An encounter of the eighth kind

After a couple of hours of staring into a screen, I stepped out into the darkness that had fallen onto the road outside the lab. The road was wide, lit by sodium vapour lamps. They weren't enough to probe into pockets of darkness that hung beneath the trees. Well manicured grass stretched evenly from the illuminating haze into the darkness beneath the trees. The sky was clear. A thin crescent moon hung low in the sky; a face with a faint smile.

Under the tree, I saw a shape in the grass. It munched on the grass, in the cover of darkness. Shy animals by nature, the clever rabbit had found a safe dark clearing in a spot where two roads crossed and four lamps threateningly watched. People walked right by without noticing him. I biked right along him, too see what he looked like. He was shaped like a grey furry easter egg. His back was facing me but both his large ears followed me as I biked in an arc around him; like a radar antenna following a plane. I slowed down as I passed him; he gave me a sideward glance; not alarmed, but seemingly annoyed, "can't you see i am eating?" I apologized without saying a word and went on my way.

Further down the road, the lights had dissapeared. A large family was walking down the sidewalk with two of their dogs; enjoying the cool night. While one dog walked with the group the elder fellow took it upon himself to scout on ahead. I suppose it was route he knew well. I was biking a few feet behind him on the road while he trotted on ahead. A pedestrian crossing came along. He turned towards the road and looked the other way and then, saw me. He didn't expect to see me and was fully prepared to cross. As soon as he did see me, he stopped and looked at me, and smiled, "after you". I biked on ahead and turned back to see him cross, along a straight line, right in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.

In a couple of minutes, I was at a red light. Trucks and cars whizzed past me as I stood and wondered.

Is a blog is mightier than the sword ?

Reports are just pouring in. Judge for yourself - if a blog is mightier than the sword ?

Purdue Grad Student Charged with Making Threats Against President Bush:

http://purdueexponent.org/index.php/module/Issue/action/Article/article_id/3718
http://www.wishtv.com/Global/story.asp?S=4789271&nav=0Ra7

Suspect in Okla. Girl's Killing Had Written About Cannibalism in his blog:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/04/16/AR2006041600926.html

1 / 365

It comes once a year. Starts at 0:00. Wishes are made. Candles are blown. Midnight snack is smeared on faces. Phone calls pour in. Congratulations flood in. ISD calls are made. Greeting cards try and express blessings. The sun seems specially bright that day. Birds seem more chirpier. Gifts (need I mention free) are unwrapped. 11:59 rolls over and the party stops. Almost as if everything turned back into the pumpkin. The next 364 days seem to be clones. But isn't one of those 364 someone else's birthday / special day. "As if I care" / "Whatever", apart from eating that cake & for a few minutes, seems to be the unspoken thought of many in that 364X24 hours. Is there something wrong with this picture. Isnt today someone's birthday? Then why not feel that same special feeling even today. Why is the sun specially here for you today ?

What matters

A few days back, I was watching TV with my roommate. The anchor on the show that we were watching was interviewing an author, who had recently written a book on Manliness. Towards the end of his talk, the author remarked that the average American woman spent around one-third of her time at work and the remaining two-thirds at home and that was the way it should stay. My roommate, in his mid twenties and single, told me that it was indeed a good formula and that was the only way one could hold a family together.

The next day, I happened to talk to another friend of mine who told me that she was almost certain that her life after marriage would be void of any excitement and time for herself; the only thing she could look forward to was the mundane and a life characterized by the fulfilment of responsibilities, nothing more.

x------x

Thinking back, I don't remember which small town in South India I was in. I don't even remember why I was in that town or with whom I had journeyed there.

I remember that it was evening. The sun had gone down but there was still enough light. The street lights hadn't come on. I was sitting in a bus; a town bus; the name given to a bus that shuttles between towns. The bus was parked in a road side bus-stand. It wasn't full when I boarded it and it began to fill up with old men chewing pan, old women, a few hunch backed, hawkers, flower sellers and wage earners.

Amid the din, I saw a young couple climb up the steps into the bus. They appeared to be in their late twenties. I pictured the man as one who you would find working in a local textile mill, or in a shop, or as a carpenter. He came across as a person who would consider the acquisition of bicycle as a moment to remembered. He was dressed in a neatly ironed dull checked shirt and a dark trouser. On his chest he carried his sleeping child. The child would have been around three or four. His wife seemed to be dressed in her best sari. Bright, neat and immaculate. Her face was powdered with talcum and she wore a bright red pottu on her forehead. Being the end of the week, they might have been on their way to her parents' house in a nearby town or just visiting a bigger town for shopping. She seemed quite excited. She walked very close to her husband, very much like young lovers and newly weds do. Her husband wore a stoic expression on his face. It neither betrayed his worries or the happiness of being with his wife and child. They settled into a seat for two, with his wife taking the one by the window.

A flower seller walked past the bus and the wife commented that the flowers seemed very pretty. The husband asked her to hold onto the child and quickly darted out of the bus. His wife, holding on to her child, looked anxiously out of the window. He was back in a few moments with a large bunch of woven flowers in his hand. He knew how to part his wife's hair and place the flowers in them, just the way she liked them. She was holding onto her child and brimmed with contentment. He didn't say a word. He quietly took back the child, sat beside her and put it across his chest.

The conductor blew on the whistle. She was smiling and he had his stoic expression; they were happy. The bus rumbled forward.

Home

I have always believed home was something physical, an attribution to a physical place. A place where you felt at home; where you felt right; where physical space and meaning produced a sense of well-being.

Having left home for distant shores, i had forgotten how it felt. Last week, i felt it again. And it was not because i went home again. It was because i went to visit old friends of mine. Old as in a comfortable pair of old leather shoes.

It was then it struck me. Home is not a physical space. It is to do with people. People - bonded to you by blood or just passing by - create that special place; in the space around you and in your head.

To the people who did that for me, my gratitude.

A page from the tome of desire

10 miles had already past. my bottle of water had only a sip of gatorade left. the road ascended to the heavens ahead. i told myself i would reward myself with it once i am over it. the wild flowers i had picked only a couple of miles before had already wilted in my pocket, unable to take the heat. a pity, i thought.

i was over the hill. i lustily filled my mouth with the last drops of gatorade. a voice in my head told me, sip it slowly; let it slowly trickle down your parched throat. i gulped it all at once. my stomach groaned at the sudden sugar burst. my mouth went back to being dry in seconds. cars whizzed passed me. few motorists looked on curiously, at the flowers sticking out my pocket.

the road stretched on endlessly. the nearest gas station was atleast another twenty minutes of running. the sun was going down and a cool evening breeze had begun to blow. i had stopped sweating and the cool evening breeze wicked away the last traces of sweat from my body, leaving me in a ghostly white shroud of salt.

I was getting hungry. But the thirst was even greater. there were small ponds by the road. i was tempted to dip my empty bottle into them. a sprinkler in a nearby neighbourhood had given birth to a a small trickle of clear water that was flowing along the sidewalk. i almost did put my bottle to the ground to collect a mouthful of water. i decided not to. not because of a false sense of propriety; just didn't feel like it.

my mouth began to crave for a sip of gatorade. hunger was not far behind. my legs were tired and craving for energy. visions of chewy snickers bars and gooey peanuts being crunched on and coating every tatebud in my mouth began to drive me crazy. i saw a shell gas station a mile down the road. my body responded immediately. i grew light and i ran with a new spring in my step. i shot across the lights at the intersection and into the convenience store. i picked up the gatorade and hopped over to the candy section. my hands were almost trembling when i reached for the king size snickers peanut bar. i sauntered to the cashier and paid. i stepped out put the snickers bar in my pocket; anticipation to heighten the taste of pleasure. i greedily gulped on the cold gatorade. i drank till all traces of thirst were drowned. the snickers had waited enough. i pulled it out of my pocket, unwrapped and took a large hungry bite. it was everything i had expected it to be and so much more. fruitition at last. i kept at it, gobbling one sweet mouthful after another. it kept me company for another four miles. i put the last bite in my pocket; wanting to savour the precious last mouthful when i got home.

i got home with a raspy throat. the cold gatorade had deceived me. miniscule bits of peanuts trapped in my throat gave me no peace. my stomach reprimanded me for all that sugar.

a half empty bottle of gatorade and and the precious last piece of snickers lie on my table. i wonder, what manner of affliction caused so much longing? where is it now?

Desire and Despair of the Endless

Desire is of medium height. It is unlikely that
any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to
see her (or him) is to love him (or her), -
passionately, painfully, to the exclusion of all
else.

Desire smells almost subliminally of summer
peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and
sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever
wavering, like heat haze.

Desire smiles in brief flashes, like
sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is
much else that is knife-like about Desire.

Never a possession, always the possessor, with
skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and
sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you
have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever
you are.

Everything.


Despair, Desire's sister and twin, is queen of
her own bleak bourne. It is said that scattered
through Despair's domain are a multitude of tiny
windows, hanging in the void. Each window
looks out onto a different scene, being, in our
world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a
mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you,
feel her hook catch and snag your heart.

Her skin is cold and clammy; her eyes are the
colour of the sky, on the grey, wet days that leach
the world of colour and meaning; her voice is
little more than a whisper; and while she has no
odour, her shadow smells musky, and pungent,
like the skin of a snake.

Many years gone, a sect in what is now
Afghanistan declared her a goddess, and
proclaimed all empty rooms her sacred places.
The sect, whose members called themselves
The Unforgiven, persisted for two years, until its
last adherent finally killed himself, having
survived the other members by almost seven
months.

Despair says little, and is patient.

-- Neil Gaiman, Season of Mists, THE SANDMAN.