, orgasmic twitch.