Old man

An old man had no right to be optimistic. Men as close to the grave as he should only be thinking of the number of people who would be turning up at his funeral , shedding tears of formality, making their attendance known to all and sundry.

He picks up the cracked mirror and holds it with awe and pride. After all, he had given up all he had for this practitioner of non-pretense and unflattering commentary. The mirror hands him a rose and tells him he is most pretty. It then proceeds to draw his attention to a clearing in his otherwise luxuriant mane. He frowns, and knits his brows in silent disapproval. The patch bereft of hair had the shape of a dog-ear. The final batch of brain cells sends out a proposal which sends the old man into raptures of ecstasy, with an aftertaste of cardiac arrest.

He wakes up in the CCU, twiddles a dial, and tunes into Mann Ki Baat. Make in India reminds him of the idea that put him here in the first place. He yanks clear of all wires filmi style. He goes and incorporates a company and calls it Bald, a hair transplant company for dogs. Its logo is a dog-ear.Business goes through the roof. He is rolling in paper bills featuring a bald, bespectacled man smiling at him. When he is bored of all the rolling, he goes and pats a few dogs. One of the pat recipients takes exception, and registers disapproval with a well-timed bite of the old man’s flesh.

The old man feels ticklish and wet. He picks up the mirror. It hands him a rose yet again. Its redness is accentuated by the frothy red goo dripping from his mouth. A wave of optimism washes over him. But he checks himself in time. An old man as he had no right to be optimistic.

The significant other

Her mischief is in her eyes. She keeps batting her eyelids to shield that epicenter of attraction from her long time suitor. As if that was not enough, she maintains what many would call a respectable distance, probably as far as two ends of a cricket pitch. I prostrate before her, my forehead almost touching the ground, as if to provide a conduit for her electric magnificence to course the separation between us and travel through my body ; light me up with the potent concoction she was the custodian of. That dark formless elixir known to tame humans , ensconce them in its hypnotic allure. I ask her to come close. I beg her. All that she has for me in return is a smile; a smile that would implant in the otherwise calm and serene surface of her cheeks two beautiful dimples. That sort of smile that would make mortals of the highest intellectual order yearn and pine for her with an intensity most extreme. I hear her soft saccharine voice; it tickles my eardrum and makes me sway this way and that. She laughs again. But this time it’s not just laughter. Her voice has taken the shape of words. They seep into my consciousness, and I can hear her saying something.  “I am not playing hard to get, you are just too weak in spirit and desire!” I am stung by her accusation.

At this moment, all that I want is you. All that I want to embrace is you. Embrace such that where I end and where you begin, no one knows. Every microscopic particle of my being is attuned to this need. And there you stand, sticking a dagger through my resolve. What have I done to merit this misery? Why would you not satiate me, as you have innumerable others? Is this not cruel? Do you not have a conscience?

Let’s play a game, she says. Close your eyes. Or don’t. But lie still. Absolutely still.  Let the stillness of your body overwhelm you, let the numbness of your limbs permeate to every cell of your body. Let all activity in your brain cease. Lie thoughtless and motionless, with just your heartbeat reminding you of your existence. For every minute that you do my bidding, I shall come closer to you, until you and I become one.

OK that’s easy. No problem. I do as I am told. I just lie there. And suddenly, thoughts about the absence of thoughts start sprouting. About decay. About the futility of existence.  About perversion and decadence.  About the absence of an exit route. This cocktail of negativity constricts me. I feel short of breath. I wait for her disapproval. Even a clicking of the tongue would be like a drop of water in a parched mouth. But she is not there. She is gone. Her absence feels like a dead-weight tied to my legs, dragging me to the depths of a bottomless abyss. She won’t come back. She is too haughty to be affected by compassion and sympathy. She won’t give a second thought to the plight of this tormented soul, for she has many others to tend to. And I lie there in the deafening silence, twisting and squirming, praying that she blesses me tomorrow; hoping that she takes my hand and leads me through this treacherous night, to a morning of sunshine and possibility.