The clock and the black hole

I have a black hole and its name is X!

 

The night of 28 April, 2017 was spent walking from the living room where the body lay to the master bedroom where I was asked to get some rest. Much like today, every time I saw the watch the hands seemed to be getting slower and more sluggish with each passing moment. Time had become lazy.

Tick tock, tiicckk toocckk, ttiiiccckkk ttoooccckkk,….

It went on and on. The sun seemed to be taking an extended lunch break and the moon seemed quite happy and reluctant to move from where it was.

Sometimes I wonder what I thought then, at that very slowly passing moment. But all I remember is the clock and it’s hand. The rest is blank.

It is 1:40 am, 17 June, 2017. The clock has stopped. I wonder what it could be that made it stop. The battery? The temperature, global warming, apocalypse or just grief?

Maybe not grief. Maybe just a big slice of blank, emotionless space that has dominated my mind off late. Maybe it is the black hole. Maybe it is post traumatic stress. Maybe shock, maybe denial, or maybe nothing.

I asked the ether a question today, a quite serious one and quite seriously too,- what does death mean to the person who hasn’t died?

The ether remained silent. I asked again, and again, and again till my ears became deaf with the silence.

Then I had a sip of my whisky and I turned within and I questioned. The black hole told me- go to sleep, you don’t want to know.

I took another sip and I asked again. This time the answer came louder- Go sleep you moron. You do NOT want to know.

A third sip and the same question lead to a louder, much filthy version of the same answer.

Many sips and same questions later the answer was weaker, quieter- it means grief.

What does that mean?- I asked again.

Look in the mirror. What do you see?- the answer challenged.

I did as I was asked. I saw nothing. There was emptiness where I should have been.

I still don’t get it and I hope at least a minute has passed since!

The clock is still stuck at 1:40 am. I am not too sure of the date and day. All I know is- I need another glass and then hopefully I can sleep!

To the little girl who was afraid of the sea

When you were six, you hardly ever spoke. When in the company of strangers, you would hide behind my back and hold on to my shirt. When you were eleven we went to the sea and you were scared of how the waves splashed against the shore. You were terrified of the sound and smell of the water. You held on to my hand and refused to go anywhere near the it.

When you were five, we went on our first flight together. You were so shy that whenever any passer by tried to talk to you, you would squeeze my hand in a death grip. The nights they fought, we would lie close together on the bed holding each other while we shed tears.

Now you have grown up and I know are a strong independent woman. You were always the brains of the family and you always tried to do good by everyone. You are my little over achiever who aims to please. But amidst the world of thick books and medals, I hope you don’t leave your childhood behind.

Don’t make the same mistake I made at your age. Do not aim to please. Enjoy the sunshine after sleepless nights of hanging out with friends; enjoy the hangovers and the love pangs; enjoy the school dramas and the world of movies. Get your fill of sleep because after eighteen, you can bid goodbye to that. Get your fill of your family because people grow old and apart with age. Explore territories that you haven’t before. Fail once, fail twice and fail again because failure is a better teacher than success.

Dream a dream and then change that dream the next day because now is when the possibilities are most. Fall in love and realise the difference between love and infatuation. Get a job at McDonalds and understand that there is a lot of value in the smile of the boy who is given a happy meal by his father.

Join a cause and fight for it because if not now, when? When they ask you, “what do you want to be?” tell them that you want to be happy. When they ask which university, tell them the name of all possible ones because there is no end to learning.

Learn that experience is more valued than mugging up facts and that you can always change what you want. There is always a new dawn after a bad day.

Dear kid, don’t be sorry for not knowing what you want to do and for wanting something no one wants to give. It is okay. You will fail. You must fail. But you will come out of it shining, just like the time you boarded the plane on your own and made friends with the other passengers.

If a shy little kid could become a confident woman, there is nothing in this world you can’t do. I wish you knew how proud I was of you and I wish I could be the one you had your first smoke with and told all your secrets to.

But alas! It is what it is. All I know for a fact is that I will always watch over you even if it is from behind a screen.

Life in Grey

“Do you know who you are?”

-One question which haunts me. This question, a child had innocently asked me to which I had replied saying my name. But it got me thinking, am I just a name-one given to me by my parents or grandparents? Something I did not choose for myself yet I have to identify with? What I am? What is my purpose in life? Why do I live for the heck of it? All these questions played in my head. Then I decided that I would consciously make an effort to get to know myself.

I asked my mind, “Dear brain, what do you want out of life?” My brain woke itself up from its deep slumber and thought for a moment, then very pompously replied, “Look here my child I am too young to know what I want out of life; all I know is what I don’t want. I don’t want stagnation, I don’t want to wake up one morning and have nothing to do, I don’t want to ever not have a choice. I love my options and I need them. I want a life of adventure; change thrills me and I never want to settle down.”

Looked like some part of me was clear about what it wanted or in this case did not want. Moving on I asked my heart the same question. It replied saying, “I want to be filled with love. I am scared that I will end up all alone in a room filled with people. I want my life to be filled with people from every walks of life but after the party is over, I want to be able to go back home with the one. That person will be my reason to live and my inspiration in whatever I do. I want to be able to wake up in the morning and see his face, I want to be able to say how I feel about him before it’s too late. I want to hurt thinking of him and I want to be filled with a glow when he walks into the room. I want it all. I want novelty but with that guy by my side. I want to see Cote d’azure and the Bay of Naples with him breathing on my neck. I want to come home to him and at that point home is anywhere he is.”

After comparing these two, I felt utterly confused. Which part was me- the brain or the heart? What did I want? I had no clue. I tried every trick in the book- I meditated, I visited holy men and I tried having an internal dialogue. What did I get out of it? A labyrinth where the more I entered, the more lost I got.

The girl who worked in a bar

“I dropped out of a college, changed my stream, started over and worked in a bar.”

-Words I need to say in order to repel people or to get them to judge me. The aunty in the bus with her kid on her side becomes the cat on high alert. Her ears perk up and her hands cover her daughter’s ears. But she can’t contain herself. She has to go on and ask me; or atleast try to figure out why a girl from a ‘good family’ worked in a bar or dropped two years.

“Umm…but beta why?”

None of the explanations I give satisfy her. In her mind, I have already failed in more exams than I can count, got rusticated for rowdy behaviour and conducted myself in a shameful manner (slutty too).

“But all those men in the bar…was it safe?”

She might as well have asked me how many times I was raped or did something that would elicit the response ‘shame shame’ from her friend group.

The uncle I tell these words to looks at me like I am a piece of meat. Suddenly the wisdom in his eyes is replaced by lust. He is licking his lips mentally. Yum!

What I am doing now doesn’t matter. What matters is what I did. And what I did defines who I am right?

The girls my age run away from me. They have their morality to protect. Their mothers would disapprove. The guy I give my resume to is confused. A 8.0 gpa and then a dropout. Why?

Choice is not something I am allowed to have.

A girl from a good family cannot work in a bar because ‘those places are dangerous for women…’ As if only men drink. And a woman doesn’t have a voice, lest hands and legs.

Our girls should be kept in parda at home; should not have relationships of any kind before marriage; should not go out of home after 5 pm; should not have opinions; should not disobey- says the regime.

Marriage is the only solution for women. Once married, they are the property of their husbands and the slaves to their children. Marital rape is normal. There is consent of course- hey lady, you signed a social contract. Remember always,- the regime continues.

Why blame the regime. My gynecologist told me to not have premarital sex. ‘It can lead to all sorts of problems,’ she said with a wink.

Let’s not come to sexuality. I don’t have one. I can’t have one. The only desire I am permitted to have is that of wanting a kid. Where do kids come from? The angel plants it in my belly. In my case, the angel is my husband offcourse.

I am not allowed to be a single mother. “Shame shame,” Pammy aunty says.

Now our union minister has said surrogacy is not an option for homosexuls, single mothers and partners in a live in.

There goes my chances. After all, who will marry me? I am the girl who worked in a bar remember?

Damn I am doomed. And I am so bloody happy being doomed!

Of luxury, old ladies and winged creatures

I am sitting in the lap of luxury as I write this. My room is a suite- bigger than an average upper middle class person’s flat. I am wearing white slippers and have central air conditioning. A bath tub with pebbles around it; half resembling an oasis in sub Saharan Africa. Separate enclosures for taking a shower and for the water closet. The bathroom unit can easily accommodate two people for days on end.

The patio has all sorts of exotic plants and that piece of heaven is at my disposal for as long as I like. There is a 6 seater dining table that makes me want to keep eating. A pleasing omnipresent fragrance (whose origin I’m yet to find) surrounds me 24/7.

Every time I look at the many mirrors in the suite, I feel like a different person. As if this life was meant for me. I feel beautiful. All of a sudden, my Levis jeans is not good enough for me. I need Secret Circus. I crave for the Jimmy Choo handbag and the Victoria’s Secret bikini set I had seen in the last issue of Vogue. Now I want it. Moreover, I want to flaunt it- that perfect hair, the perfect mind and the perfect life where I don’t need to think about my bank balance before purchasing a surface pro.

But then I feel guilty. Guilty for wanting more. How can I not be happy with what I have? Whatever happened to satisfaction? Moreover why do I need more?

At this conjecture, I meet a lady. She is a cleaning staff who comes to clean the suite. With greying hair and a warm smile, she politely asks me about the pain I need to endure every time I wear the 6 inch heels that are now lying on the floor. This innocent question leads to a conversation and she tells me about her daughter who recently got her degree.

“She also has a boyfriend now. He is a driver and about to purchase a new car,” she beams at me. She is happy for her daughter. She goes on to tell me how her favorite time of the day is feeding the birds left-over rice, early in the morning.

She recalls an instance where one of the birds had sat on her lap and demanded to be fed by her hand. Her eyes smile. That is when I realize that my joy at admiring my situation is nowhere compared to her joy at being loved by winged creatures.

Conclusion– I am never going to stop wanting more. After all, I am only human. But no matter which stage of life I am in, or what plate I use to serve food, I am determined to smile the way she did for as long as I breathe.

Miss Fake Cake

The past year Miss Fake Cake bid adieu to this world after swallowing a fly. This lady, if you can call her one, was sitting by her French window in her very elite town house, admiring her situation in life when a huge fly flew in through the window and started chasing her all around the house. After 20 minutes of running around, her temper got the better of her and she decided to eat up that ‘black-blue pest’ whole. She opened her mouth wide and that poor soul flew straight in, as if it had always dreamt of exploring the interiors of her large mouth.

The fly had expected to come out of her alive, however she was persistent in swallowing it. But our hero was a fighter. It bit her digestive tract as it journeyed down the gastric lane and did the tango in her stomach. By the time it reached her intestines, it had become a martyr. But good for it, it caused internal bleeding in Fake Cake, which resulted in her untimely death shortly after.

I knew her since college days. She was one of the biggest ass-biters in the history of ass biting females- the kind of person who is sugar sweet on your face and has a truck driver’s mouth when your back is turned. She was Little Miss Perfect to the world- always the best dressed; having all the right things to say; the teacher’s pet, etc. Back in college, she used to apply a thick layer of bright red lipstick and it resembled a traffic signal light.

All of us knew that it was our queue to run when that red thing opened to give way to black. The insides of her big, fat, mouth resembled a rotting corpse, metaphorically of course. Her tales of owning five villas, 6 Lamborghinis, Gucci- Prada and all of her pretty things, sounded like chanting of ABCs to us by the time we graduated college. Her boyfriend was the perfect guy, in her twisted little mind- tall, dark and handsome- straight out of a Mills and Boons novel.

After she married him, she got to know exactly how repulsive that creature was. She recalled, in one of the gatherings, that he barely ever washed his underwear and wore the same inners for days on end. Also, he slept on a bed of rotting bananas- one of his many fetishes and she had to do so too, by unofficial laws of holy matrimony. In the same breath, she sang his praises and gloated that he gave her a 50 carat diamond necklace every month and so on.

One would make the biggest mistake of their life if they asked her to speak about herself- she could fill pages which if stacked upwards, towards the sky, would reach the sun. The word ‘privacy’ did not exist in her dictionary. Our conversations were more of monologues during which she bragged about her parents being the richest folks she knew and filled it with unsolicited advice on my life.

In short, she was a pain in the buttocks whose only aim in life was to feed on other people’s grey cells. One could see the pleasure in her eyes when she bitched about some poor, unsuspicious soul. She got high on gossip and fed on other people’s life stories.

Since this is an obituary, I am required to say some good about her too. The best praise I can give her person is that she closely resembled Homo sapiens. Last but not the least, I am indebted to the fly for its courageous deeds.

Rebecca

How is it that you can be haunted by the non existent? Fear takes many forms- I had learnt in school. But little did I know my fear would be a faceless beauty. She was me and I was her. But somehow at every step, she was shining brighter.

“Close your mind,” my friends said.

“Hush mind. I am trying to sleep,” I told that beast every night.

But all it did was show her in black satin and red lipstick. She smiled me a crooked smile and looked at me as though i were an ant deemed to be crushed. She lurked in my mind and hid behind veils. She was the other. I feared her and I fear her still.

She is my Rebecca and oh do I love her dearly.