Hung by the Length

She could never decide whether she had loved him solely for the Art. But over a couple of married decades, she had come to realize her hate owed pretty much to just that. The art, and it's ‘trappings’, as she preferred to smooth over. Theirs was a mutual admiration that sprouted as fledgling art students, each egging the other on in hard scrabble times, barely eking course credits and square meals. Love seemed Fated, a solace happily accepted by both. Only success came reluctantly, at its own time, welcomed nevertheless, each cash advance steadily unburdening the newlyweds. Fame came much later, mostly to him, the practitioner, for she had wisely opted for the less feted yet steadily paid job as art curator. The bouncers of the art world, according to him.

Not that she was a slouch; unlike him, she dabbled across mediums, brass being a favorite, a couple of corporate foyers had installations bearing her name. She took pride in it, but knew in her heart that a household with two artists may not be a well fed one. He could chuckle all he want, but she decided one of the two had to be sensible about money; in art that means leaving for a job that pays.

He might have been singularly devoted to his preferred medium, while she gave up on her calling to keep the two afloat. But unlike devotion, which he professed towards her as well, fidelity as a concept turned out to be quite fluid to him. Not one to point fingers, she knew their love had become more of a conditioned reflex, a warm memory perpetuated by a somehow interminable bond, an excess of courtesy in public, and a studied distance at all other times. She had her sources, many a fight and separation, and finally suspicions that had long turned to indifference.

There were at times months of silence between them, to her these interludes alternated between despondence or were vaguely liberating. She suspected he loved her still, but to her it meant utmost glorified respect and no more. All the while she drifted away from the very social circles they always called their own. Was this to show her disdain towards a set who maybe laid claim to her love or a way to punish herself so he may notice, even she could not fathom. Nor did she care, at that time.

Then, he passed.

Her husband, love of her life, comrade in struggles only they would ever know, artist in residence for some of the top schools in the country, skirt-chaser extraordinaire, mixing art and pleasure as easily he mixed paint. A true artist to the end, dying in harness, and quite literally so. His last work, yet unsigned, still on the easel, a faded denim hung from the nearest tack, the nubile young thing who bid him nighty-night the last to ease off him. He left sometime in his sleep. Without as much a goodbye.

As with all at such loss, only she knew what was left was the little emptiness, few regrets and a lot left unsaid. Yet the reminiscing was the worst. Pointless recollections causing her no end of torment. She remembered their last "good chat". It was a few weeks before the end. She was at his studio, early evening, nursing a hot tea. He stood indulgently over his latest work, a burst of warm color, almost alive; one of his better ones, she remembered thinking. An orange hue spread across the canvas, radiating from a white-hot center. A thin white line dropped vertically down, like a sparkler rod. She said it looked like a sparkler giving birth to a rising sun, or something to that effect, and he readily agreed. She knew better than to critique him, for he never cared much for any kind of critique!

It'd been a few months, and the auction house had decided to put up his last work. It was one of those 'occasions', and she had agreed to the invite after much persuasion. Since his passing, she had kept away from the very world she had worked so hard to build and be part of. She missed the cut and thrust, the surly familiarity of an oft-bickering couple, yet a formidable duo who together lit up many a company and conversation. Familiarity that bred contempt, yet some comfort. Good reason to take a break from the memories.

The ones she never missed were the art aficionados, the air-kiss crowd. The hoity-toity air heads who claimed to know as much of the wine they swilled, as the waste of paint & canvas they peered at. Not to mention the high society climbers, with nothing to lose but their hardly earned inheritance. He would laugh whenever she vented over the Art Crowd that flocked to her workplace. She too was one among them, as he would mercilessly needle her, only now she has a day job.

She sat away from the lectern, careful not to attract attention. Not that her husband's agent missed out on introducing the pick of the day's deep-pocketed gullible. She nodded politely, spoke very little; the commiserations seemed genuine, the attention warm. They seemed to truly miss him. The crowd settled as the proceedings were brought to order.

As the auctioneer picked up pace and voice, she let herself be distracted by the finely crafted catalog. His last work was listed towards the end, imaginatively termed
Lot 2B. "Untitled, unsigned, oil on canvas...”, and then she gasped.

There was indeed something off about the picture on the catalog, something she noticed on the banners while walking in. She thought better of speaking to his agent, letting it be as the event caught up. Now as she ran her eyes over the short Interpretation, she felt a slow guffaw coming.

"..the bright orb placed well off-center, the sunset to the West... a flat line trails off to the opposite horizon... an end of days, perhaps.”

Your friends have indeed outdone themselves this time, Roy.

They hung it from the wrong end.

Much like what had come of the life she had always known, to be admired the way it has become.

The Long Mile

I wish I had a penny every time I wanted to sign up for a gym. And since we are on the topic, maybe a fistful of dollars for each time I actually ended up doing so. Not that it would amount to much as compensation, for studies have proven flab loss having a disproportionate and upfront impact on net worth. So when my office offered a gym, gratis, I knew the neighborhood health club entrepreneur could count on one less absentee benefactor.

My system, meanwhile, works like clock-work. Every few years the auto-defrost kicks in, and every gram must go. At least that is the signal that the looking glass tries to convey, gently. As in, the cup cake shape my torso would have attained, thanks to well, cup cakes. And the going would be ruled by any of the food pyramids available in every conceivable cuisine. Only this time, the portions would reduce to the level of ‘caviar on the side’. The pi•èce de ré•sis•tance, of course, would be the pumping of iron.

As slow starvation leads to melting of the love handles, by some cosmic connection, I begin to notice fine works of print and outdoor adverts. Ahoy, a shapely figure, not a bead of sweat in sight, plodding to nowhere on a treadmill. Mr. Olympia grimaces nearby, veins a-popping, a dumb-bell his only ornament. This, and one visit to the machine shop where all this is made possible; enough to debit salary account by a small fortune.

But this time, it’s Office Gym to the rescue. The only catch would be the location. Stuck as it is at one end of the cafeteria, now it was only a question of stuffing before or after calorie burn. The only visit to that end of the building got me a membership; this time there was nothing else for MasterCard®. Now the proof of my new found lifestyle is the gym ID attached to the office card. As if the extra few ounces swinging from my hip would manage to work on my abs, if not my conscience.

My desk drawers have since been cleared for the much awaited arrival of gym shoes and related paraphernalia. I have even begun turning up early to office so I may swing by the gym late evening. Two weeks now, it’s still swing and miss. I do manage two daily visits to the cafeteria, yet not the last mile to my first gym session.

Next Monday. For sure this time. I guess.

Elba

The act of turning up, showing you care, call it what you like. I always left it to others to pander to Karma; my contribution limited to the monetary. I will oil the wheels and even wipe it down for you. But don’t expect me to walk along side as you provide for. I left an ‘air-lock’, a kind of safe distance from the ill fortune I might have been spared. Rather execute an online fund transfer than face the humanity eking off it. From experience, I’ve realized that it saves me from sleepless nights and unhappy thoughts; a knot in my gut which never goes easily.

 Or a nameless face I am condemned to remember.

 Regulation close cropped hair, ill fitting hand-me-downs and an air of resignation. Not very different from the rest of his brethren, some laid out on iron beds, corporate benevolence branded on each bedstead. The air was musty with the heavy odor of cheap floor wipe, only the light rustle of sheets as slight frames shuffled on and off. None betrayed much emotion; ennui perhaps. Also, they were used to do-gooders gawking at their state.

 I’m sure he’d seen better days. Pater Familias, a career, grand kids even. What might have passed, I shudder to think. For time evidently flew with fortune, leaving in its wake waning years at a desolate senior home. A face wracked by time, an eye unseeing. Gaze fixed into the distance; at what was or would be I knew not.

 His grip was firm, head tilted to compensate. It would be awkward being seated next to him. But all others were taken. If it were any consolation, I was not the only one seeking indifference. I passed on a pack of cookies making its rounds, and swallowed hard as he folded hands in gratitude. Almost immediately he livened up, as if in me he found a familiarity needing no introduction. He spoke. In Tamil, a language I barely followed. Of people and places, I suspect visited only in his dreams. In a tone, steady and polished, save for the one time it faltered, as he mentioned a town by name. He did not resume until his lips had stopped trembling.

 I wonder if he noticed me nodding all along, all at sea translating, and wishing being elsewhere. No more than an interloper from the other side of the tracks, seeking to offer solace by mere presence. Unable to linger with a handshake, for fear of remembering how it felt. Speechless, dense, a voyeur devouring a sight he might never find himself in. Self-assured that the constants in his long, pointless life were indeed safe from Fate.

 Then maybe, he never did mind. For while leaving, grip firm as ever, I managed to pick his parting words.

“Son, it’s not every day someone visits”.

Most Rats Die Outdoors

Splayed over the living room rug, like a toad awaiting vivisection, I peer into the long lost corners of my living room floor. A world of perpetual dusk, doomed since the straddle of furniture over it. Evidently, few have ventured here, even less set sight upon. An ecosystem unspoilt by broom or mop, the natural mustiness makes this home to creatures that send my spouse on hysterical shrieking spells.

I might have liked to mention that, precisely in those moments, she resembled a teenage groupie tickled by the sight of a favourite movie star. Replace spider/rat/lizard with Pitt/Cruise/Hanks. You get the picture. But then, discretion being the better part of humour, I desist. Being of the tactical bend of mind, the better half opts to booby-trap every nook with rat-kill. That sure went well. That is, save for a tell-tale whiff of eau de rat, source unknown.

 Thus, the man of the house finds himself on the front, more like a Private doing Dubya’s bidding in Iraq. Ducking dust bunnies and stray cobwebs, a flashlight in one hand, broom in the other. Vainly hoping to sweep darkness and dust away in equal measure. The beam rolls on, leaving the dust bunnies at the mercy of a sideways punt/drag onto a scoop. The scent gets stronger. Now the space ensconced at the junction of long sofa & ornate bureau sees light. 

A rather tidy dust bunny catches my eye. Almost immediately, a near blinding burst of stench catches my senses. Eyes water. It burns like a punch to my nose. An expert turn of my battle axe follows. Stubborn. One more, as I try and inch closer. Just then, the supposed bunny spins around to face me. Resting on my chin means the jaw may drop no more. I manage a gasp. For at that point it was as if I was the one stunned by the light; a reddish reflection from the twin headlights of the rodent. 
Now, I am all for chores, and small rodents, especially the stuffed variety. But I never bargained on an animal safari of this sort while serving mandatory weekend husbandry. 

Another prod, but not before I’d worked on my posture. No longer prone, I was up on one knee, upper body contorted to level with the rat. In this advantageous position, flight was not an option, it was reassuringly guaranteed. But it still seemed all of this counted for no more than a rub down for the little punk.

As I lower myself to take another look, a dull grey fur ball whizzes past, bisecting the living room and headed for the farthest corner. Didn’t miss by much, the broom doubling as projectile. Expertly launched from the commanding heights of the nearest chair, attained a fraction of second earlier. I disembark, go the other way, hoping to take the animal (on a hunt, remember) by surprise. Or at least, leave enough space to bolt, just in case.

I need not have bothered. At the doorway to the next room, a little away from the curtains, Mon. Rat lay in repose, a slow tremor of the feet as the poison finally caught up. Its last gasp spent in the rush from darkness to light. Way to go, Sundance Kid.

Long after the body is interred to trash, I carefully put away the tools of the trade. As I dispatch the rat-kill to the top shelf, I spy a helpful hint on the carton: "Most rats die outdoors"

It’s 5 'O clock somewhere

Six pairs of hands stare down from the wall, all tied up in various states of separation. Their faces united in their banality; a city name and flag pin is all that distinguish breakfast at London from sundown in Sydney. Pity, but the prime movers of a business model would have but little personality to share. Oblivious to the many minions, collared to monogrammed blue lace dangling a non-descript access card, racing them at every turn. Doors open. They sweep through. Unbeknownst, so does time.


A siren might have been the prop for Means of Production. But, here we make do with lot less dramatics. Of course, we are not hoisted onto a caged car down a barely lit shaft. Seeking veins for precious, while letting ours waste for nothing. Washing with our sweat what is no more than rock, for the sparkles belongs to somebody else. Neither do we emerge, awash in soot, grime, and early twilight, to the accompaniment of a wailing siren. Nor is the emolument a fistful of dollars, black lung and a lifetime of under achievement. Yet, the more things change..?


There are bills to pay. And few amongst us are destined to sing, soldier or create acts of beauty (and survive on the pension). So we head for the mines of this millennium.


Here, the ceiling is high, the Lumens set to light meters and the air monitored for bacterium. Murals, birthday lists, and at places, faux graffiti. The mice on the wheel are sated, flush and needless to say, dispensable. The job is monotonous, mind numbing & venal. Hazards of the Industrial Revolution reinvent themselves.


It is our souls that are mined of their creativity, often leaving behind a hollow, long drained of its precious lightness. For many, it’s a waste land that no rain may revive.


The wheels need to keep turning, at any cost. By the way, I’m off at 5.

Water Under the Bridge

It must be said that the most pivotal moments of our lives often occur in the most mundane of settings. No drum-rolls, no cheering crowds. An envelope slipped under the door, a terse phone call, first born cuddled against the chest. For a moment that denotes liftoff, the culmination of a seemingly endless countdown, there is no voice-over, much less a sonic boom. No joining of hands, as you the truly takes a giant leap on Fate’s hoist. Alas, O Fortuna might have been just right as accompaniment.

Some might have come sooner. Or so you wish. All your dreams were spun for a spring time. A lot flattered to deceive, yet eventually spring does arrive. For real this time, and you are all about to live the time of your life. “About time”. Yet, a passing thought, a whiff of a what-if. Surely you realize that the winds of fortune don’t do your bidding. Though rankle it does, over time that passed. Forks on the road, left behind, for want of.

It is a slow realization. That a lot would, or already have, changed forever. And at times, for only you know the truth, a sigh escapes your grateful yet weary soul.

Did someone say ‘half-empty’?

I of II - A Twenty Year Sentence

The grocery aisles, all awash in tube light, crisscross over a few hundred square yards. Not a soul in sight, being a dull mid-week afternoon. My sweaty palms grease the push cart handle, empty but for assorted knickknacks. The air conditioning has failed me miserably. I feel an embarrassed burning around the ear lobes and a rush of blood to the jowls. In addition to a nauseating static, all I sense is the aching thud of my heart. I feel parched. An in-store promo chimes in the distance. For its déjà vu, at the corner of Staples and Salsa.


Those eager eyes have always been the give-away. Still crowned by increasingly arching pencil stroked eyebrows, contemplating the small print on a pickle bottle. The hair, held in place with a sport band, has the odd grey that might have escaped your habitual left-handed smoothing. Your choice of ear rings haven't changed yet, generic silver trinkets of course. You don't ever seem to give much for accessorial fashion, do you? Sporting a miniature duffel bag that was passé for the 90s, and I'm afraid to say, this decade as well. Maybe you'll try the next! I catch the delicate profile as she moves on to peer over stacks of half-price Colombian, much like me, out of place in that aisle. I spy crow-feet, or maybe I don't. Small faced Citizen on your wrist; as is your fashion, should be ten odd minutes ahead. Got you earlier to class, so you claimed. Faded denim, crumpled cotton. You still carry grunge as it should. Lightly.


Two decades and half way around the world later, memories flicker away. Youthful fancies had shriveled and crumbled in the harsh seasons that followed me into later youth; your memory but a bittersweet reminder of an innocent, carefree time. When, smitten and at a loss of words, I proposed, via snail mail. At the very mature age of 17. You were considerate, to haul me aside one memorable evening, even while declining. Must have been hard, considering the prospects this no-job, no-spunk, mealy-mouthed avatar had offered. Since then, I’ve been around, you know. Navigating the shallow social prerequisites of college, more college, jobs, and then, family.


Do I say 'Hi'? That was always easy; it's the follow on conversation that I stumbled on. Or should I let her and the moment pass; that'd be easier and time-tested. What I knew I couldn't do any more is stay there, frozen with stage fright. Twenty years, God. I ply a resume that trumpets my calmness and communication skills. All lies.


I make my move. A half-turn. The other way. My life can do with what it had, or never did. My heart, whatever, could not take a snub. Not from her. Some memories are best left untouched, unrevised.


Just then, she moved too. Sans cart. Right my way.

II of II - The Fountains of Miramar

A quizzical look, followed by that lopsided smile. She stepped forward briskly, side stepping my push cart, with a loud, pleasantly surprised "Hey". I mumbled something to the same effect in return. She grabbed my arm and almost gave me a hug, giving me a once-over even as I recover poorly from shell shock. A torrent of queries followed. Of her friends, some common, most I had never noticed back then. Note to reincarnating self; pay attention to beings accompanying, yet not including amorous interest. Of places she left behind. Of chumps that went for my friends, still my friends, chumps nonetheless. She smile on their mention, a chuckle a split later. I might know what that was for, oh dear. I spy a sparkle in her eye.


For all that I left unsaid, it seemed she'd the most to share. Almost catching up for lost time. Eagerly waiting for answers, prodding when I groped for names, an old affliction. Even a sly poke at the little chubby I had become. She spared the baldness, thankfully. I dare say I got to know her more in those few minutes, than ever I'd done before. It wasn't crow's-feet by the way, my eyes might have aged. The odd silver strand does her some credit too.


Of course, 'how have you been' is no question. But since you ask, do I mention the numbness, the drift, the unkempt beard kept only as long as I could take the teasing? Sighs unseen and sobs, a few? Life threw greater twists in your wake. I stopped remembering out of preoccupation, so to speak, and not because I didn't miss you any less. Not that I've wondered about what would have been. Those ghosts have long hushed; too busy completing the chores of life. Am I happy? Sure. What else would I be.


We reached an awkward pause, as I fumbled without anything more to say. Then it popped. Not, I swear, by design. "I missed you". I groan inwardly as it slips past. Twenty years to say this. Half a lifetime to inherit the earth. I wish all would go away. I so badly wanted my life from a quarter hour ago.


The lines harden around her eyes, the lips purse. I feel my eyes moisten, a tingle on my nose. What have I done? She winced, and then straightened herself. As if reeling from a jab. Now intently peering at my face, she’s probably toying with the idea of just moving on. Regretting ever stayed. I cannot but find my sorry self looking down, pinching my palms, fighting tears, pain, anger and years of whatnot. All I can manage, as a mid-life crisis-ridden grownup, is a blurry sounding "Sorry". "I must go now", I add.


"I know" she said. I look up. A slow, weary smile creased her lips. She seems to have aged a bit. A shadow falls across her face, as her eyes look into the distance. She sighs. I guess it's been all about me, all this time. And at that moment, I wished none of this happened. The single silver strand has raised itself, only momentary; the long fingers on her left caressing it out of sight. “You haven’t changed”, she chuckled. Or grown up, for that matter. We say our goodbyes soon after. I'm an invitee to a dinner.


I lug my carry bags out the front door. The fountains at the mall entrance gush skywards, dancing to a hummable symphony playing somewhere nearby. As their mothers watch, toddlers scoot around in the mist. A rainbow plays peek-a-boo. High amongst the spray muddying the west bound amber and purple Florida sky.


I am parched no more.

That Queasy Feeling

The drone is relentless. There is no respite. I have to endure this, make it to the other end at all costs, or else. Playing by the rules all the time. No, it's far from easy. The end, or any temporary lull, seems far away. Only broken, at times, by an inevitable slide into an unfathomable blackness. Soothed by the dimmed light and faint chill. Yet, the wake up leaves me a quiver, numb. I can take no more. The mind wanders. It’s just as well, for the insistent whine tugs at the very threads of my being, my reason.

But, it's only a fleeting rescue; I am dragged back from self-imposed exile. And this time there is light. Too much of it, actually. The presentation done, so-and-so from the Quality department has decided to defer to the audience. An audience drawn from various divisions, only now united in their misery. Of the two dozen in the room, my gaze finds a couple or so groggy faces reluctantly coming to terms with the waking world. Only the machines survived unscathed.

The wheels in my head attempt to turn. Good luck there, buddy. My synapses had long gone cold. I did no harm. Not to deserve this. But 'mandatory' is an awe-inspiring word, enough to cow most into submission. Masochism you might say; otherwise who would want to join a bunch of strangers in a dimly-lit room for a 3 hour session, bordering mental. A time slot post-lunch is definitely not for the sleep deprived. Add to it the pièce de résistance, the tenets of Quality in Management, cast in Power Point. Delivered throughout in a sepulchral monotone, you'd half expect to hear a muffled sob or two in between. Considering the long line of souls damned to suffer in silence, a collective wail would have been more appropriate.

Now Queasy is the kind of department which really put the moan into Monday-morning-quarterbacks. Upholding a tradition from the Dark Ages, where the Torquemada elicited more than a few moans from unfortunates deemed to be outside religious tolerances. In footballing terms, always late into a tackle, while showing no intention of playing the ball. Worthy of a straight red on any pitch. The blind tripping up the sighted with their cane, then claiming reparations. The differently gifted attempting to level the playing field. I could drown QD in high praise. Then a little more, just to make sure.

The spinmeister, impressed at his handiwork, the sight of a class rendered brain dead, has switched tack. It's question time. Three and four letter acronyms (there's always a Q somewhere), fly forth. I keep up by lip synching with a handful of eager beavers out to impress on the front row. Goebbels would love to know whether the session has enlightened and uplifted our hitherto meaningless lives to the ways of the Zen, and the arcane art of Preventive Motorcycle Maintenance.
Why, of course, if you say so.

We troop out in silence. Another batch awaits their turn on the outside.

Condolences are in order.

Turning on a Dime

I stare at the sole of my shoe one more time. A variously dimpled, furrowed and carved landscape, the output of a multi-million dollar R&D-Marketing effort. Surely deserving the hefty wad I paid for that boot. The other boot cost about the same. A grey, white & blue "FX System", no less. Promises of reflected sporting glory, masquerading as a leather and foam engineering feat, aspiration cost much exceeding its value.

All to send me skidding across asphalt left with no more than a faint memory of moss, from rains two months old. My coop rises in sight, twin towers souring the scenic evening sky. Easy viewing, now that I rest on my back side. Adding insult is my neighbourhood’s latest addition, a fine lady of mysterious ways, staring me down through hazel eyes. To retrace, the brand new tread swept my feet off under me, nearly upending Her Grace out on her daily saunter. Fervent apologies were met with the kind of sceptic vibe only a certain Bush-WMD deserved. An intro I did not fancy. The resident Harry Potter groupies leave their whatever-kids-do activity and gape in unison. I wish Bumble Bore or whatever would appear and make me otherwise. The juveniles from the other end of the lot sport a resigned indifference. No likng fav shu hv2 rotf lyk dis. Unkind are the ways of this world.

Buyer’s remorse set in just as a nerve in my right ankle remembers to throb. Rooney, of the hauntingly vague look, at home with ManU and any on-pitch brawl, sure had me convinced. His life-size poster at the mall revealed not a strain as he motors away in his new laces. More evidence of vagueness, I presume.

I wonder if "FX" was designed for an 85 kilo blob with a lately suspect centre of gravity. Definitely not when he decides to traipse down a flight of stairs, and spin around at the landing. Not at this age, his gyro too rusted on the way past 30. Maybe in this age, I should tweet about skipping a few stairs, and then wisely use the elevator. Not too long ago, there was a lightness to my being. Literally. A sport shoe would readily complement my figure, a compliment to gauntness. Accessories shown did suit standard equipment. Unlike now, when they look more like leather vases, from which sprout twin shoots, coalescing into a jelly flower in full bloom. Technically, ‘Approaching Tubby’. The same might be said of Rooney, but a punch-up I’m in no shape or mood for.

As a kid, in his world of shoe-shod make believe, I used to be champ. A toe-poke suited to a Bergkamp. Ballet steps at backyard badminton. Sunday cricket attracted the ‘Azharuddin-at-point-with-slouch ‘persona. My trusted swoosh/stripe/affordable graphic giving wings to impressions gained from magazine covers, TV and fantasy. Ersatz with heart.

Now I’m up on one knee dusting the remnants of my pride. Redoing my laces elicit something of a sigh/grunt; any more toe touch & my flab is squash. Note to self: Let them know how much I’d appreciate Velcro. A fraction more moping later, we are up and about. The looker left a faint trace of parfum. The tykes are back to scream n’ shout. The juveniles, more like the World Union of Cool Football Jerseys, are on a passing game. One of them runs, traps, pivots and let fly, all in one go. Turning on a dime.

Been there, done that.

At 34 and Lycra

Here I find myself, again. Same old 4x4 cell, twin hooks, opposing mirrors, infinite images of mine in views not available elsewhere. Not much to complain though; even the predicament I find myself in seems eerily familiar. The sight is far from promising. From the top, a gene pool that has fueled multiple fronts in Male Pattern Baldness. A societal DNA that encourages newly weds to binge on the good stuff; layers of jowl, chin and belly not seen since birth. Now the ignominy of having to discard clothes no more than a few months old. My missus patiently awaits me on the outside. I need to break the news gently. The 34" pair she had lovingly picked, is no more a zip and clasp case. I feel a sigh coming.

Ground O is the midriff. Once skinned to the ribs, now flubber cushions the bones beneath. The railroad that ought to take YKK upstate, lies asunder. A sharp and prolonged exhalation might help, but the twain never get close enough to spirit the rake away. So here I stand, stripped to the jocks, retching and huffing as the blob that passes for abs refuses to sink the last few inches of some prêt-à-porter. The last mile to the clasps now a mile too far, the once smartly laid out trouser now no more than a gaggle of folds below my knee, like the lingering scar of a filariasis attack.

Yet truth is difficult to swallow, for with it I injest my pride as well. So I play a game of "what-if". My mind races as I factor-in inter alia gym jaunts, skipped meals and a lower ferment intake well into the next quarter resulting in a receded waistline, thus justifying the foresight to invest (heavily) in trousers that would be a wraparound, as and when it fit well. I am sure that would not be a problem; just a wee matter of ridding myself of love handles. This pair is, after all, meant for me. Provided, of course, it fit. Or even let me breathe without squeezing my innards to a third.

The logic is compelling. Lehman, my brother. Now I feel ya. You sold mortgage that never fit, praying the user would fatten himself to justify affordability; I buy garbage that never fit, hoping to thin to justify affordability. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

The PYT plugging the brand stares down from the low ceiling, a well held pout matching a figure made to slip in like a glove. The ranch hand she has managed to clamber onto doesn't look too bad either. Get a room, you two.

Decision time. I wonder how this would go; would I splurge on vanity of a time and shape no more, or retreat against the reality that stares back at me ad infinitum? Do I sensibly buy the corduroy that, in addition to being simple to operate, might even double as a mainsail, or else picture myself reinventing into a lean mean 34, the erstwhile booty size of yours truly.

I surrender. Too many well intentioned "buys" line my cupboards. I had long since given into the very unglamorous world of stitch to size. The world of ready-wear as alien as hair care. Yet, missus proposed, hence this return. I exchange the old for a new and wider; my wife sports a grin, the salesman a I-told-you-so. As I step back in, ready to clothe my fate, the associate beckons. "You might like this Sir", and thrusts another pair onto my arm. "It's Lycra, stretchable".

True. It does. 34", and fits like a glove. I feel alive.

The pair stuck to the ceiling can go fly kite.

Gold Finger

For somebody who, according to reliable sources including own Mom, is beyond the marry-by date it's quite a slow revelation. The wooing game (Senior Division) is a lot complex, and there aren't many ladies out to play. And so you tread carefully. The heart ages, you see.

Consider this. 5 people on a boat. Ok, forget it. Real life scenario. And I can't swim either. You take a fancy. The fancy happens to work alongside. Bad idea to have that kinda fancy whenever 'work' and wherever 'alongside' appears.
If 'outed', the awkwardness can be appalling. So you let it be. For there is indeed a joy in coming to work, staying there, and hoping to return the next day. Now when did that last happen to you. Rains and bombs notwithstanding, the sky has never been so azure since late 1990. And anyway it's your little secret. You go out with friends, you offer her a seat. Out to lunch, you make sure your beau gets more than the fair share. Even if that means your friend, the office ogre, is driven to tears. Smoke less, so you stink less. Crossing the road, stop, stay back. Never, ever, offer a lady your help to cross a road. Ah! Wisdom. That comes from being the other side of the 20s. That, by the way, is the problem. All this coming from an early-30ish, early baldish, lately romantic, gets a wee bit awkward.

It starts with little more than shared loathing. At something (which is good), or each other (which is better). As time goes by, your heart starts to pick sides. Now, this ain't the heart from a decade and half ago. It doesn't skip too many beats; hence you miss out on the vital signs of a coming meltdown. You don't sweat and stammer when you meet the other. You've been there before. You bet so has she. Like I said, you let it be. The only outbound signal would be an excess of parfum. And in my case, a very well groomed mien. (Honestly, my idea of oil-control was always a quality gasket. Until I discovered this lil' blue bottle of goo that cost as much as four litres of petrol, and promises great mileage for my mug).

So you dress up. And dress down. It's not easy picking a color, or a contrast. From "how-would-they-bear-if-i-don't-wear" to "how-would-I-look-in-beige-n-blue". A sartorial revolution is underway. Your friends might smell a rat, though you might explain it away as DKNY. Your ogre friend is especially suspicious. That's taken care of with an extra bowl of noodles. Smooth. The bottles multiply, only now the fermented brew is given a good run by the Skincare 2-3-5 Glycol types. And you thought it went into antibiotics. Life's clear, so's the skin. Yet it never seemed so complicated. The greeting, the chit-chat, the gossip. All the same, yet you feel an edge. A lingering smile, a stolen glance. When caught during either, the old pump for once lost suction. You still let it be.

It's only been few months. Cursory enquiries confirm status as single. Now there is this movie. And there are these friends. Rid the latter and catch the movie, with you-know-who. Dual risk. Latter don't want to know either. Also you don't want your objet du désir to say non. So you decide to trust Ludlum and his 'busy street is best for a kill' credo. 11.30AM is madness at your end. Therefore you slip out. Again, it's quiet on the other wing. So you slip in. Saunter upto the cubicle. And watch her watch spreadsheets.

Mint green. Her favorite color. Pony tail. Colored nails. Well dressed. Good reason to up your FMCG spend. Then you notice something you never caught before. A gold ring. The possibilities are enormous; enormous enough to crush the rest of the week. Maybe month and year. Her fingers are strumming on the side of the monitor. And you are disoriented trying to fix the location of the damned yellow metal.

She spins around. You instantly recover with a toothy grin. A priceless smile in return. Nothing much is spoken, other than that you're there to meet a friend and hence dropped by. Goodbyes later, you can't smother that silly grin on your face. All the way to A-Wing.

It rains outside. But the sky remains blue.

The ring's on the index.

Chicken Run

In healthier times, H5N1 would be nothing more than a poorly formatted chemical formula, inviting a sneer from any Chemistry teacher worth the salt. And Tamiflu the pandemic afflicting thousands as Anna's (no, not the gal next door) latest flick threatens to hit theaters in TN. All this until now; for the chickens have turned bad long since. As the Health Dept. sends in the bunny-suit cavalry to whack'em chickens, I am left to ponder the feathers long gone.

Sunday evening, as usual, involved a session with a trusted Sony Remote™ on the couch (wrist/biceps), followed by more of the same on the bean-bag (yawn/snore). Then I decided to reward my worked-out self a worthy treat. What follows may not be for the chicken-hearted. A call to the local take-away elicits an enthusiastic recital. Only this time the Louvre had opened sans the Mona Lisa. The bunnies seemed to be doing a good job upstate. Not one bird in sight. When enquired, I could almost feel the resigned shrug from the other end. The mandarins have deemed to term it culling, which essentially is hunting birds on a large scale. Just a thought, but this might be a half-decent legal defence for celebrities caught game hunting with no more than the 007 permit.

As the menu drones on, I am shocked and awed from an ambush with no less than a non-veg non-chicken menu involving a sum total of Aries, Cancer & Pisces. Ah, the wannabes of la carte. Fillers from Page 3 of the menu, reveling in their right to final consumption. Same old, same old. Some really are. It's not often that this product line has same day production and consumption. They are usually left to stew in their own gravy, much like Chivas... ok, let's not go there. It cannot be a happy time when P3 people (I quote the PeTA motto "they're human too, you know, kinda") head to Front Page. Overpriced, overdressed and overage, many an unsuspecting mistake style for substance. Poor man’s Fugu, as it were.

So when I finally insist on the seemingly non-existent birdie, the Maitre d' flips. It's as if no chicken ever was curried at Dipali Restaurant & Bar (of course they're French. Brandy is served). ‘Omerta’ of the F&B world I guess. At a loss for words, I let my friend pick the edible. It’s never been easy being chicken. As a species it’s mightily pointless and passé being eaten without baiting either a taboo or at least a yuck in some form or the other. This species after all is mass market chow, even the odd vegetarian playing out his/her idea of a wild swing with a C-Lolipop (“rarely, only at parties, you know…”). Again, no mortal is ever born under the sign of Rooster. Except in the Far East maybe, where the choices at the local take-away would surely reinforce your faith in exterminators.

So it concludes with a bird that's always 'dressed' and eaten. The human equivalent of waxing. The pain being fleeting and final for the feathered; some doughty humans actually pay for the job. Done alive, the latter lot are no chicken. 'Good enough to eat' being expression of choice for both. By an odd twist of genome, chomper and chomped now face the same Pearly Gate.

Someday when we are all done fixing that ‘name-as-number’ virus character, we could reacquaint ourselves. After all, we appreciate your good taste.

Never Heard you Sing

I am told you can sing. Quite well too. A voice that finds pride of place at your office's every gig. The rhythm struck a chord, and the face rang a bell, with someone I know. Why, oh why, is it always someone else?

The news broken to me by that old friend in a matter-of-fact monotone normally reserved for half-time scores, lunch orders and such. Quite something for someone who cannot appreciate, much less spell, subtle. The only give-away being a momentary sideways glance, away from Goodison Park left flank, expecting perhaps live emotion never seen on TV. Well it's been 10 years. Blast from the past emoticons happen to Balaji people. Sensing more drama on screen, my Chum the Considerate peered right ahead. Leaving me with an old dusty bag of angst.

That you be even mentioned a good decade or so after we last met is not the surprise. Fact that my friend spotted you & remembered, is. Tragedy is, I remember too. Since it seems to be open season on me, the farce would be that you would know next to nothing about all this. That's how it always was; for only I was to know you, the converse never meant to be.

I never set out to be the romantic with nothing but soliloquys to get by. More like a dramatist's after-thought to jive up the leading lady's beau array. Alas that's what I ended up as. Because at 16, a fragile heart is a very common ailment, considerably reducing the sufferer's immunity to romance. I am too old to even try and recollect what, when, where & how it all started. We never spoke much. The courage to do so was beyond me; a lump in my throat that summed up all that I ever wanted to say. Little more than a civil greeting, smile or a warbled mix of the two ever got past my lips. Either way I got a cheerful reply, oh and that lopsided smile. I conspired to have more and more of the same; early turnout at classes, loaned stationery, so on and so silly forth.

Not that my pals had fewer ideas. The posse had many a scene concocted, lines drafted, an ambush setup. All for the lead to flee in a fit of hyperventilation. A spectacle which, I dare say, held a whole generation in thrall. Those were days when time seemed to stand still, at least I believed it would go on forever. Until one day it was time to go, and all was lost. Just like that.

Now I'm older, balder, none the more wiser. The quiff I sported for your viewing pleasure long lost to the ages. And I definitely used to be quicker. Yes, I can smile at the follies & fancies of a beautiful time long gone. At least, at most of them. But for someone who yearned to be everything to you, who staked his heart and whatever that is a teenager would propose to do, I knew so very little of you. Surely you were a lady more than that fragile smile, dainty satchel and clipped-down hair. I miss not knowing you.

Not that I regret the road I did not take. The times we never had. Not until now.

For I never heard your singing voice.