Friday, July 27, 2012
God: Noah, I'm done with the human race. I don't like them. They dirty my oceans, kill my little fishies, ruin my forests and build eyesores that can out Babel to shame. They have no imagination, no love for one another, are boring, takes themselves too seriously and they're procreating like as if they have diamonds coming out of their loins. YUCK! I think it's time to go for another purge session.
Noah: Yes, Your Almightiness. I agree. So what do you suggest? We pull the flush down on those buggers again?
God: (scratching his long, white beard) Nyyyaaah. It's been done before. I need something original. Something more ingenious. You know? I'm god! Something that I can put on my portfolio, you know? Like the Ark? I love how it's messing with people's minds down there, about how the unicorns and the dinosaurs missed the boat! That's epic stuff. I can't have a Noah's Ark Part 2, can I? They haven't made a movie on the first one only! I can't jump the boat, can i?
Noah: (Trying to roll his eyes without rolling his eyes)
God: No, Noah, I don't know when you'll ever learn! I'm God, I know you were going to roll your eyes before you knew you wanted to roll your eyes. In fact, I knew you'll want to roll you eyes at this very minute when you were swimming around in your mother's womb. Aaaaaand you're doing it again! You humans never learn, do you?
Noah: (Now clearly rolling his eyes) Moving on! So about the humans, what do you propose we do?
God: Hmmmm…yeah so we can't have another flood. They'll think the arctic caved into global warming and heaven would have a subsequent, horrible case of Greenpeace population in angel robes singing, "I told you so"! I don't think I can handle that sort of a thing! I NEED IDEAS, NOAH! You can't say you have "Noah" ideas.
(God chuckles into his own joke. As for Noah, he's gotten used to God's punning since the Old Testament, so he keeps an impassive face)
Noah: How about we swarm the world with…umm….. rats?
God: Rats? (thunders) RATS? Do i look like the Pied Piper to you? Rats have been done already, Noah. Besides it's too obvious. I want something more subtle. Some more cooler. Something more guerrilla. Rats are like a flashmob of a thing. Very lame.
Noah: Hmmmmm..guerrilla you say? How about we, (pauses dramatically) let "weed" become a weed? Like it grows everywhere. On fields, creepers, in the vegetable garden, on the barks of trees, on walls, in people's living rooms and out of rabbit ears?
God: (Looking at Noah very curiously) Have you been smoking Noah? (Sniffs) No? Okay, let me brief you once again. We're trying to purge the human race. Not create HEAVEN ON EARTH.
Noah: (Wiping enough Godspit off him to get nostaligic about the Ark) Hmmm not good? Then what if we…umm..locusts, we've done. First borns (makes slicing motion with his finger on his throat), check. How about we spray acid instead of rain?
God: (Very pissed off, but grinding his teeth to not lose it) You've been at your Saw DVD collection again, haven't you? It's just not cool enough, Noah. You're pissing me off. I need a hot soak. Let's continue this discussion over my hot soak.
God claps and voila, a nice bubbly bath appears. He steps in and claps. Ping! His little ducky and sharkie and ship appears and floats about happily.
God: (blowing bubbles) You're such an dolt sometimes Noah. It makes me so mad. What is it? You need a break or something? I just don't get it. You were one of my top performers. Tell me, how is it that such a genius can be such an idiot sometimes. (God's tension vein pops on his forehead and He clenches his fist) IT PISSES ME OFF SO MUCH SOMETIMES; I WONDER WHAT THE POINT OF IT ALL IS. AND I WANT TO JUMP OFF A CLIFF! Imagine what the world would be if there are more like you down there? arrrrrggggghhhhhhh……(pauses)..hahhahha…more like you?Hmmmm… Hahaha! That's it? I'll fill the world with idiots. An idiot here, an idiot there and an idiot everywhere. All the nonidiots would want to pull their hair out in sheer agony while the idiots double faster than bacteria! It's like a zombie movie…only more entertaining. Idiots will rule! Yeas…that's a destructive with so much coolness, that prat George Clooney couldn't hold the Paschal candle to. Hahahahhahahaha"
(God leaves the tub screaming Eureka! Eureka!)
Noah: (To the audience) And that my friends, is how I lead Him to arrive at it!!! Should let the old boy believe that He's running the show, shouldn't we?"
Monday, July 23, 2012
One day, Mia woke up with a pigeon entangled in her hair. How it got there, she didn’t know. What she did know was that it wasn’t going anywhere. First she tried shooing it away; it protested vehemently. With furiously flapping wings and raking pigeon claws, that dug into the depth of her brains. For weeks, the metallic rhythm of beating wings, like doors swinging on their hinges, rang in her ears. Then she tried luring it away with grains. Though the bird showed interest, every time she moved her palm away from her head, the pigeon pecked at her face and her eyes until she left the feed right next to it on her head. So there wasn't too much luring, but just feeding. The pigeon pecked on her head, till her dreams grew sore and her thoughts were punctuated with a pecking rhythm. Then she tried cutting her hair; the hairdresser wasn’t amused and even less so, when at the end of it all, all she had to show were bird pecks and a teary customer with a pigeon still entangled in her hair. Very bad for business, indeed. As for the pigeon, it was in such ill humour that for three days, Mia walked with a ball of iridescent grey feathers on her head. Then she tried shaving it all. The pigeon took to the bald head like as if it were an egg. It roosted and crooned pigeon-lullabies that unnerved her lecturers and got her thrown out of movie halls.
Her boyfriend googled ‘how to get rid of a pigeon tangled in your hair’, tried many, suggested more and finally, left her for a girl with less avian features and who didn’t stand out so much. She was the last among her friends to lose her virginity. An artistically inclined youth who found the situation “intriguing” and the pigeon’s unblinking curious stare “coitally exciting”. He left her a few months later claiming “too weird, man”; his artistic sensibilities for once, abandoning his vocabulary. The truth is, the pigeon, who disliked his pretensions took his mouth, that was open in an ecstatic O, for a toilet and went for it when she was on top. His right brain clearly missed the creative irony of the situation.
At the supermarket, the pigeon cocked its head out interrogatively; its beady eyes gleaming red and golden in the painful tungsten. Her dreams were crowded by feathers and pigeon moans. Her face grew flushed from constantly being aware; her lips pursed with the effort of bracing herself for pigeon-excitement. Her neck grew long and stiff from sleeping funny. She had to hold her head unusually high to be comfortable. They called her “Steeple”. First cruelly and then condescendingly and then with grudging, well-disguised envy. She was different. And that was sexy. The pigeon was horribly unconcerned about her wardrobe. It left merciless trails of pigeon shit on all her fit-in clothes. Her little black dress got the worst of it. Before she knew it, she’d stopped trying to fit in.
One day Mia woke up unconcerned about the pigeon tangled in her hair. And then, it became the concern of the people around her. Her parents fretted over whether the phenomenon would deter good matrimonial proposals in the future. Even if the pigeon flew away by then or died, people would still remember her as the girl who had a pigeon on her head. Her neighbours tutted and sighed over such a misfortune, and brought her amulets blessed by an army of gods. There were attempts to make something of a goddess or saint out of her; but wielding a pigeon didn’t merit too much of a devotional following, that died quickly enough. Then there were whispers of exorcism. The pigeon once went into ecstatic moans in church, interrupting a fervent sermon on abstinence from the pleasures of the flesh during the lent. Many candles went missing that day.
What was it like before the pigeon became a part of her? What was it like before she became such an idiom; such a metaphor; such a form of speech? When she was just a girl, trying to find her place in the world; in the fourth row; in the middle ground; in the cafeteria? What was it like? Mia couldn’t quite remember. All she knew is that she couldn’t go back to being any thing else. Uncertainty. Certainty. The girl who woke up with a pigeon in her hair. A winged creature. Just like them angels.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
At night, the mango trees turned into amorous creatures. Creatures with desperate needs. They reached their long arms with all the length of their longing. Their leaves rustled with the ardour of poems, sonnets and love songs. Their leaves trembled like how leaves tremble, with the desperateness of want. While their roots held them prisoners of inhibition. The mango trees longed and longed. For that one night in their lives, when their longings had weighed on the earth so hard and their barks, thick with ardour, cracked with desperation and the rains cried their tears of loneliness, that they were allowed to put their arms around the one they loved. The one night from which they were considered worthy of love. That one night. When the trees stopped longing and instead loved. When mango trees put their arms around each other. Entwined. The caress of leaves. The sigh of flowers. Fruits that they would bear. Dreams of sticky golden sap, feral moss and brown bark under starlight. The night they would hold one another and take on the shape of the other. When they would forever take on the shape of that first embrace. Bow-legged; bow-limbed - each branch bent forever in the stencil of the other. Bent where the other fit. In the morn, when they were apart, the sun would filter down through the spaces the other left. The wind would bring fragrances from the other, and leave it tucked in the crevices, the dimples and the hollows formed from the very first coupling. Mango leaf fragrances; mango flesh sweetness. Branch between branch. Leaf against leaf.
The cuckoo, upon hearing the story, sighed like girl friends, its cooing sigh echoing; gossipy parrots in gossipy sessions would swing from its branches screeching like paan-chewing red-mouthed coarse women who made coarse jokes; crows cawed their indifference. Ants built their sticky fragrant ants nest, feeding off the nectar sweat from the night before. Sticky sweet. Sticky smears. Sticky kisses and amber wet. One tree for the other. Forever and ever. One filling the gaps of the other, forever and a day. The gaps i have, you'll fill; just as yours, I will. Forever and ever. Night after night. when we turn into trees. When we turn into amorous creatures.