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Some evenings, the contentment.
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Some evenings, the contentment.
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Thursday, February 9, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Crocodile Island
--
What are you so afraid of? she asks, smiling, squinting the sun out of her eyes.
Why?
Why?! Look at you! You look scared stiff.
I can't swim. I shrug.
Neither can I. And she makes it sound like a dare.
-
We are on our way to Crocodile Island. A stubborn piece of land that refuses to drown. The boy lies asleep in her lap. He hardly sat still in the car, jumping all over the back-seat, pointing at cows on the road, chucking chocolate wrappers out of the window, and flying my handkerchief in the wind, until all that hullabaloo wore him out. Once we were on water, he looked scared, and clung to her. She took him in her lap and patted him to sleep. It's a mystery how she can do that.
It was Ammi's idea that I bring her here.
Fazal, I hear her sobbing in her room ... maybe you should take her out to the island sometime, a change of air will do her good.
A change of air. That's what she came here for, but it isn't doing her much good, I suppose, or, maybe I'm wrong, and she is glad to escape her silent gloating relatives after all. And all their gleeful sympathy.
I've asked Rashdo to send her to us. The poor child needs to get away. Ammi had announced over dinner one night.
-
The river around here was once chock full of crocodiles. We heard stories growing up. Then they built the dam and the crocodiles all but vanished. So the government, in all its bureaucratic wisdom, installed Nehru's statue on this piece of land in the middle of the reservoir, set up up a crocodile farm on it, and christened it as Nehru Zoological Park. But that was many years ago. Its chief attraction now - a couple of ancient crocodiles bored to the bones, like the rest of us.
That's where we were headed.
-
She has her hand dipped in water. It's a dark shade of green here, the deepest part of the reservoir - I fight that thought. Behind us, runs the straight concrete line of the dam walling in the river. The boatman's muscles ripple with each stroke, little fish flap inside them. We could have taken the motor-launch, it was quicker, but she wanted the boat.
She's a day older than me. They used to make a big fuss about that at family gatherings when we were kids, and as we grew older, it got into her head somehow. For her, it accounted for all the wisdom she had gathered that I hadn't. Not that we talked much even then. I wasn't home that often, and sometimes years would pass before I would see her at some wedding or another. But whenever we met, she'd always have a quick remark ready for me - about the stubble I'd taken to wearing, about my height that had shot up - things, she would say and giggle. There wasn't anything to it and I never had an answer to giggles.
The last time I saw her was at her own wedding. I was the one smiling then.
--
Nehru looms over us, covered in bird-shit. We glide softly onto the pebbled shore. I jump for it and make it clean over the water. She stands uncertainly in the boat, holding the boy's sleeping form in her arms. I walk into the water - it wets my shoes - and take the boy from her. She picks up her sandals and the picnic basket Ammi has made us, and jumps. Bare-footed, she lands next to me, wearing her a-day-older-than-you smile.
No one here? she says, as we climb the steps to where Nehru's rooted.
They'll come in the launch, I tell her.
Aren't you glad we took the boat then, she says.
At the top there's nothing but steps going down the other side. They end into the gravel path that cuts through the island.
I remember this place, she says. We came here as kids once. Mamu had brought us all on a picnic. You were there too.
I don't remember. I lie.
Of course you don't, you were a child then, she says, and starts down the other side. I follow her, like I used to.
The boy wakes up in my arms and looks around, startled. Spots his mother and makes a wild leap for her. I put him down. She takes him, brushes hair off his eyes, and coos to him.
Water? Do you want water, Rahil?
I take a chocolate bar out of my pocket, but she signals me with her eyes so I put it back in. I pass the water to her, instead. She uncorks the bottle and holds it to his lips as he drinks greedily from it. Satiated, he starts to squirm in her arms and she has to put him down. I light up a cigarette.
Does Phuphi know ? she says, between gulps of water - her neck, porcelain - pointing at my cigarette.
She knows.
Hmmmmm ... she says. And I say nothing to that.
The boy runs up ahead and we start walking, crunching leaves and gravel under our feet.
Poor child, Ammi had sighed the day she arrived. What will she do now? And with a child too.
She'll think of something, I had said, for something to say. But Ammi worries. She worries about everyone. More about me than anyone else. And I was glad that that would change for a while.
You don't understand, it's not easy with a child. She should have tried.
Yes, she should have. Harder, I suppose.
There's no talking to you! Ammi had got up and left.
The boy is squealing and throwing gravel at a bush. We find a dead crow under it, feet upturned, wings spread open, beak smashed in. She tries to drag him away from it, but he yanks back at her. I distract him with the chocolate bar and he busies himself with the wrapper.
She looks at me with mock disapproval. I shrug. And we walk silently.
There used to be swings here, she says.
Yes, beyond that turn. I point them out to her.
Do you come here often?
Only when I have to, I let out and regret.
She walks up ahead towards the swings. Unruffled.
It was meant as a play area for children, once. Now, a couple of swings hang idly from an iron frame, a yellow-painted merry-go-round lies broken covered in weeds, and two slides, rusting. There used to be an elephant too - made out of plaster and concrete, with stairs reaching into its belly and a slide coming out of its mouth. It used to be a dark belly, damp inside, with a smell that I carried with me for years - but it seems to have walked off the island somehow.
The boy is busy pulling weeds out of the ground, while she is at the swings, swinging.
I sit down beside him, pluck out weeds of my own and throw them at him. He likes the game, starts laughing and squealing and starts throwing dirt at me. Then finding himself rained in by all the grass I'm chucking, he starts to kick at me.
Rahil! she warns him from the swings. He stops and turns to look at her, gauging whether she means it. Decides she doesn't, and starts to kick at me again. I lift him up by the underarms, wave him over my head making aeroplane sounds. He is delighted. Then it gets old. I put him down and he tears away. She's still swinging.
I get up and walk out of the play area. On the other side of the dirt path is the fenced enclosure where they used to keep the hatchlings. It's overgrown with weeds and grass now, some of the wire fencing lies ripped to the ground. As a child I was afraid of this island, though I never let out. I would imagine baby crocodiles running wild all over it, crawling over each other, making a beeline for the water, their jaws open, their zipper teeth chewing holes into the fence, their tails wagging and pumping a cold menace into their beady eyes. I spot the one that's still here, sunning itself beside its water hole, deep brown, caked in mud, its snout stretched open in half a yawn.
Talk to her, mother had whispered to me this morning, as I was backing the car out.
Fazal! Fazal! I hear her calling. Hear the boy crying. I head back.
What happened?
He fell, she says, brushing dirt off him, blowing air softly onto his elbow. I get the bottle and pour some water over his arm.
Just a scrape. I give him some gum and he quiets down.
Where were you? she says, then bites her lip.
I turn to point. ..... Nowhere, I say.
I pick up the boy and take him to the crocodile enclosure. I point out the crocodile to him but he doesn't seem interested. It isn't moving. Then I sense her breathing behind me and see a pebble land near the crocodile. It snaps its jaw in the air then goes still again. The boy clings to me. She laughs.
Don't do that. I tell her.
Why ? she says and pelts the crocodile with more pebbles. It snaps its jaw shut, turns around and quietly slithers into the brown water.
That's why, I say.
She picks up the basket and walks away in a huff.
--
We come out to the river on the other side of the island. The shore here is more sand than rock - a thin strip of mud-sand that lines the river. The trees on the shoreline loom over the water, turning it a shade green.
I take the chatai out of the basket and spread it out on the ground. She lays out the picnic Ammi has made us. We eat.
Later, I lie down and watch leaves make a swinging honeycomb against the white dazzle of the sky. It's too bright to look anyplace else. The boy has run up to the water and she's packing in the left-overs. A cool river-breeze begins to blow over us. It's nice and cool here. I close my eyes and fall asleep.
--
I wake up to the sputtering sound of the motor-launch wafting over from the other end of the island. The boy lies asleep beside me, breathing deeply, her dupatta covering him. I prop myself up on my elbow and squint into the dazzling light. She has her shalwaar rolled up to her knees and is staring into the water lapping at her feet. She senses me watching and turns to look; the sun licks her hair gold.
I hold her gaze for as long as I can before she turns away and wades into the water.
--
What are you so afraid of? she asks, smiling, squinting the sun out of her eyes.
Why?
Why?! Look at you! You look scared stiff.
I can't swim. I shrug.
Neither can I. And she makes it sound like a dare.
-
We are on our way to Crocodile Island. A stubborn piece of land that refuses to drown. The boy lies asleep in her lap. He hardly sat still in the car, jumping all over the back-seat, pointing at cows on the road, chucking chocolate wrappers out of the window, and flying my handkerchief in the wind, until all that hullabaloo wore him out. Once we were on water, he looked scared, and clung to her. She took him in her lap and patted him to sleep. It's a mystery how she can do that.
It was Ammi's idea that I bring her here.
Fazal, I hear her sobbing in her room ... maybe you should take her out to the island sometime, a change of air will do her good.
A change of air. That's what she came here for, but it isn't doing her much good, I suppose, or, maybe I'm wrong, and she is glad to escape her silent gloating relatives after all. And all their gleeful sympathy.
I've asked Rashdo to send her to us. The poor child needs to get away. Ammi had announced over dinner one night.
-
The river around here was once chock full of crocodiles. We heard stories growing up. Then they built the dam and the crocodiles all but vanished. So the government, in all its bureaucratic wisdom, installed Nehru's statue on this piece of land in the middle of the reservoir, set up up a crocodile farm on it, and christened it as Nehru Zoological Park. But that was many years ago. Its chief attraction now - a couple of ancient crocodiles bored to the bones, like the rest of us.
That's where we were headed.
-
She has her hand dipped in water. It's a dark shade of green here, the deepest part of the reservoir - I fight that thought. Behind us, runs the straight concrete line of the dam walling in the river. The boatman's muscles ripple with each stroke, little fish flap inside them. We could have taken the motor-launch, it was quicker, but she wanted the boat.
She's a day older than me. They used to make a big fuss about that at family gatherings when we were kids, and as we grew older, it got into her head somehow. For her, it accounted for all the wisdom she had gathered that I hadn't. Not that we talked much even then. I wasn't home that often, and sometimes years would pass before I would see her at some wedding or another. But whenever we met, she'd always have a quick remark ready for me - about the stubble I'd taken to wearing, about my height that had shot up - things, she would say and giggle. There wasn't anything to it and I never had an answer to giggles.
The last time I saw her was at her own wedding. I was the one smiling then.
--
Nehru looms over us, covered in bird-shit. We glide softly onto the pebbled shore. I jump for it and make it clean over the water. She stands uncertainly in the boat, holding the boy's sleeping form in her arms. I walk into the water - it wets my shoes - and take the boy from her. She picks up her sandals and the picnic basket Ammi has made us, and jumps. Bare-footed, she lands next to me, wearing her a-day-older-than-you smile.
No one here? she says, as we climb the steps to where Nehru's rooted.
They'll come in the launch, I tell her.
Aren't you glad we took the boat then, she says.
At the top there's nothing but steps going down the other side. They end into the gravel path that cuts through the island.
I remember this place, she says. We came here as kids once. Mamu had brought us all on a picnic. You were there too.
I don't remember. I lie.
Of course you don't, you were a child then, she says, and starts down the other side. I follow her, like I used to.
The boy wakes up in my arms and looks around, startled. Spots his mother and makes a wild leap for her. I put him down. She takes him, brushes hair off his eyes, and coos to him.
Water? Do you want water, Rahil?
I take a chocolate bar out of my pocket, but she signals me with her eyes so I put it back in. I pass the water to her, instead. She uncorks the bottle and holds it to his lips as he drinks greedily from it. Satiated, he starts to squirm in her arms and she has to put him down. I light up a cigarette.
Does Phuphi know ? she says, between gulps of water - her neck, porcelain - pointing at my cigarette.
She knows.
Hmmmmm ... she says. And I say nothing to that.
The boy runs up ahead and we start walking, crunching leaves and gravel under our feet.
Poor child, Ammi had sighed the day she arrived. What will she do now? And with a child too.
She'll think of something, I had said, for something to say. But Ammi worries. She worries about everyone. More about me than anyone else. And I was glad that that would change for a while.
You don't understand, it's not easy with a child. She should have tried.
Yes, she should have. Harder, I suppose.
There's no talking to you! Ammi had got up and left.
The boy is squealing and throwing gravel at a bush. We find a dead crow under it, feet upturned, wings spread open, beak smashed in. She tries to drag him away from it, but he yanks back at her. I distract him with the chocolate bar and he busies himself with the wrapper.
She looks at me with mock disapproval. I shrug. And we walk silently.
There used to be swings here, she says.
Yes, beyond that turn. I point them out to her.
Do you come here often?
Only when I have to, I let out and regret.
She walks up ahead towards the swings. Unruffled.
It was meant as a play area for children, once. Now, a couple of swings hang idly from an iron frame, a yellow-painted merry-go-round lies broken covered in weeds, and two slides, rusting. There used to be an elephant too - made out of plaster and concrete, with stairs reaching into its belly and a slide coming out of its mouth. It used to be a dark belly, damp inside, with a smell that I carried with me for years - but it seems to have walked off the island somehow.
The boy is busy pulling weeds out of the ground, while she is at the swings, swinging.
I sit down beside him, pluck out weeds of my own and throw them at him. He likes the game, starts laughing and squealing and starts throwing dirt at me. Then finding himself rained in by all the grass I'm chucking, he starts to kick at me.
Rahil! she warns him from the swings. He stops and turns to look at her, gauging whether she means it. Decides she doesn't, and starts to kick at me again. I lift him up by the underarms, wave him over my head making aeroplane sounds. He is delighted. Then it gets old. I put him down and he tears away. She's still swinging.
I get up and walk out of the play area. On the other side of the dirt path is the fenced enclosure where they used to keep the hatchlings. It's overgrown with weeds and grass now, some of the wire fencing lies ripped to the ground. As a child I was afraid of this island, though I never let out. I would imagine baby crocodiles running wild all over it, crawling over each other, making a beeline for the water, their jaws open, their zipper teeth chewing holes into the fence, their tails wagging and pumping a cold menace into their beady eyes. I spot the one that's still here, sunning itself beside its water hole, deep brown, caked in mud, its snout stretched open in half a yawn.
Talk to her, mother had whispered to me this morning, as I was backing the car out.
Fazal! Fazal! I hear her calling. Hear the boy crying. I head back.
What happened?
He fell, she says, brushing dirt off him, blowing air softly onto his elbow. I get the bottle and pour some water over his arm.
Just a scrape. I give him some gum and he quiets down.
Where were you? she says, then bites her lip.
I turn to point. ..... Nowhere, I say.
I pick up the boy and take him to the crocodile enclosure. I point out the crocodile to him but he doesn't seem interested. It isn't moving. Then I sense her breathing behind me and see a pebble land near the crocodile. It snaps its jaw in the air then goes still again. The boy clings to me. She laughs.
Don't do that. I tell her.
Why ? she says and pelts the crocodile with more pebbles. It snaps its jaw shut, turns around and quietly slithers into the brown water.
That's why, I say.
She picks up the basket and walks away in a huff.
--
We come out to the river on the other side of the island. The shore here is more sand than rock - a thin strip of mud-sand that lines the river. The trees on the shoreline loom over the water, turning it a shade green.
I take the chatai out of the basket and spread it out on the ground. She lays out the picnic Ammi has made us. We eat.
Later, I lie down and watch leaves make a swinging honeycomb against the white dazzle of the sky. It's too bright to look anyplace else. The boy has run up to the water and she's packing in the left-overs. A cool river-breeze begins to blow over us. It's nice and cool here. I close my eyes and fall asleep.
--
I wake up to the sputtering sound of the motor-launch wafting over from the other end of the island. The boy lies asleep beside me, breathing deeply, her dupatta covering him. I prop myself up on my elbow and squint into the dazzling light. She has her shalwaar rolled up to her knees and is staring into the water lapping at her feet. She senses me watching and turns to look; the sun licks her hair gold.
I hold her gaze for as long as I can before she turns away and wades into the water.
--
Cumin and Coriander
-
Most of my time these weekends is spent cooking.
At the end of the end day it furnishes me the satisfaction of having created something, a feeling that bears a somewhat tortured resemblance to what I once managed to obtain out of attempts at writing, but now with the benefit of having food on my table at the end of it all. Although, it is something else entirely that actually puts food on the table for me, something decidedly unappetizing, some days.
Cooking, as a creative enterprise, seems so much unlike writing though, which, in its purest form, I imagine to be an activity fueled by an implacable spirit, vaporous and cold, gliding about an empty stomach, shouting admonishments under the influence of various distillations. Cooking relates to that stomach, but seemingly inhabited by a much tempered spirit, patient, age-worn, discerning. Hunger, ironically, is never the point.
Also, lately, I've found cooking to be a way of associating with books, making them come alive for me. Be it a Sicilian dish Camilieri's Inspector Montalbano gushes over, or Sebald's monologue on the history of Herring fishing, these and even more elliptical references have been enough to spur me on in search of appropriate ingredients. At my table the distillation of those words, my interpretations; I'm eating words literally, stewing in their juices for all they are worth - a practice, I think, in self-annihilation, but more on that later.
For now, I leave you with a passage from Camilieri's The Snack Thief. Make what you will of all this -
Most of my time these weekends is spent cooking.
At the end of the end day it furnishes me the satisfaction of having created something, a feeling that bears a somewhat tortured resemblance to what I once managed to obtain out of attempts at writing, but now with the benefit of having food on my table at the end of it all. Although, it is something else entirely that actually puts food on the table for me, something decidedly unappetizing, some days.
Cooking, as a creative enterprise, seems so much unlike writing though, which, in its purest form, I imagine to be an activity fueled by an implacable spirit, vaporous and cold, gliding about an empty stomach, shouting admonishments under the influence of various distillations. Cooking relates to that stomach, but seemingly inhabited by a much tempered spirit, patient, age-worn, discerning. Hunger, ironically, is never the point.
Also, lately, I've found cooking to be a way of associating with books, making them come alive for me. Be it a Sicilian dish Camilieri's Inspector Montalbano gushes over, or Sebald's monologue on the history of Herring fishing, these and even more elliptical references have been enough to spur me on in search of appropriate ingredients. At my table the distillation of those words, my interpretations; I'm eating words literally, stewing in their juices for all they are worth - a practice, I think, in self-annihilation, but more on that later.
For now, I leave you with a passage from Camilieri's The Snack Thief. Make what you will of all this -
Only then did the professor break a meatball in half with his fork and bring it to his mouth. Montalbano hadn't yet made a move. Pintacuda chewed slowly, eyes half closed, and emitted a sort of moan.-
'If one ate something like this at death's door, he'd be happy even to go to hell,' he said softly.
The inspector put half a meatball in his mouth and with his tongue and palate began a scientific analysis that would have put Jacomuzzi to shame. So: fish, and no question, onion, hot pepper, whisked eggs, salt, pepper, breadcrumbs. But two other flavors, hiding under the taste of the butter used in the frying, hadn't yet answered the call. At the second mouthful, he recognized what had escaped him in the first: cumin and coriander. 'Koftas!' he shouted in amazement.
'What did you say?' asked Pintacuda.
'We're eating an Indian dish executed to perfection.'
'I don't give a damn where it's from,' said the professor, 'I only know it's a dream. And please don't speak to me again until I've finished eating.' -
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Not twinkling but there
-
Every star has planets, says the BBC.
And the true colour of the milky way
is White. But not just any white:
specifically, like spring snow
at an hour after sunrise ...
Reminded me of a woman once,
of golden areolae and planets of her own.
But that was a long time ago,
I was already on the far curve by then
and no longer a planet.
But every star has planets,
reminds us the BBC.
Not twinkling but there.
-
Every star has planets, says the BBC.
And the true colour of the milky way
is White. But not just any white:
specifically, like spring snow
at an hour after sunrise ...
Reminded me of a woman once,
of golden areolae and planets of her own.
But that was a long time ago,
I was already on the far curve by then
and no longer a planet.
But every star has planets,
reminds us the BBC.
Not twinkling but there.
-