Who died? Sunk in the cold waters, pebble in the coat pocket. Virginia Woolf? Clarissa Dalloway? Septimus Smith? Richard Brown? Richard Cory?
“…and put a bullet through his head.”
Richard Cory, he had a gun in his hand. The perfect gentleman, the perfect good morning, till, he put a bullet through his head.
Wish I had a gun.
Open my brains, seek out my mind, wretch out the grapes, the cauliflower from the mental fruit basket, and close the lid again, the lid kissing the basket rim, two empty mouths meeting.
But “I prefer men to cauliflowers”. Men, cauliflowers, inedible, edible, hard, soft.
Wish I had a gun, like Richard Cory. But no, I won’t pull the trigger. It’s infinitely better to live.
Cauliflowers, men, soft, hard.
Maybe I want to pull the trigger after all. I open my eyes. The stone is slowly sinking in the cold waters, blue, dark. No. No gun, no bullet. Who knows what’s behind the bullet.
The grapes are still outside, or was it the cauliflowers? I said I would buy the grapes myself, the cauliflowers myself, the men myself.
Stomach touching the white sheets, mouth open, soft noise emerging from it, head on the pillow, enclosed in a mosquito net. It rained. It’s a dark night.
08-01-09
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label navel gazing. Show all posts
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
NEXT IS WAT?
It’s that time of the year again. It is that damn blasted time when everyone seems to be part of a conspiracy in nagging you with the same question- “What next? Or what will you do after this?” It is a very pertinent question, but unsettling nevertheless. And the answer isn’t easy. Well how could it be when even Samsung and Aamir Khan ask Next is Wat?
Jokes apart, this is a very serious issue. It causes not only weight and appetite loss, but also immense tension. The mind is engaged in a tug of war with not two but a dozen teams simultaneously. Sleepless nights follow and the dark circles forget to vacate. It is not a healthy trend.
I thought I had got rid of it when I graduated, especially when I entered an M.A. programme. With a great sense of relief I thought I would be secure for two years, but the expiry date of security is ending, and I’m panicking.
Solutions are not easy to come by, especially not when people pretend to be helpful by giving advice, for it is the only free thing on earth (damn the phrase there is no free lunch). So advice comes in various forms. “So you’ll do an MPhil?” Or, even better, “You’ll go in for a PhD then.” I say- well I wish I could have said it but I didn’t owing to years of being taught not to talk back- give me an exciting research proposal and I’ll apply today.
Research topics don’t fall out of the sky. After years of schooling in Romantic and Victorian literature, it is unsettling to be exposed to literary theory, eco-criticism which negates a lot of what Wordsworth wrote, post-colonialism, post-modernism, and the delightfully difficult gender studies. That’s when all the old ideas and interests vanish into the air and one is thrown into a sea of ideas which are new to you but old to the world. Research in literature is out, cultural studies is in. So are gender studies and media studies. But pray, (see the influence) what is Cultural Studies? And hasn’t a lot been written about it already? No one said research was easy. I should have known that before straying in to the M.A. programme. But it is too late now.
Well, I yet don’t have an answer. This has just helped me vomit the anxiety. The solution will take awhile. Till then keep watching this space.
Jokes apart, this is a very serious issue. It causes not only weight and appetite loss, but also immense tension. The mind is engaged in a tug of war with not two but a dozen teams simultaneously. Sleepless nights follow and the dark circles forget to vacate. It is not a healthy trend.
I thought I had got rid of it when I graduated, especially when I entered an M.A. programme. With a great sense of relief I thought I would be secure for two years, but the expiry date of security is ending, and I’m panicking.
Solutions are not easy to come by, especially not when people pretend to be helpful by giving advice, for it is the only free thing on earth (damn the phrase there is no free lunch). So advice comes in various forms. “So you’ll do an MPhil?” Or, even better, “You’ll go in for a PhD then.” I say- well I wish I could have said it but I didn’t owing to years of being taught not to talk back- give me an exciting research proposal and I’ll apply today.
Research topics don’t fall out of the sky. After years of schooling in Romantic and Victorian literature, it is unsettling to be exposed to literary theory, eco-criticism which negates a lot of what Wordsworth wrote, post-colonialism, post-modernism, and the delightfully difficult gender studies. That’s when all the old ideas and interests vanish into the air and one is thrown into a sea of ideas which are new to you but old to the world. Research in literature is out, cultural studies is in. So are gender studies and media studies. But pray, (see the influence) what is Cultural Studies? And hasn’t a lot been written about it already? No one said research was easy. I should have known that before straying in to the M.A. programme. But it is too late now.
Well, I yet don’t have an answer. This has just helped me vomit the anxiety. The solution will take awhile. Till then keep watching this space.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
SILENT SCREAM
The two screams clashed
exchanged swords.
Looking straight ahead,
Quiet, hollow-eyed.
The black and white gymnasts
Jumped, tumbled,
Got mixed up,
Till it became a deathless lull.
Escape, run-
The feet were rooted,
The chair was floored,
Thirty five prisoners.
The familiar, back to
The familiar.
A panting, an urge,
Wanting to get inside:
Inside, inside- outside.
The quiet eyes longed,
Hollow, behind the retina
The longing, the reaching,
Miles away.
23-10-2008
exchanged swords.
Looking straight ahead,
Quiet, hollow-eyed.
The black and white gymnasts
Jumped, tumbled,
Got mixed up,
Till it became a deathless lull.
Escape, run-
The feet were rooted,
The chair was floored,
Thirty five prisoners.
The familiar, back to
The familiar.
A panting, an urge,
Wanting to get inside:
Inside, inside- outside.
The quiet eyes longed,
Hollow, behind the retina
The longing, the reaching,
Miles away.
23-10-2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
DEATH OF A COCKROACH
Women act when men are asleep. I killed a big cockroach when the household slept.
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
He (according to me all cockroaches are male, there’s no logic to it) was waiting for me at my bedside as I prepared to retire for the day. He is the guy who waits until dark to spread his little legs and scuffle around, antennas quivering in the air and scaring the daylights out of any woman.
The moment I spotted him, I climbed onto the safety of my bed, while my mind raced for a solution. But there was only one, kill the little ‘devil’ myself. Courage comes not from protection but from being alone in a dire situation. I stealthily removed my slippers, keeping an eye on him. Raising a slipper high above my head I attacked, throwing the footwear hard on the unsuspecting cockroach’s back. That was a moment of pure guerrilla warfare. Not sure whether the enemy was dead or not, I hit again. Eureka. His life had flown.
The dead body had to be removed from the scene of crime. Picking him up on a sheet of newspaper was an option. But I hesitated. The antennae seemed to quiver. Was I being delusional? Had a leg moved? Maybe keeping the chap at an arm’s length might do the trick. I stole down to the back of the kitchen to fetch the broom. The cockroach was in the same position as I had left him. Keeping a safe distance I pushed him out of my room into the corridor. Should I leave him there for the others to discover in the morning? It was not a particularly bright idea.
I decided to play a game. Using the broom as a hockey stick and the dead insect as a ball, I dribbled him down the corridor, into my parents’ room till the French window. What joy to play the national game after so long! But my delight was short lived. My little game had breathed life into that blasted demon.
Uttering a war cry I beat on him with the broom repeatedly, each time gaining more strength and courage. And I had a cheerleader. My mother awoke and was encouraging from the rings. Shouting to keep up my morale, I finally flung him out of the balcony and onto the street. Triumph was written all over my face.
But my father slept soundly throughout the battle. I guess I would have never murdered that cockroach had he been awake.
21-09-08
Friday, August 15, 2008
CHASING MOMMA
Momma Sea is acting difficult nowadays. She’s getting more illusive by the day, and today, well, she took me for a nasty joyride.
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Momma had always been there for me during my childhood. My best moments were spent frolicking in the salt water, swimming vigorously towards the large waves only to dive inside their belly, being tossed in the shallow side to end up with sand and salt in my eyes, nose, and inside my shorts pockets. The only time I cried in public was when I was denied a rendezvous with Momma Sea by our instructor who took us out for a swim. That was the worst imaginable punishment ever, worthy of shedding tears and of course undergoing the humiliation of being spotted in the act. Boys don’t cry, but I believed that I, a girl, should never ever be seen crying in public.
The shore slowly disappeared over the years. Soon, gentle Momma had become rough and even claimed a few lives. A board was put up in three languages saying that swimming in the sea was prohibited. The big ugly black rocks now stood between me and Momma and so did the law. I didn’t know what had hit me. Why was Momma no longer accessible? Some people told me it was some submarine tunnel responsible for it, others spoke about erosion. All I knew was that I couldn’t bob up and down with the gentle waves nor feel the thrill of discovering a shallow spot deep into the sea. It was like a large part of my life was unlived because I couldn’t meet Momma. I waited for the day to come when someone would tell me that it was all a bad dream, or that the shore would soon reappear and that I could swim again.
I couldn’t meet Momma for six to seven years. But strangely enough, I stopped missing her. The pain was only renewed when I later met her far from the usual spot where I used to swim as a little girl. Momma was waiting for me a few kilometers from town on the East Coast Road. But our meetings were annual, at the most bi-annual. This hurt more than during that long absence of six to seven years. Our reunions were also marred by the angst of growing up, the loneliness of being the only girl familiar with Momma. While the boys helped out the other whimpering girls, I was left alone with Momma. But I couldn’t do her justice. My heart was not in it.
A few months back I found Momma closer to home near the submarine tunnel area. It was just like the old times. Though I was alone with her for a short while, I did the justice of feeling the water around me, keeping me up, slapping against my sides, surging over my head and plastering my face with wet strands of hair. I enjoyed every moment of it. It felt like homecoming.
But since then the appetite has grown. I often dream of Momma in weird forms, with walls, with scary, mighty, unpredictable waves, with deep ends. But I can’t meet her alone. I need others with me, and to gather a bunch of Momma crazy boys and girls is a near impossible task.
The urgent hunger to feel salt water on my skin was too strong today. I decided to visit Momma with a most unlikely bunch- my parents. They agreed on the condition that I swim alone, which was fine with me. My destination was the submarine tunnel. But guess my luck, not a soul was present in or out of the waters. I can’t handle Momma all alone. Somebody has to be around. My heart began to sink. I had a feeling Momma would let me down. Then we spotted another strip of beach far to the right, with families strolling about. The sea was bluer on the other side.
The detour to the other side was through the dusty Cuddalore road to Veerampattinam. And since it was a national holiday, the vehicles seemed to be celebrating by being all there on the road and letting out toxic fumes. What made it worse was the angry face of my tired mother chasing my father and me on her bike, wanting to stop us and take us back home. And to my bitter disappointment, the road to the Veerampattinam beach was blocked by an unruly, drunken crowd. Vehicles could go no further. I was so angry I could kill somebody. Luckily I didn’t have a weapon in hand. We affected a U-turn. Instead of the eagerly dreamt wet, fresh feel, I was having a layer of dust on my face. On my way back all I could think of was my bad luck, the long ride which hurt my butt, my mother’s explosive anger and string of harsh words and the wild goose chase to meet up with Momma. I even weighed my chances of bumping into her in the future. The odds were against me.
I don’t know when I will be fortunate to meet Momma again. All that I can hope for is that the shore comes back or that I shift to a place where Momma is easily accessible with a bunch of Momma’s own kids like me. Till then the dark hours will be spent tackling big waves and coming up against a wall and the daylight hours in wishing I become a fish in my next life. 15-08-2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
THE LONELINESS OF THE FEMALE RUNNER
The red Puma head-band is plastered on my forehead. Hair tied back, I feel free and fresh. The shoes are soft and comfortable, the arm band tightly tied round my bicep. My feet start moving on the road. The same rhythmic movement repeated thousands of times over the past decade: the movement of freedom, pain, tiredness; the movement of loneliness in a crowd.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
Why did school hours not spent studying seem so painful? Shakespeare was a special pal in high school. He was better than the puny boys in class or the alien seniors. At least he didn’t speak; he was just there to be read. He let me be alone. Mostly, he didn’t force me to speak, joke or be giggly. He let me be silent. Heathcliff was more real than my friends. Georgette Heyer’s world was far better. At least the heroine got the hero in the end. There were no heroes in the ‘real’ world. Actually I didn’t belong to the ‘real’ world. I wore little shorts or divided skirts on the outside, but inside I wore gowns and danced at balls and spoke with Victorian humor. It was all so confusing. Was I really living? I later came to know of the Bovary syndrome. Flaubert did have insight after all. The evening breeze changes parties. It seems to be mostly against me. Sweat drips from my hair onto my neck. It rolls down my back and into my shorts’ elastic.
My friend chatted more than usual with our senior. They had exchanged some music. I heard of their wooing. Another told me of the caresses of her partner. I was surprised. They were fast. My juniors followed suit. I heard of the great ‘love stories’ of my seniors, the elders, the teachers, almost everyone had a story, except me. It was ‘love story’ saturation. Then I seemed to hear no more. I only saw: how my friends all left single hood and me far behind. It felt lonely. Of course, I had Gandhi, Renoir and Satyajit Ray, the praise of my teachers and the proud look in my parents’ eyes.
Then I saw the young man with the big biceps, the charismatic one and the one who always looked irascible. They made me want the impossible. I dreamt in vain. I didn’t feel lonely for a while. But it actually worsened. Soon Desirafe was born, so was Angus.
Shakespeare wasn’t a friend anymore. The ‘real’ world seemed to strike back with a vengeance, a lonely fish out of bookish water. It was Guilome’s birth. The boys selling shiny flying toys on the road get in the way. The men and women out on a stroll gape open-mouthed. The dogs are unaffected. My calves tighten.
Guilome and Desirafe were fed by silence and more of Guilome and Desirafe. It was like a dumping ground, an endless landfill which threatened to explode one day. The assigned project lay untouched. The TV was blaring, the women dancing and the men singing. The couple was talking sweet nothings, the camera on a soft-focus mode. The ants crawled to a presenter’s voice, it was some exotic island. A pact was signed amidst much controversy and heated discussion. Then it all went blank and silent, or rather blue. Nothing seemed interesting anymore. What a sheer waste of fifty minutes. Desirafe sighed, grumbled. Guilome screamed. Nothing can be done now, it’s too late. My feet keep moving. My mind keeps racing.
Wednesday’s newspaper had an article on relationships. Young couples, changing trends in society: ignorance, precociousness, the influence of the media, the ever-alluring West. Also, Saif Ali Khan had changed his girl friend, so had some cricketer. My friend gave me a call. She was going out with her boyfriend. She wouldn’t be free this weekend to hang out with. I called another friend. She seemed to have the same story. I cycled down to the coffee joint. It was yet hot in August and the traffic hadn’t changed one bit. The coffee prices had increased by 5 rupees. Damn the inflation. And why did they keep a table for two when I was alone? Why not for singletons? What’s wrong with the world? What’s wrong with me? I moved out of there before I beat up someone or show a finger. Desirafe was hungry, growling and ready to taste blood. Instead I taste my sweat which runs down my nose into my open mouth. I’m gasping for breath. My stomach is cramped. I need air. My legs are yet moving.
Loser was a household word for me. Angus ruled my life. Guilome and Desirafe fed off me. I felt Desirafe on my lips, on my stomach, sliding down my back. He was all over me. The attacks were worst at night. I woke up feeling tired and helpless. “Desirafe, Desirafe” that’s all I could hear, think of, want and feel. I wanted to kill Desirafe. Then probably Guilome and Angus would also die a natural death. I needed to find Desirafe outside me to destroy him. I can see the end. The rounds are over. I stop and double up. My t-shirt is drenched.
I’ve to pay the tuition fees. The bank loves to torture people in the afternoon, making them stand in long queues at 2pm. The fan near the main counter is out of service. The windows are small and the panes are broken. This is the side effect of higher education. I look around for familiar faces. I’m too early as usual. My friends are a lazy lot. They love the thrill of the last moment. I spot a tall guy with a goatee. I don’t know him, maybe he’s new.
The next week I see the goatee chap again. Our eyes meet. He smiles and I respond. A few days later I know him as Alberto. Months pass. I know the time has come when at last I taste blood. It is the blood of Desirafe. A great relief courses through my entire body. I’ve found Desirafe outside me in Alberto.
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