You, her, and the Author

You

What is it about anonymity? Is it the enigma, perhaps the challenge? You have heard things about her. You have heard that she drives away on her scooter after class hours and delivers to whoever orders. What she delivers, of course, is a mystery. It can’t be anything legal, though.

The scandal happened yesterday. She walked out of the restroom, looking a little flustered. She was holding a paper cutter, which you think is, obviously, a slightly strange item to be brandishing to a restroom. In a short while you found out what the scandal was. Everyone did. It was more than slightly strange, another addition to the list of oddities she held to her credit. She stabbed a boy from her class with a paper cutter. It was more than a little serious, enough to get him sent to the hospital. You’d think that he would do something about it, press charges, maybe? She stabbed him. That is definitely not something a normal person would do. Maybe it has something to do with what she delivers. In fact it probably does. The question is, what did he have to do with it? You know that he isn’t ... well, the type. He’s a nice, normal boy. You know you’ll find out when he comes back, but naturally, he didn’t come today. He will come tomorrow, and a little bit of the enigma will be removed. She hasn’t come to class today, either. Maybe she’s afraid. People are probably looking for her. It is a little exciting though, you admit. So far, it has only added to the enigma.

You hear that a couple of girls from her class went to talk to her at her house. You wonder what that achieved. Maybe something, maybe nothing. From what you hear though, she admitted she’d stabbed him. She didn’t apologise though. She didn’t explain. She expressed absolutely no remorse. 

Tomorrow they will come back to class. When she comes back, everyone will look at her accusingly, while she goes on walking, or drawing, or reading her book. She will look at the world nonchalantly, and run her slim fingers through her hair expressionlessly. He will come back, holding his injured arm delicately, glancing around nervously, his expression begging everyone not to ask, and when they do, he will answer evasively, going about sculpting his little ceramic bust as best as he can with one semi –dysfunctional arm.

Then, someone will see them exchange a secret smile in the library while he mouths, “Thanks for not bringing it up,” to her, and she will say “and thanks for not saying anything either” in a soft whisper, but loud enough for that someone else to hear.

All this will do is increase the anonymity and the challenge, and add some enigma to this otherwise normal boy.

Her

What I do every day is I attend class, I have lunch, I drive to the bookstore to do my shift. It’s pretty mundane actually. Except Friday nights, or sometimes when I go to Savera after class.

What happened yesterday is why everyone came over to my house today, to “talk to me.”

What happened yesterday is, I was in the college loo, in the morning. My hair had been getting in my face. So I decided to cut some of it off. Which would have been fine, but I was cutting it in front of the mirror, and this boy walked in. Firstly, I was embarrassed; I didn’t want him- actually anyone- to see me cutting my hair in the college loo. Anyway everyone thinks I’m weird. And then he was obviously kind of taken aback or whatever too, and what with the loos being so small I ended up bumping into him, because I tried to make for the door to leave quickly. Well when I bumped into him I was holding the cutter – it was my good cutter, the big thick one- and it kind of bumped right into his arm. Which meant I’d accidentally stabbed him. So, it was just this accident that happened. Besides, it was his fault too, because he shouldn’t have been in the women’s at all. Anyway so I just kind of hurt him more trying to get the paper cutter out, it was pretty bad, and I yelled at him asking him what the hell he was doing in the women’s, and he was crying and he said he didn’t realise and he then he began to beg me to just go away and not tell anyone this happened, and he was crying too, so I just left.

It was really weird because he was hurt kind of badly and I felt messed up about it, so I went home. Then all these people came and I don’t know what in the world they thought, because they were like “You know, this is pretty serious, everyone’s shocked that you stabbed someone and all, and this could get pretty serious” and all of that. Anyway, I’d told that boy I wouldn’t say, and besides I think I would come off as pretty stupid too, I guess. So I just kept quiet.

When we went back obviously everyone was wondering what happened, but no one asked, thank God. Anyway I met him later in the library and he said thanks, so I said thanks too, for not saying anything.

That was basically what happened, not that it particularly matters, but it wasn’t mundane, like mostly everything else, you know?

The Author

I think she knows that everyone thinks of her the way they do, with intrigue, but she’s too afraid to say it aloud even in her mind, because she’s afraid that it might be untrue. She wants it to be true. She looks like anyone else, but its only accumulated incidents that make you think of her as an enigma, like the one that happened yesterday, and other random happenings of a varied nature.

Of course, she’s always working a lot on whims, why would she cut her hair in the middle of the day? She could have waited, but she didn’t. She had it coming I suppose. She seemed very dazed when the whole incident happened, and her face looked positively tragic. She still seems dazed when her friends visit her now. The reason why she isn’t telling them is, of course, that she is embarrassed but it’s also that she knows it will only make everyone wonder.  She talks to everyone lying down on her bed, and it’s true, she looks a little flustered. 

When she goes back to class, she walks around like she hasn’t a care in the world, but I know she is acutely aware of everyone wondering what happened. Later when she meets the boy, she will look a little flushed; you will see the embarrassment and the gratitude in that flush on her face. Of course, all said and done, she will be glad that something out of the ordinary has happened. She always is when these incidences occur.

The alternate Snow White

Once upon a time in midwinter, a queen sat sewing by her window sill. As she sewed, rather distractedly, watching the snowflakes fall like feathers from heaven, she pricked her finger on the needle. A single drop of blood fell onto the snow. Just as this drop of blood fell, she wished that her first child would be born to be the wisest of all in the seven kingdoms.

Soon afterward, a daughter was born to the queen. Since her skin was white as snow, they called her Snow White. As soon as the child was born, the queen died.

A year later, the king remarried. The new queen, though extremely beautiful, was also very proud and arrogant. She could not stand it if anyone surpassed her in beauty, so much so, that she had a magic mirror,, telling her of her beauty. Every morning, she would ask the mirror

“O mirror on the wall,

Who in this land is fairest of all?”

To which the mirror would answer

“O Queen, you are the fairest of them all,”

much to the satisfaction of the queen, who knew that the mirror was enchanted to tell only the truth.

The years passed and Snow White grew to be wiser every day. She grew to be so wise, that even as a child her words would have everyone spellbound, completely unable to look away.

One day the queen, upon asking the mirror her usual question, found that she was not satisfied by its answer. She found that despite being the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, it was Snow White that everyone adored. When they sat in the palace gardens, everyone looked at Snow White, when they stepped out of the palace, the people spoke only of Snow White. When the queen saw the little girl, she became yellow and green with envy. From that hour on whenever she looked at Snow White her heart turned over inside her body, so great was her hatred for the girl. The envy and pride grew ever greater, like a weed in her heart, until she had no peace day and night.

She decided that she must get rid of Snow White once and for all. She summoned a huntsman and told him that he must take Snow White out into the woods and kill her. As proof of his deed he must bring backSnow White’s heart and liver.

However Snow White was not oblivious to her step mothers pride and jealousy. So at dusk when the huntsman told her that he would take her out into the forest to play, she immediately thought of her step mother. When she saw the huntsman sharpening his knife, she knew that she was in danger, for he would not need his knife if they were going out to play.

She ran into the forest surrounding the castle. She was all alone, and terribly afraid, but she ran as far as she could. Just as she began to feel like she would collapse, she noticed a little cottage. She walked into the little shelter hoping to get some rest. All the things in the house were small and very neat. At the table there were seven plates and seven mugs, seven forks and spoons all neatly laid out. She went into the kitchen and found a little to eat, and then went and hid away, not knowing who might live in the house, and if they would be friend or foe.

Sometime later, seven little dwarfs came into the house. Revealing herself, she told them eloquently of what had happened, and how she had escaped from the cruel fate that surely awaited her. She begged they have mercy and be kind, and such was her power of convincing that they readily took her in.

In the meanwhile, the huntsman, realising that Snow White had run away, killed a boar and presented its heart and liver to the queen. The cook had to boil them so that the wicked woman could eat them, but upon tasting them, she knew immediately that she had been deceived. Looking upon her magic mirror she asked it where she might find Snow White.

She thought, and thought again, of how she might kill Snow White, who she knew, with her beautiful words and charm would let the envious queen have no rest.

Finally the queen thought of something. Disguising herself as an old peddler woman, so that no one would recognize her, she went to the house of the seven dwarfs. Knocking on the door she called out, “Beautiful wares for sale, for sale!”

Snow White peered out of the window, asking “Good day woman, what have you for sale?”

“Good wares, beautiful wares,” she answered. “Bodice laces in all colours.” And she took out one that was braided from colourful silk. “Would you like this one?”

Snow White thought she could let this good woman in, but only briefly, for her good sense told her that no peddler woman would come selling bodice laces so far into the forest. She bid the peddler goodbye, saying she had no need for such fanciful articles in this forest. The queen, in the guise of a peddler, did not know what to do, since Snow white would not let her in. Though she burned with rage, she decided to keep her patience.

Again, she disguised herself as a peddler woman, keeping amongst her wares a poisoned comb. She knocked on the door of the dwarfs’ cottage, calling out “Wares for sale, for sale.”

Snow White, once again, peered out the window. Seeing the peddler again, she was less suspicious, but still, would not open the window. “What have you for sale, good woman?” she asked. “Good wares, useful wares,” asked the queen, cunningly. “Look at this comb,” she said, citing its usefulness. Snow White stretched her arm out to receive the comb, but seeing how the teeth of the comb glistened, she asked the woman to display its effects on her own hair first. Upon hearing this, the queen, knowing the comb was poisoned, with a speedy trick changed the comb for another before running it through her own hair. Alas for the queen, it was this comb that Snow White bought, and once again her plan was foiled.

The Queen was absolutely furious, and began once again to plot against Snow White. This time she came up with an infallible plan. With her magic, she created an apple, half of which was poisoned, and the other half was completely edible.

In the meanwhile, a handsome young prince heard of Snow White and her wisdom. He searched far and wide, and finally came to the dwarfs’ cottage in the forest. Upon meeting her, he explained to her his dilemma. He had, upon the wishes of his father, the king, gone away for some years to vanquish an evil dragon that had been destroying the kingdom. While he was gone, his Godless younger brother had imprisoned his father and announced himself king.

Snow White, out of empathy for the prince agreed to help him. She promised him she would draw a perfect plan to defeat the evil brother. However, before giving him her word, she extracted from him a promise that, in return, he would give her an army to win back her own kingdom.

In the Royal Palace, the Queen, in the meanwhile, was still planning Snow White’s fall. She, once again dressed as a peddler selling apples, and made her way to the dwarfs’ cottage.

When she reached, once again, she called out her wares. However, Snow White had gone into the forest to collect some herbs, and it was the prince that answered. He too, having been warned by Snow White, did not let the door open to the peddler queen.  It was by this chance, that the queen unknowingly handed the poisoned half of the apple to the prince. The prince, tempted by the beauty of the fruit, took a bite, and immediately fell dead on the ground. The Queen, not knowing that it was the prince she had poisoned, left in great joy.

Snow White, when she returned, found the prince’s lifeless form on the ground. Unable to fathom what had transpired in her absence, she was overcome with sorrow. With some effort she tried to lift him onto one of the seven little beds. As she did this, the piece of apple that he had swallowed dislodged from his throat and he spluttered back to life.

A few months passed, and they planned, steadily.

Then one day, together, they declared war upon the Prince’s brother. With Snow White’s meticulous strategy, they managed to defeat the Prince’s Godless brother. True to his word, the Prince then gave Snow White an army.

When the last battle was won, and the queen saw Snow White standing before her, leading her army of ten thousand men, she fell to the ground, made unconscious by utter shock. Snow White took back her kingdom, much to the joy of the people. She married the handsome prince whose kingdom she had saved, and they lived happily ever after. 

The Nighthawks

“It was around 7 in the evening, that evening, and we were sitting in Phillies bar. There was another man there; and Bill, of course. The other man’s hat was pulled across his face, kinda shady if you ask me.”

“What evening Margaret?”

“Huh?”             

“You said that evening. What evening?”

“Oh. Alright. The evening when I locked up the library earlier than I should have- You remember?! You told me not to! That day- that day-” she stops short, gasping. “Well. So we just sitting there, and this lady walks in, fully dressed, but sopping wet. She walks in and sits down, hard, right next to me. Then she says something, kind of crazy, like about a chessboard, the world being this chessboard. We just pieces, and we go back in the closet one by one, while bigger hands play the game- I didn't get it! I didn't get it, not then. She kept saying that, and it’s as if Bill and Murray and that other man couldn't even hear her. They go on drinkin’ their coffees and their beers like nothin’s happening. Then, she gets up and leaves, and I say ‘Murray honey, what a creep, don’t ya think?’ and he doesn’t know who or what I’m talking about. “

I let her gather her breath. She’s shaking. I give her some more coffee.

“Well that night, I wake up shakin’, cause I can hear her. I can hear the lady telling me I’m alone and  I can’t trust no one anyway, and she starts filling my pockets with stones. She tells me it’s not worth it.”

I can’t gather what’s going on now, so I just wait.

She goes on: “And then, that night I started walking and I walked to the river.”

I decide to go get the doctor. Just as I walk out the door I meet Murray, looking scared as hell. He tells me they found Margaret drowned this morning. I don’t know what to say. I just spoke to her.

What we don’t know yet is, Margaret’s walking to Phillies right now, and she’s sopping wet.  

Illicit Activity Outside the door to Narnia

The office is white, stark, stylish, like no nonsense can ever go on here.

And that might be why two girls are hiding under a desk, white, stark as the office. It might, just.

There’s scuffling, and occasional sighs, very warm.  Giggles. Very inappropriate mumbling, effervescent, light, bubbling, rising up to the ceiling in escalating excitement. Two little girls playing hide and seek, breaking buttons, knocking their heads against the table top, their colourful socks’ seams coming loose, giggling uncontrollably. One bites the others ear and the other swats her away, with bright, fluorescent coloured giggles.

But they hush now; a man is walking into the room.  Bright yellow shirt, pink tie, just the right baby pink beret perched on his head at the perfect angle and an absolutely straight face wearing the funkiest Black glasses you ever saw. Just the kind of person you would expect to see in a perfectly styled, white as snow, always in season Prada office.

One of the girls is suppressing a laugh, and the other is trying to suppress her some more, hand on mouth, almost unable to stop giggling herself. They keep hiding, each in turn silently shushing the other, long, lithe limbs entangled. Their hearts sound like an elephant rampage, beating nervously, excitedly, against respective ribcages, close together. Quiet, hush, they murmur alternatively, unable to wipe off glowing adolescent smiles from their faces.

The man is carrying a huge rolled up sheet. He walks very decidedly to the centre of the room, where he unrolls the sheet. He seems completely unaware that he isn’t alone. It is the life size image of a white house with blue doors and windows. It covers up the whole floor of the huge white room that they are all in.

Then he walks to the table, as if he knew that they were there all along. The girls can hear approaching footsteps, their smiles are fading, panic stricken expressions replacing them. He drags the girls out by the scruffs of their collars to the centre of the room, bending down. He opens the blue paper door on the blown up poster of the white house, and pushes them in.

They stare, as though their minds are about to explode, at Narnia. 

On a warm, warm Indian night we lie awake

Its a narrow night, squeezed between a long day and an early sunrise, thinks the little girl in the house next door. She thinks of the story she’ll write tomorrow and how its going to be funny, and everything will be just the way she wants it, it’s her story, after all.

Then she remembers, vaguely, a song that the boy in the corner of her class had told her about. He’d asked her, evidently apprehensive, did she like music. Well, of course she did, it was MUSIC! Who didn't like music?! Well, his brother didn't  he liked ... Well, the boy wasn't sure what his brother liked. She had looked shocked, verging on appalled. A few girls from their class were also going the same way; they tittered, at a distance. She didn't like these girls, she said, he murmured a subtle agreement (maybe) and they’d moved away. Then he’d shyly told her about a song by ‘Porcupine Tree.’ She’d listen to it, ‘Porcupine tree’ sounded funny though, she laughed out to him. Ears red, he volunteered his ipod. She listened to it, it wasn't like much she had heard before, it was true, she glanced at him three minutes into the song. Two and a half minutes later, she gave him her verdict. She liked it. It was cool.

It hadn't been like anything she had heard, and she had downloaded it as soon as she got home.

Now, lying in the dark of this narrow night, she thinks of how she had thought of smoke, of feet slowly climbing creaky stairs and alien orbs in the night sky, and she isn't so sure. Maybe the story isn't her own after all. Maybe it’s all charted in a master tape. She realises she isn't being very coherent and exhales slowwwly. It’s a very hot night; the AC needs to be turned up.

She feels sleepy, but not.

The boy from the corner of her class remembers the journey home today very clearly. He’d had an ice cream afterwards, but his brother hadn't waited for him. He said he had ‘stuff to do’. His brother always turns the AC up too high, like now, and now the boy is shivering under the sheets, acutely aware of pages turned sharply every time the preceding numerical is solved. It’s a whip crack, he thinks. Every fucking page turned is a whip crack. He notes the expletive in his head and realises he’s getting annoyed. He turns violently, making his brother note his annoyance.

His brother turns a page louder this time. Him, and that stupid guitar, that could never wait, so why should his studying wait? Even Mumma would agree. He smiles, pleased at his wise conclusion. He turns to the next page.

He knows Mumma agrees because she has always said so. Always said that it is so lovely to see his hard work, to see the results every month, and Mumma is sure he will get into the top three IITs at least. Shuruthi Aunty thinks so too. In fact they all do, all the uncles too. He’s a very hardworking boy, they’d expressed, this last Deepawali.

The boy from the corner of her class is annoyed by Shuruthi Aunty every morning when he goes to school. She watches him every morning. She watches him LIKE A HAWK, she thinks, it pleases her to watch her neighbours like a hawk, she knows things about them, then. She believes in BEING AWARE. She likes to be aware of that girl in the next building, the one who comes home only for vacations and wears much too much kohl. That girl is so vain, she likes being pretty, Shuruthi Aunty always told her maid, when she saw the girl leaving the compound gates. It is NOT SAFE, this liking being pretty, she thinks. She believes in being safe. Her like for being aware has something to do with her dislike for being unsafe, she has always said. She stands, every morning, at her balcony, being aware, making her maid as aware as she is.

This is because she likes being safe.

The maid is having a hard time falling asleep tonight. She has thoughts of her two little children, left behind in the village. It must be cooler there. It never gets this hot there. She wonders what they ate tonight. She thinks and thinks of them, unable to stop thinking. There are too many mosquitoes tonight. She feels like they will eat her alive. She wonders if the children are bothered by mosquitoes every night, and a sudden fear grips her. She creeps out onto the balcony, she will ask didi if she can talk to her children tomorrow. She hopes they won’t contract malaria. A few more months and she can go home. She stares out onto the road, thinking of all the names of all the neighbours that she can’t remember, for a brief moment, before she goes back to worrying about her two little children.

 It’s a narrow night, squeezed between two very long days, the little girl from next door thinks. She nods her head to the implacable beat of a beautiful, unusual song, where there seem to be three separate beats, and she can choose any one. She can almost feel them, the metallic tones. She nods her head, but she isn’t really nodding, she only thinks she’s nodding. She thinks that she is falling asleep, and it’s such a warm, balmy night. She likes the word ‘balmy’. It’s a good word.

The boy from the corner of her class wakes up very groggy next morning, thinking, as usual, of excuses not to wake up, listing them in his head, while Shuruthi Aunty watches from the balcony, the street, and the sandwich that the maid is packing for her son. She’s being aware. She’s always on top of everything. She’s telling the maid there were so many mosquitoes last night. In fact, there were so many mosquitoes last night, that the family next door, they lit a mosquito coil in their daughter’s bedroom, you know, to kill the mosquitoes.

They lit the coil, and the daughter asphyxiated and died. In fact, it just happened an hour ago.  It was so sad, really, she went on, the girl next door, so young, too. She shook her head. The maid had packed the sandwich, and Shuruthi Aunty went down to drop her son off at the compound gate. She saw a neighbour on her way back up, and shared the news about the girl next door. Really Shuruthi, how did you find out so soon, said the neighbour. It really was too sad, it was agreed. 

The Unborn Child

Blank screen, blank page, blank verse. You shut your notebook with a contented sigh.  You pull at your hair sometimes, in the hope that it will grow longer, but mother says it never will. You write for her, sometimes, for mum. You always showed her your writing, even as a child. She’s beautiful, you’ve heard everyone say, and you agree completely. You wrote about it, long ago. You wrote about it recently, too. She looked so pretty from where you were sitting, at her feet, in the grass. The sky was so blue. Like a thousand diamonds sparkling in the sun. It made you think of a song.

You write about music sometimes. You tried to play the flute once, but when you blew into it, it caught fire. You dropped it; the flames had nearly singed your hair. You had been shocked, nearly bursting into tears. Later, when you calmed down, you watched the fire sing. The flute had never sounded better. You remember the strains fading into the night. It makes you mellow even now. Mother said you had found a new way of making music, you had clapped your hands in excitement.

Blank verse always captivated you. Blank pages made you want to write, and blank screens made you want to break them with the neat swipe of a baseball bat. No one likes a mess, you have been taught, and neither do you. You clean up the pieces when the screen shatters. Each piece is very beautiful. They reflect your eyes. They reflect the sky behind your eyes, and the trees.

Its the season for the trees to shed their leaves now, and each purple layer of skin falls onto your head, into your palms, onto the ground. It doesn’t rain, it only ever sheds leaves here, the seasons work like that, mother had said. You wrote about that. About leaf shedding.

It was shedding leaves when the sky cracked open, and you are just shutting your notebook. The last thing you see is the sky crack open. 

Welcome Strangers, Legends, Martyrs, Painters, Pipers, Prisoners

“I’ll be the girl who can’t be moved,” she said, adamantly. Then we laughed and I tried to bribe her. I told her I’d buy the dress. She got up immediately, and we left. “You only want to see me in the dress because it’s skanky,” I laughed. We laughed. Then we played in the video game arcade, and half an hour later, it was time to leave.

Two days later we talked on the phone. I wasn’t sure, I told her, about where I should start. I was confused. I really didn’t know where to start, at the beginning or at the end. We were talking about my paintings. “It was funny wasn’t it, when that woman was all, beta, are you done with the machine, and some other guy had already taken it?” Ten minutes later we were talking about two days ago. I watched the fan spin around and round on the ceiling, from the ceiling, really soon, with the ceiling. It seemed to slow down.

Suddenly I felt like screaming, tearing the roof down with the ceiling, because of my screaming. The hands on the clock seemed to slow down. I felt like the painting on the walls weren’t my own. The voice that was talking now, echoing in my room, was not my own. The friend on the other end of the line, was not my friend. All of it belonged to someone else.

“I’m sorry. I … tuned out, I think.”

I put down the phone in what felt, suddenly, like despair.

This is where I sort of left off, once, very long ago, and here I shall resume, because it is time.