Dubliners by Night

I'd say it's been a really long while since I've felt like writing. I walked in with the Nappa Dori knock offs because they made me feel as confident as wearing the originals, and searched for him. He insisted he sat towards the right so my eyes searched, however all I saw were mirrors. Then he pulled aside a velvet maroon curtain and smiled at me. I followed him inside and sat at a table that had 2 pints of Guinness laid. I hadn't realised how perfect a start this had already been. Hi, I'm Jack; Jack from The Titanic. I made a small comment about something mundane and we both shared a short laugh that quickly turned into long threads of conversation that wove from one to the next as effortlessly as waves build up. We shared stories of riots, goof and pain and all of a sudden the hour hand had moved halfway across the clock and I had to remind myself to put on both my shoes, so he wouldn't have to come in search of me. But he insisted on sharing the walk back home and as we paused near the bridge and hugged farewell, two Dubliners shared an intimate moment. But she had to pull away for fear of giving away too much, and as she rushed up the stairs all he saw was a shy girl sprint away with a part of him. He ruffled his hair and walked back towards Rathfarnham.

Home away from home

I'd walk by the street of what used to be my city until a year ago with a sense that didn't match how I'd like to have felt. Now, a year down time I have a new place I call home. Every bar and pub down the street from home feels like a character come alive from a book. Each one draws me in with an impending sense of suspense. I know a story must be had from a visit to each; I find it extremely conflicting to choose which one I'd like to savour this day. Home feels like I'm alive in a Charles Dickens novel, but maybe I'll call out to Heaney soon enough.

A Place to Call Home

He cupped both hands for her to softly land on to; and then when she grew a couple of years wiser, the next time he came by he lifted her by her waist and perched her atop a boundary wall, making her heart swoop along with the rest of her. She made herself a home with many bodies; some were travel hostels, where the stay never lasted for over a night. Others came by as apartments rented out temporarily, tied with the knowledge of a moving out date. The search for her own home frequently yielded poor results. "You're a free spirit, I can't see you being tied down to one place", said one of those apartments. She wasn't sure how to respond, so she left this place soon enough and moved on to another. Maybe this new place might be home, the one that would tie her down without asking too many questions? So she sits down to read Rushdie, while nervously biting off dark chocolate in her ikat pajamas and sipping from a happy glass of red wine.

The Gift of A Young Deer 2/N

"I'd lie, but this wasn't how I planned to return", whispered Shai as he leapt across the suitcase to hold Oshin. Wiping Oshin's tears off with the back of one hand, Shai clutched on to Oshin's hand with his other and walked him to the divan. Sitting him down, he slowly let go of the hand he'd held and stepped towards the kitchenette. Pouring out two glasses of water he asked, "What brought you home this early?" Oshin still had no words, all stunned muscles and disconnected thought. Staring down at the Athangudi floor, he counted down from ten and stopped at two. Turning his glance towards the ceiling it struck him again. Weren't they supposed to change the fan overhead before the wires caved in and one of them fell victim? Shaking the thought of severed body parts off, he looked blankly at Shai who was dipping chamomile flowers into now warmed glasses of water. He always did these things that made Oshin feel helplessly dependent, limp and loved.

Shai lifted the tray and his eyes as he walked back towards the divan. "So, what brought you back?", ironical as this sounded coming from Shai. "The geyser was left powered, and I was out at Nagarjun's for lunch", said Oshin flatly as he itched his palm and lifted a glass. The creaking of the overhead fan only got louder with each passing minute. Shai began rattling off about how yet another auto guy refused to enter the lane outside as he claimed to 'know what happens inside the area'; the flip side of living in a sophisticated apartment amidst the silent roar of a red light district. Oshin felt like something inside him would explode any moment now and he wouldn't be able to hold it back. "I think I'm sick", he said as he got up to walk towards the loo. Shai jumped up to open the door and held Oshin's back up so that he could puke into the toilet bowl. "How many times have I told you to stop eating at that ramshackle of a place! This is possibly your fifth bout of food poisoning Oshin. Don't you think that it's about time you stopped?" Words didn't matter, if only he could actually muster up enough to actually let something out but it seemed impossible. He turned, ferret eyed and looked at Shai with a mix of fear and anger. "What brought YOU back?"

Shai let go of him and stepped out of the loo. While it was easy for the rest of the world to rely on him for all his wisdom and swift resolve, it came with a price tag of consequences. His hands clasped in a moment of guilt as he tried masking his sweating palms. With Oshin he'd always have to tread with a tad bit more care, for his emotions were more infantile than he led them to seem; it's what made him so appealing to Shai when they first met. Turning over he said, “I brought you some of our popping ice tea. Can I make you some while I tell you where I went?” (Oranges and lemons sold for a rupee, all the blue collars cashed in lucky)

The Gift of A Young Deer 1/N

The telephone rang in blips alongside the incessant patter of rain hitting the mill’s roof. When it stopped, there was still silence for about a second. It certainly wasn’t long before the general hum of the workplace began filtering in through his ears. Unstartled, he lifted his head to the smell of coffee wafting in from the south-west corridor: always an oxymoronic response to his caffeine intolerant self. A quick shudder ran down his spine as he awoke to the perpetually frigid state of his workplace. The body’s tendency to warm itself into a comfortable cocoon is what makes midday naps at work all the more cosy.

Turning to his wrist, Oshin smiled to himself; one o’ clock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. He would step out to buy himself some lunch. The aroma of spices mixing halfway through the air with freshly steamed rice is what made lunch feel like home in this city. A quickly pulled out chair with a nod signaling the regular order of natu kodi and puliogare rice was a regular afternoon. Gathering his post snooze thoughts, he realized he’d brushed aside the emotions tumbling in his stomach all week. Shai’s unexplained departure and the quiet of an empty house had left him with strangely vacant thoughts. No vacancy signs, smoky permit rooms, red lights, black, red, white. The steaming food arrived at his table as the wrestle amongst mental images continued. He gorged down both portions, leaving a hefty tip and stepped out for a quick drag off his last cigarette. (If two couldn’t be one and one didn’t want to be one, should one jump off a moving train?)

Shai did leave him a note, scribbled yet thought out. It wasn’t about the circumstances, it was just a matter of how he felt for him; and it wasn’t the same anymore. While speaking their minds to each other had only kept them together all this while, it felt like they were teenagers again with uncontrollable emotional surges. Shai’s new fetish wasn’t just that; she’d held his hand and spoken to him through the night with all electricity and no physical intimacy. Evidently, Shai wasn’t good with holding back details. Oshin tried remembering what it’d been like to try liking women, flirting with them. It wasn’t a familiar feeling, and didn’t quite feel electric. He then remembered Shai describing what it was like to have liked women. Their gentle gait, sultry voices, feline mannerisms and taut figures; and why it no longer felt relevant. He should’ve read the signs and tipped himself off right then. (Will you buy me a bottle of Prosecco, please?) Shai had now left for need of space and to figure it out for himself. He was the one who was certain that they should move in together when they’d (he’d?) made the decision. So it obviously made sense when he was also the first to leave. 

Oshin’s cigarette lasted him till this point of thought and now he was left disconcerted. He stepped away from the awning and walked out into the street. Hesitating for a split second, he turned the other way to trace his steps back home. He hadn’t turned off the geyser and no one at work would notice his absence halfway through the day. A brisk walk towards Jolly Heights was followed by hurried steps to the third floor. Hunting for his keys in the rear pocket, he brought his hand out to the lock and turned it to find the door already open. Pushing it slightly, he found an open suitcase splayed out in the living area with white shirts flowing out; only one person ever had a monochrome wardrobe. Shai had heard the door turn and walked out to find Oshin standing frozen with tears running down his round cheeks.

Spaces

I find it interesting how places can reshape and reinvent themselves, yet maintain that shroud of intrigue that drew you into its lair in the first place. Spaces often tend to do this, when they become too comfortable and familiar there rises an unsettling energy that forces its surroundings to transform for the sake of staying alive; an unsaid ultimatum that pushes it into a different form, a constantly changing beast that must morph to survive.

Mind Chatter

Look around you, no look up. What do you see? Actually, what aren't you seeing? Was that a bird flying past or just a projection of what your mind was racing past? If I were to ask you one question what would your answer to that be? I've lived a long and fulfilled life that had few takers and some givers who contributed to making it what it has become today. People narrate stories, some their own and some that belong to others. We treasure our chest of tales that nestle themselves on our tongues and run off into a single path as in the woods; one that's untreaded and then this monologue echoes into the far horizon from where another friendly folk picks up where you left off and narrates this mixed fabric that's sewn ever so slightly different from what you wore the previous day.