Excising love

Miserable, distraught, devastated, in pain,  
he thrashes the lines out of himself;

the blows mercilessly rain

n he flings himself ruthlessly

at his table, hopin to come alive again.

He tears out his innards - bloody grime -

and just places them there - the squishy pulp -

still attached to him with strands of slime;

too distraught to bother ‘bout

arranging them, to look for patterns, rhyme.

Disillusioned lovers, they say, are known to be

creatively mutilative;

most use it as the canvas, but he,

uses his body as the medium, hurtin, dying,

putting it all out thru poetry.

Red muscle, silvery tendons, and bones,

white n still moist, chopped up in dull thuds,

blotches of organs crushed by stone,

reticulated veins, mashed up nociceptors,

and the centrepiece: an intact eyeball alone.

He reaches for his nape,

grips the back bone, and rips it out

in one smooth lashing motion.

Sweeping a bloody curve above his head,

shattering it to bits on his table, and his notion

of love, even as he collapses, feelingless, for now.

colour

His last evening was a rather colourful one. Lying in bed, delusional from his illness and fever, he realized for the first time how green the door was. It was evening and the lamps outside had come on. The rich green paint on the open door reflected a burning orange lamp, one bright blur on each of the planks. The creases between the planks were drippin mercury, thin steel wires tapering on both ends.

The kerchief was gooey and stinking n so he decided to wash it. It was from a small shop at a small-town stop on a bus ride some time back; he’d liked the simple blue n the plain border. The sudden onset of the runnin nose had called it into service n it had deteriorated to this in a matter of days – just like his health, he thought.

This was its first wash and the moment it came in contact with water, it gave out a stream of blue – the dye, as if it’d bn dyin to get away all this while. It kept on n on bleeding blue, until it seemed it would be left bone white. N the color began to seep into everythin he looked at. The veins on the inside of his forearm seemed bluer, as did the tiled floor, going colder, his feet were speckled with blue n yet the inky blue kept flowing.

With the blue refusing to relent, he was contemplating a truce when suddenly he stood up and haiittschhhhh !!!, he sneezed, shooting a glob of snot at the floor. Before he could turn to the sink to wash, he felt liquid collect at the tip of his nose and looked down to see a big red drop fall. The floor was wet n the drop grew once it fell. Soon he was bleeding all over the place. The red n the blue mixing together.

That’s where they found him, on the tiled floor of his bathroom.

Rather pale.

on subjectivity

The method of direct observation plays a curious and unique role in the behavioral sciences. It is at once the necessary link between laboratory research and "real-world" behavior, and the bane of our aspirations for more accurate, more objective information about behavior.

- Jeanne Altmann, 1974

Concerned more with the methodology, she may not have had the problem of attributing intentions to the study animals in mind, but the quote works just as well for our purpose. I guess there is only so much objectivity you can get when collecting behaviour data, because to begin with, the observer has to be able to ‘see’ the act. Knowing, from its expressions, that a dog is curious is very different from say, seeing the colour red. Everyone (apologies to the colour-blind) can see red, but not everyone can interpret a dog’s expressions. And therein comes the subjectivity of a behavioural study; therein lie the specialization and the love of a behavioural ecologist.

so much for stimulus-response

Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.

-Isaac Asimov

He tried to read what it said at the back and the tetrapack fell from his hand; empty like. He was dressed in a normal formal pant-shirt with specs n a bag: thin, drab, bookish type. Self-concious – of his clean shoes n all – n just a little too loud. His friend, also sippin juice, was this balding, slightly older, slightly stouter guy. Phone in breast pocket, strap around the neck – u know the type. The tetrapack fell n he didn’t pick it up. Maybe the thought crossed his mind, but he just let it be.

“U think u’re sittin in a ****in dustbin!?!” i wanted to go shout “chuckin stuff around u like that!”

“But getting angry takes away the whole point of the exercise; u want him to realize it's wrong… right?” ishan’s golden words.

I was sitting glaring at him when page arrived with the bun-cheese-omelettes. I’d been waiting for the last 20 minutes: page’d bn in a meeting, not answering his phone, which must’ve been on silent; i’d thought he was asleep in his room. By the time i looked back, they’d left and the guy who helps around the canteen was taking away the plates and juice packs.

“so 10 k it is, rt?”, i started off our ongoing conservation; one has to be patient and persistent.

“but sartu, i can’t run man..”

“o’course u can”

“maybe i’ll just run the 5k n run it fast…”

He took the big ketchup sqeezy out of the bag, smiling. Now that was some forethought! Few things can cheer one up like a big bottle of ketchup.

…

“y’r u so fidgety puttar..?”,asked ishan as i randomly did some dips in between sets, exaggerating the motion.

“just contemplating the joys of running... n i had this epiphany t’day... but nevermind.”

“no no tell us, wat… ?” page joined in, finishing his 10 reps at the squat rack.

“well, there is joy in running, and i don’t wanna ruin it for myself by forcing u guys to run…”

“its just that we’re out of practice.. how bout 5k this time n there’s anyway the 10k next month; we can train for that..” the power of rationality, ishan’s forte.

Still hopping around, “many of us go thru life not realizing wat we are capable of, never realizing our potential…”

Books u’ve read give u the common background to place conservations in. Sam Fussel, the maniac “bodybuilder”, had introduced us to droppin gym lines, complete with the pause and all.

“…everyday, we must answer the one important question: (pause) whether u’re gonna be strong or a fuski.”

“puttar…”

…

So there we were, later that day, steadily pounding the tarmac, slowly challenging ourselves, seein how far we could go. Third day of running. 2, 4.5, n today 7k, with a day each to recover in between; n the day after was the great day: the 10 k.

We started real slow coz it was a big jump from 4.5; i had never, in my life, run that distance (5.6 was the max, that too when we were running regularly) n i wanted to make sure i finish. It was cool n rather dark already. As we approached 5, page took off; he’d run only 5 today. Me n ishan went steady, another small lap of 2 to go. A breeze had started up and we were running at a comfortable pace. For the last 2 k we decided to speed up a bit. I was thoroughly enjoyin myself, feeling liberated. Nothing could make me stop now. I felt like shouting, like smiling, like.. running.

There were a few people walking around, in twos n threes. We took a turn n there were these two guys walkin towards us. We were nearly abreast when i suddenly recognized them as the guys from the canteen. Before i knew what i was doin, i went crashing into the ‘litterin’ dude n sent him reeling. I’m afraid i very nearly knocked him over.

“SORRY” i shouted over my shoulder.

They were too stunned to react.

As was ishan.

Some things are damn hard to explain.

the fading raindrops

Blankly looking at the tall grass in the light drizzle, I spun my umbrella in my hand. The stem in my left, the handle in my right. When I looked down, it had left drops on the cemented path in overlapping straightish lines. The older ones left a bigger, vaguer wetness; the fresh ones, nice dark drops. The milky way. Fading into the distance. Fading at dawn. A double fade in space and time.

pink eyes

Slumped against the window,

head down, fast asleep in d cramped space.

Her paired pink hair clips like eyes

starin out the window, on a sad, hairy face.

start

"Well, that takes us back to the start..."

N with a start he said,

"But where did we start?"

a fresh start..?

Blah..!! No patience to finish wat i started. well, the trip was a lovely one. was reminded of it the other day, n from there of this unfinished blog. i guess picture blogs (esp. travelogues) are not my piece of cake. so off with it n guess that might just lemme write a bit..!