Conversations after death

When you speak to a person non stop every single day of your life you do not suddenly stop the outpouring just because you can no longer see them. Indeed some of the most memorable conversations take place after death.

When Papa died in 1999 my conscious mind splintered apart. I was at once carrying out all that was asked of me in terms of arranging the funeral, fighting a property feud, keeping the cheques rolling etc. I was the very model of efficiency. I believe I survived the first three days on lemon water only deciding it was far too much of a waste of my time to eat. Papa kept bringing snacks to me while I made his funeral plans (“Nooo don’t invite them Buri I hated them I hate them now”). I shut him out or tried to but he never shut me out. His life after death has been devoted to me. I tried to escape that flinging myself into work.

I got very busy. I busied my life post funeral. I was going to run away. End of story. End of hauntings. Two scholarships at Liverpool University and an English (okay Half Irish Half English) sweetheart beckoned. Before I knew it I had left my old life far behind. Shut it out. I had no time for grief. Life was about action about doing good. I was determined not to listen to any pleas.

Papa watched helpless as I made one devastating mistake after another. He tried so hard to warn me. I would not listen. I could “see” him for days and months after his death. Call it what you will. Shock, grief, hallucination, just life’s dregs. He was ever at my side. Holding my hand as my flight landed at Heathrow. Holding my hand tight as I entered my University campus and suddenly felt terrified. “You are a Royal Bengal Tigress please be gentle with them” he whispered into my ears. The faint scent of his cologne and his stubble cheek grazing my soft plump face. That made me laugh it always did. I stopped fearing my fate and got on with the business at hand. 

I still locked him out of my life though. Just as the Christian world partitions time as B.C and A.D so was my life rendered pre 99 and post 99. Everything that happened before was no longer allowed to remain in my presence after. Till date there are no photographs of my life pre 99 in my house. I cannot bear to look at them. I wanted to run so far away I would forget and never miss the thing that kept me whole. I wanted to forget Papa. 

Papa meanwhile had other plans. 

He made it his death mission to be by my side unfettered by any need to be anywhere else.

He chipped away at every wall I built around me and finally in 2007 I let him back in. He was always outside in the garden or in the shops. Always tappung at the windowsill pulling a Vampire face begging to be let in. How can you not laugh at a man who carefully balances toothpicks as his great fangs. If I was very sulky the toothpicks aquired tomato ketchup blood for extra theatrical value. Oh Papa!

I had to finally fling open my life and he sashayed in to the tune of “shola jo bhadke” (an old Indian song full of mirth). He tells me he is never leaving, though at my request he will exit the room and go elsewhere but stay close. 

Here are some of the everyday conversations I have with the half sprite half fancy half wishful thinking:

On the subject of Lucifer

“Buri you really are a brat. First you name this beautiful car a God awful name. Then you play classical music at all times. I can’t listen to a single test match score if you keep playing Elgar” (He still loves cricket while I have escaped his clutches finally and am no longer forced to watch the blasted game holding hands)

On the subject of my dog Pippinchondro

“Look at him Buri. Cross between a toddler a monkey and the book of Satan. This dog is so stupid he won’t even shake paw. Are you sure you didn’t ask for the dullest dog? Who’s a dull dog then? You are. Yes you” (Often Papa will attempt to teach Pip to give paw. Pip stares into nothingness and sometimes growls loudly if Papa persists. They have learnt to coexist somehow)

On the subject of my three cat household

“Why cats? Why three cats baby? I mean look at them. They are cats. Stupid little fur bundles. They can’t keep watch. You could get a Doberman? Like Lucy? They are just fluffpots. What am I going to teach them anyway? The only good thing is they go flying if I chase them around” (My cats act like whirling dervishes every day. Running around helter skelter. Papa can be seen chasing and sticking his tongue out. He has grown quite fond of them)

On Politics and Elections

“Why would you vote for Blair? Total liar. A communist party. Mark my words there are no weapons of mass destruction”

Followed by

“I told you a hundred times. You have blood on your hands now. Never trust a Socialist Marxist Communist arsehole. Totally corrupt immoral idiots”

Followed by

“Well he ain’t no Maggie. I don’t like the whole riding with huskies new age nonsense”

Followed by

“Ofcourse its Vote Leave what other vote would it be. Hurry up you are holding up the queue” (I had last minute jitters)

Followed by

“She is tone deaf and he is a Communist. I would still vote for her. Good strong sensible conservative values”

Followed by

“Well well well here we go again. What fun Buri! Another election. So many of them together!” (My love for elections comes from Papa)

On the subject of summer beverages

“Beer. Good German beer. Please for the love of God no more Pimms!” (I cannot stand beer of any kind – Papa’s eternal regret )

On my annual pilgrimage to the rose garden

“Am so bored Buri. Every year the same thing. Drive there. Select rose. Drive back. Plant rose. I want something different. You cry the entire day and that is not too good. I have to drive us to keep safe. I don’t like driving to Elgar. You won’t let me listen to cricket scores. This is nonsense. I won’t have it not this year.

Do something different. Go to the movies. Go out for lunch. Plant a damn rose if you must but do something happier please. You are ruining my street cred as a happymaker” (Papa has been telling me off for a few years but I have finally agreed to try something different this year)

On the punishing 2017 June heatwave

“I told you to drink beer. Helps you stay cool. What? I can’t change the weather but I can recommend a good beer”

On social media

“Ridiculous. Not good for your eyes or your brain. Go out and play with the dog” (Papa will never address the subject of other halves in my life. How could I ever love any other than Papa. So the dog is the only companion he thinks of and is jealous of. For Papa I have never aged beyond the age of 7)

On gaining weight and dieting

“You are absolutely fine. Keep swimming keep walking keep staying active. Don’t do these stupid diets. Stay well rather than slim”

On loneliness

“You and I have never made peace with solitude. Our greatest weakness – we cannot be alone or without each other. It is also our greatest strength. Think Kryptonite in reverse Buri”

On failure (re my first driving test)

“Pah! That isn’t failure. That was just a test run for the real test. Next test you will have a perfect score and you will argue you were given too many marks!” (This forecast came absolutely true in my second driving test. Papa chuckled the entire way home with his told you so face)

On the colour green

“Wear blue for goodness sake. You look like a forest or a frog or a cucumber in mourning. I want you to be like the sky. Be less of the grass hopper more of the sea” (Papa has never been keen on my absolute love for the colour green. When I painted my bathroom a vivid green he kept walking around mimicking gag reflexes and laughing)

On death

“You lie awake every night worrying. You ask the same questions a four year old Buri asked. Will it hurt. Will I be alone. Will it take long. Will there be someone by my side. What if I don’t die. What if I forget to die? Noone forgets to die Buri. We forget to live. Never forget to live”

The whole month of June 2017, has been a painful punishing exercise. In reliving the darkest blots, I have found myself in pieces. The old dark grief cloak swallows me whole. I have tried to bring sunshine. Picnics. Walks. Jollies. Swims. Good food. Friends. Flowers. Nothing can cast a permanent spell. I return to the hollowness of it all. It trickles out over my cheeks much to Papa’s irritation. 

I never sleep on the 18th of June. I don’t know why I bother really. Last night was no different. My mind wandered to the anguished last moments of Papa’s brief life. 49 is no age at all. He was very happy when gravely ill doing his “boast face”. Never wanted to live till his 50th to be “officially old”. Preferred to be the Princess Di of our family. Nutcase.

My best laid plans have been scuppered this year. No trip to the rose garden is possible with the mercury hitting 32 inside the car. A three hour journey there and three hours back will ensure I am unable to meet my work commitments next week. My heatstroke from earlier this week rages on. Lack of sleep. Lack of peace rages on. I admit defeat and will probably follow Papa’s advice at my bedside late last night (“go watch a movie, eat a big burger, have some beer, and if you must then plant a rose”). 

To say I miss Papa would be a bit like saying I sort of exist. I have quite forgotten what it used to be like. To be truly happy. To run around like a mad child jumping about deliriously happy. To play our favourite game (how many different cat miaow sounds can you make? My best was 58 Papa can do 82). To have a good debate that lasted for weeks. Occasionally switching sides when we felt ourselves waning! To watch endless hours of stupid horror films or his favourite Hammer films. To cook together and watch the feast appear as if by magic. Papa too busy ensuring everyone has a bite rather than eating his handiwork. To tend our garden together. Papa lecturing me on how to draft roses while I chase earthworms. 

I would give anything to have that one day one hour back with him. I say that. I have never been without him. As I write this he is leafing through an old newspaper sat opposite me on the green sofa (“blue Buri buy a blue sofa! No thanks Papa”) asking me about Gal Gadot in Wonder Woman. He just swatted Milo off and stroked the dog’s ears. He flashes a beautiful smile. Asks me to wind up my time wasting and get going.

There he is. In his khaki shorts and my favourite green shirt (“I wear it just for you Buri so you can wear other colours. Look its even got a hole in the pocket”) the one I bought him with my first wage when I was in college. His moonspot gleaming on his busy head. Curly black hair adorn his animated face. He sports what he lovingly refers to as his “rabon gonf” his majestic tache! The sound of his laughter can be heard everywhere. Its like the scattering of rose petals in the breeze. You always find a stray petal somewhere in your hair.

None can see him but I . I cannot unsee him. Cannot unhear cannot unlove him. He is everywhere I look. Handing me crucial notes at a predatory work meeting. Helping me choose new curtains. Adjusting the amount of fenugreek in my cooking. Swapping channels to watch cricket before I swap them back! Mixing my Pimms at home just right. Clapping so loudly by the pool as I take laps. Correcting my course as I drift on the motorway head pounding with heatstroke (“he took over and drove me home”). Papa is everywhere. We still argue. It is a miracle those around me cannot hear us screech like banshees as we take sides on the day’s point of difference. Today he wants me to go out and have a movie+burger day. I want to go to the rose garden although am feeling quite ill. 

We continue to argue. He cajoles and comforts occasionally baits and tries to flummox me with shows of great affection (ears pulled twice, head patted, and I am “an almost good girl”). 

This awful unbearable day is only worth living through because Papa is by my side (now getting impatient about the film). The conversation will have to wait. I need to wear the dress he has chosen and follow every item of advice. If there is one thing that kills me its Papa saying “am almost good”. Hmmf! We can soon fix that.

To all those reading this. If you managed to make it here well done. Please go kiss your Papa for me. Pick up the phone and say hello. If he is no more then find your favourite memory of him. Close your eyes. Be surrounded by the love (and the irritating habits). Never forget to live or love. Death is just a temporary pitstop. Love carries on far far longer than we can ever imagine. Never forget to love. 

19th June 2017

Running to Papa

When I was born it was against the odds. It was despite attempts to get rid of me. It was because my father went out of his way to ensure hands choking my life breath could never succeed. I lived.

My first word uttered was “Raja”. The affectionate pet name Papa sported. He truly was a king amongst mere men. He raised me with lofty delusions that I still carry. Naming your daughter the Empress Goddess… am not certain if it was him or me or us in a Universal joke that gets replayed every day to Papa’s great amusement.

June is a hard and unforgiving month. I got married on the 13th of June. I remember distinctly every minute. I was the only one from the bride’s side. My family made sure hate reached me every hour. My beloved Papa watched on in a wisp of memory fumes. The uninvited sprite watching me. His ghost has travelled with me everywhere. A metaphor of our unfinished conversations seeping into my every day.

Papa left me in June. 19th June 1999 to be precise. I have written about his illness, his death, and what followed immediately after. I have written of my early life. My brutal childhood. I have written of fleeting conversations and of passionate long term debates.

I can never quite finish writing. It is hardest when I choose to festoon words around raw aches as I recall Papa.

Write I must so here it is.

I want to write about times in life and after death when I have run to my father.

When after hours of persistence I managed to perfect a brush stroke I ran to Papa. Papa delighted advised I try it out in every colour. “A brush stroke in purple may be very different from your brush strokes in green!”. I went back to my paintbox and exhausted every colour.

I ran to Papa when I realised I was falling in love. Barely thirteen years of age. Feeling flush and rather distracted. Papa patiently tells me I cannot pledge my life to my favourite poet. “Keats would want you to experience passion in the flesh and not just in whimsy”.

When I was convinced the stranger on the train was a vampire. I ran to Papa. He would not be seen by day but by evening appeared with odd red stains around his mouth. He was so pale. He did not eat anything but drank a dark liquid from a curious flask. “We must trick him to appear by daylight. We need a mirror to see if he casts a reflection. We need garlic. I don’t have Holy Water but we do have a travel bible. We can make a crucifix but we need wood for a stake”. Papa never ever laughed at any of my ideas. The quote is not my delirium, it is Papa helping me prioritise and plan my attack from the supposed vampire. The man was rather fair skinned and unfortunate “pan” (betel leaf) stains looked like he had just sipped a blood martini. We acquired my mum’s compact. Took the glass bit out. We tried and were both amazed at the sleeping man’s very real reflection. We confirmed he was indeed human as he unleashed… an unmentionable pungent stormcloud. Vampires do not consume human food and therefore there is no record of vampiric flatulence. Case closed. However our joint investigations were thorough and discreet. Carried out by Papa Holmes and Baby Watson. My casebook had another closed chapter.

I ran to Papa. When I felt transfixed and started feeling very fond of his closest friend. At the wise age of seven I decided I wanted to marry a bald man and no other would suffice. For bald men were so very bright their hair simply singed and fell off! Papa reluctantly agreed and pointed to a tiny bald patch appearing in his otherwise full head of curly black hair. Hair that I have loved tugging at all my life. Papa’s answer to my devastating proclamation of undying love? “I believe this is a very serious negotiation. Marriage. We should review your feelings every year and when we are both convinced there are no more vampires left to interrupt your wedding, you shall indeed marry the boiled egg of your choosing”.

I ran to Papa. When the boy in our neighbourhood decided to show me his hairy bottom and asked me to do the same. Papa did not bat an eye lid. He put the radio on and we waited for the weather forecast. We looked at my grandfather’s book of common causes of childhood diseases. We read about exposure to cold temperatures and resulting diseases. We took out the whole of last week’s bundle of newspapers and a nine year old me carefully cut out the weather forecast for a full seven days. We tried out exercises in divining the average temperature. We agreed more research was needed and I was to observe temperature trends for a full twelve months.

Unknown to me the boy (much older and actually a man in legal age) was given just punishment for exposing indecently and was never seen in the neighbourhood again. I was advised by Papa that it was better to not consider exposure to cold temperatures but to concentrate my efforts on improving my ability to work out average, mean, median and to put together a full temperature forecast based on my studies. I was so fascinated by weather models and forecasting I have never been bored enough to talk to any boy in the neighbourhood again. I had weather documentaries and freak weather reports to devour. A passion I still indulge in.

I ran to Papa. My first attempts at baking a cake. Instead of two teaspoons of chocolate powder I put in two tins. It would taste ‘chocolatier’. The cake was so dense it had to be cut out of the baking tin. My cake was the colour of death. It took seventeen minutes and a variety of instruments to cut a slice. I could not eat my full bite. Bitter does not begin to describe it. Papa ate a whole slice and said “Chocolatier does not always mean more cocoa. We must always taste our failures. This is the greatest and most magnificent blundercake ever made so I am going to finish my slice”.

He finished his slice. Got up and left for the restroom where he promptly threw up. Thereafter he told me “That cake has brought out more Ectoplasm than Ghostbusters 1&2”.

I ran to Papa. When my Maths teacher slapped me because I cheekily corrected his spelling. Papa drove to the school and caught hold of the teacher’s collar. He pinned him up against the blackboard and said “If I hear of any more of your so called tutorly behaviour you won’t have hands left to touch my child”. The teacher put in a formal complaint. Papa took me out of his class. I did not study Maths for a whole year and I have never been more proud at being illiterate. Papa’s words ring out “Hollow men never enjoy being corrected by much wiser women”.

I ran to Papa. When my dog Alfie caught a frog and would not let it go. The frog was gasping and Alfie growled and tried to bite. Papa rather than pry out the frog decided to cook instead. The wafting scent of sausages filled the house. Alfie came running. Dropped the frog. The frog miraculously recovered and also came to see if there was a scratch of sausage it could eat. Papa deftly caught “Lazarus” the frog and we had a baptism ceremony. Lazarus was gently lowered into the Holy Pond in our garden. Recently made holy by our Padre blessing all the fish and tadpoles there. Lazarus hopped off and swam away. Alfie was rewarded for letting go of Lazarus. Papa’s immortal words linger “remember baby it was quite probably Holy Sausages that revived Lazarus and not the Holy Spirit”. I have always used food bribes to pry out things from the mouths of all my pets. I have never come unstuck.

I run to Papa.

As I confront the terrible news about not one but two prime ministers assassinated. Papa holds my hand and tells me “It is important to feel every feeling. It is important to voice rage. It is important to listen to every single witness testimony. It is important to share every account of unimaginable grief. It is important to cry. It is important to act. To be good and to be your best and to continue to try harder every single day”. I hear you Papa. My first reaction at such events is still the same. Listen. Grieve. Act. Work hard and attempt to be my very best every day. “If today is to be your last day Baby, make it the best of your days. Make today the very best”. Yes Papa.

I run to Papa.

Bruised and battered. Oft times its my mother and her pleasure play of butchery upon me. Often its my female relations and their cruel taunts about my unwomanly face, dark complexion or my shapeless body. Sometimes it is the taunts in the playground or a sharp smack given to me as a generous gift from life itself. Papa patiently cleans me up. We discuss the differences between Dettol and Savlon. I criticise parenting styles and he reminds me “Empresses are graceful and they overlook hate. Goddesses are divine and they forgive”. Papa in his own way battles daily with his wife to save his sickly suffering child. Some days he succeeds and some days he fails. I wipe his tears and tell him there can be no tears if we are to seriously investigate poltergeists in the attic room. If faced with horrors in life where else would you learn strategies to defeat Evil? Horror stories are my key to surviving my life.

I ran to Papa when I happened to see a small signet ring that caught my fancy. We were in Burma. Papa had the shop closed to customers and we have a private viewing of all the shining baubles. I express concern at the price of items I may be buying. Papa calmly tells me “you have my darling a sense so refined you would never outstretch me. I want you to just tell me what you want most and we will buy the item in every configuration possible”. I end up with a pair of gold rimmed miniature glasses, a ruby thimble, and silver scissors. Items that were taken away from me after his death but that does not matter. I still retain the indescribable joy I always felt on our many shopping trips. Papa bought gemstones as he bought fish or mangoes. With infinite care and with such great humour. Shopkeepers loved him and today they love me too. Ah today. This day of not having that big friendly bear carefully planning my every move without me being aware of it.

What of today?

As I sit with my jet black hair now sporting a lightning struck blade or three? As my baby face wrinkles and my love for all things childlike wanes a little. As life takes over and I care more about terrorism than I do about vampires. As I cry freely and often feel afraid or alone or hurt.

I run to Papa.

I open up the treasure box of my memories. Sift through each shining jewel and decide which chain of unforgettable moments shall adorn my soul.

I run to Papa.

As my safe harbour and my playground. My unparalleled ocean of patient indulgent and at times fussy messy love.

I ask him for advice and guidance. He answers in any way he can get word out to me through life’s many serendipities.

I consult Papa before I do anything. His voice has never left my side. His presence has never left me. His laughter and just his being has never left the corner of my eye. Here he is now inspecting my collection of dark chocolate wrinkling the strawberry nose we share.

I ask him if the dish I cook is too salty and if we should have steak rather than sald for lunch? A quiet voice rings out in my ears

“You do remember Lazarus was rescued not by the Holy Spirit but by Holy Sausages”

I remember Papa. I continue running to you every single day and there you are ready to hold me up as I fall. What more could Baby Watson ask for.

Work in progress

When you rely on a drug for pretty much all your adult life and suddenly go cold turkey – it does things to you.

I have been pouring myself out in dregs and deluges since I was old enough to hold a crayon. As a child these were handwritten scraps which I took great pleasure in destroying. As an adult these were diary pages which I would happily drown. Later with the benefit of a laptop and the internet these scraps got stuck to chapters and pages of my Empress journal.

I have written extensive stupid love letters to my imaginary romantic hero (Keats who else). That sub category has seen a long drought. God. Did I ever feel so much shitty passion for just a mirage? Never mind.

I have dreamt up scary stories. I have written childhood memories. I have lived in nostalgia. None of it was worth reading but it remains my attempt to hold on to my world.

Then came 2013. I went cold turkey. End of.

Well.

I was still writing but I wasn’t really. My feelings were so turbulent I feared the hurt they would cause. I wrote without spilling. When I try to be less messy I leave behind an empty space.

When one consciously uncouples and follows it with a divorce your choices (in my opinion) are simple. You stay civilised and friendly or you go full fledged diabolical. I have never done things by halves. Writing may compromise me.

There was no way I was degrading my marriage to a Paul McCartney and Peg Leg catfight. I was terrified anything I write may betray how I feel. The safest option was to only write/speak about things that were not personal to me anymore.

I have in recent years become a passionate champion of my political beliefs. So much so that I barely find any emotion left for any other reverie. It has sucked me dry in ways I did not think possible.

I am fooling myself ofcourse.

My armour of heady gushing love letters protecting me from my real life has been cleverly replaced …with my brittle and inflexible politics and my sabre rattling war cry. I am still hiding this time through rage at injustice.

It is always fear that is the core of all anger. I am tired of being scared. I must write my way out of this. I fear I no longer truly live. I do not allow myself to feel anything. But to feel would be to give in to these huge swaying swelling waves within. I fear drowning and not coming through. Quite symbolic I chose to learn to swim within days of my decree absolut.

So here it is. The post that I wanted so badly to deny myself.

It is Good Friday. It is raining. Elgar is making me weep. My juices are flowing. Come words. Come now. Do not fail me. Pah!

How does one sum up one’s relationship(s) in neat little paragraphs? Craftily edited. Tied up with a neat bow. Within the word limit.

Perhaps its wrong to attempt this. Let me get some other millstones off my chest.

I must ofcourse write about four bereavements. The marriage. My darling pet Cody. H’s death (R’s father). My own demise.

Let me start with the easiest.

H’s Death

R and I have been through some of the darkest days I care to remember. It was only fair I was at his side when H was diagnosed. I put aside my wrath and I cared for him while he lay dying. Complications always arise like fumes from a dying fire. The wretched family and its wretched modus operandi. I had not imagined in my wildest dream how H would die. That it was to be me and me alone at his death gasp. Or what would follow. Death to civility. Death to any kind of humanity. The ending of H’s life became a byproduct of all the hate hurled. Somewhere it cut deep sharp grooves. I fear I will never recover nor do I intend to ever let this misery repeat itself. I do not wish to waste another breath on its mindlessness.

Cody leaving hit me much much harder. Fifteen years of having my first baby girl. My little drop of perfect. Never needed to raise my voice or frantically wonder why I got her. Cody spoiled me. Spoiled us. She adopted us. There is no other. It was always her. She propped me up so many times as I slipped into feelings of emptiness. She was my connection to the wonderful.

Her last few days were painful for us but she remained her serene self. Her last day with her beloved Daddy was just too much love and hurt and this sharp stinging hot pain. I have tried but failed to stop this hammering in my chest cavity. I got a kitten in the vain hope it would help. Fuck that. I miss Cody every single day. I fear how much I miss seeing her crochety old face.

My eyes travel to her favourite spot on the sofa and I have to urgently distract myself. I cannot afford to be the weepy mess she left behind. I cannot have eight weeks of bereavement/recovery/misery. Just lying in bed crying myself silly and at once being a sharp shooter political bandit queen online. The distractions do not work. They do not heal. Nothing does.

No I cannot contemplate Cody. It is still difficult to get past the sharp gasps and I fill up in an instant.

Why do we love?

I have been wondering that quite a bit. It is a harmful transaction. It is just delayed grief. We are not built to sustain loss. Let me rephrase that. I am not built to sustain losses and emerge unscathed. My wings and talons are mutilated beyond recognition.

Nonsense. I am everything I can will myself to be. I am stronger than I feel. I am invincible right?

Not so much when faced with cruel questions though. A very kind and well meaning friend asked me a week or so after Cody – “are you over Cody’s death yet?”

The question had the uncanny echo of a question my paternal uncle asked me exactly a week after Papa -“are you over Papa’s death yet?”

I have come to the conclusion on both occasions that we are not always surrounded by humans. There is a mercenary underclass of sub humanity all around us. Some are cherished friends. Their inability to understand or articulate should not be held against them. One must just catalogue their actions and study them…. as subjects of an intriguing experiment. We have alien life. Right here coexisting peacefully on Earth. Fascinating.

How wonderfully soothing is this blanket of detachment I wrap ever tighter. If it isn’t politics its the sciences. It is logical. It is enriching. It is in every way a perfect antidote to the shite life upchucks.

I am not brave enough to write of the marriage. Or of my own demise. From a thinking feeling clod…one who could express herself to one that lives in this shadowy half life of nil speech nil reflection.

No.

I must end this awful summation with a word about Papa.

He has been everywhere. Again. Irritating man.

My sins catch up in the form of a potent viral flu and severe ear infection. I am not able to eat or hear or sleep as I used to.

In this half awake misery twilight who do you think has been by my side? Still clad in that infuriating green half shirt (the one with the hole in the pocket) and his khaki shorts. He had been there every day. Begging me to keep my Amoxicillin doses on time and helping me take my ear drops. When am too tired to drive, he walks me to the taxi and holds my shivering fingers in his sausage paws. Tells me to chin up there is cheesecake for dessert.
When they gave Cody the lethal injection he held me tight and whispered into my ears “I am sorry Buri it is not going to be easy now”

I tell him to feck right off. I can do this by myself. I don’t need a babysitter. Go away Papa is my tired refrain. He chuckles and leaves the room. I can hear him play with Milo downstairs. I have given up trying to understand the complexities of my nonsensical existence. Why does he haunt me. Do I haunt me or does he?

Ofcourse he isn’t real I tell myself. There is no such thing. There are no vampires. No ghosts. No gods or monsters. There is only the finite realisation of irrepairable loss. There is the afterglow of grief. Grief and love are interchangeable marauders.

Papa. Of late while I struggle with this flu he has been everywhere. He brings me curious looking leaves and points at unusual clouds in the sky.

I have heard enough loud berating of Indian politics to give my good ear cause to retire. I have been egged on to swim further, eat more, sleep more, cook more, I have been begged to allow just one old classic western flick for a change? No Papa. Go away.

Then there is the constant meddling and culinary suggestions.

He stands patiently and asks me to put in a dash of fresh ginger to spice up my chicken pie. When its about ready he comes running to tell me to take it off the oven because its about to burn. He tells me it would be fun to bake hot cross buns.

Papa.

Like he used to say “chefs never die, they just swap kitchens”

Perhaps the only thing that does not die is memory and our ability to transplant past present and in every sense create a chaotic present. Nothing ever leaves and nothing remains.

This is my work in progress.

Unbelonging

I shrink from these sights you treasure

Creased up memories mock

A city steeped in history

Some of it personal to me

Old lanes criss cross

Bricks and mortar of wounded thoughts

I shun your vulgar new opulence

Your loud festivals and fay helpless Gods

My old school lies flat

Silent beneath an urban roadway

So many years of anguish 

Now reduced to noisy traffic

The old soft fabric meshed in with the unfeeling new

Silks, damask and velvets with hopes plentiful

Glamourous glorious you (so far and not quite far enough)

I never was a thing worth preserving – a halflife, a traitor, an alien influence!

I belong to the dull relentless grey rain

To dusty old churches that I visit alone

To woods filled with the only traffic that pleases my ears

To mossy paths well loved by four scampering feet

To the Medieval Lily Pool where my life reflects

Caught in the reeds and in the makeshift nests

I leave one world far off and yet

It claws back

Through your loud images of many riches and cheap lives spent

Spoilt garbs of a vacant whimsy

The terror of self worship ever present

I am not immune, this verse my folly reveals

To loathe is but to love perversely

I find this unbelonging grows deep

As I see you gorge on the excesses

Of a place I wish I could forget

Conversations with Papa

Some of these conversations happened when I was a little girl. Papa left in 99, and I still speak to him, so the rest happened when I was an old girl.

On Vampires

Me – “Papa do you think garlic paste is as good as fresh garlic to ward off vampires?” (Vampires have been a huge part of my childhood. Mythical monsters help give perspective when faced with constant adversity)

Papa – “That depends. A fairly old vampire… am thinking 500 years plus would probably be scared of a hint of garlic. I am thinking of the paper thin ones. Like paper Dosa.You need to worry about the newborns. Brand new vampires may just bite on garlic flowers as a dare. The young healthy champion vampires. Some may even develop a taste for garlic”

Papa took vampires just as seriously as I did. I could never tell if he was serious or just playing along. We would spend hours discussing vampires and where modern vampires may live. I have always been terrified of underground networks like trains/sewers etc. I don’t like being underground where according to Papa, garlic flower chomping vampires have secret lairs. Another memorable quote “If they catch you, they are likely to drink your blood through a straw”. I have no idea why but any man drinking a beverage with a straw always terrifies me.

On Roses

Me – “Why do you always grow roses? Dahlias. Why can’t we have great big Dahlias?”

Papa – “Dahlias are just walking stuffed garish pompoms. A rose is history itself and the future. You are not of the age yet. When you grow up, you will only grow roses”

Papa was a gifted gardener. He successfully bred tri colour and bi colour roses. He liked cross species experimentation. He was very proud of his roses, always tending to them.

I have never planted a Dahlia or any other flower other than his beloved roses. Though I do like Dahlias.

On Horror

Me – “So if the ghostie is really real why didn’t they just kill the exorcist?”

Papa – “Now where’s the fun in that?! The fun is in the torment. Look behind your curtains tonight and remember… it comes”

We loved watching horror films so much. Our favourite past time. I miss him terribly whenever I see a good one. After watching the Conjuring (1&2), I had some memorable conversations. Papa would have approved of the authentic possession scenes. Afterwards he would scare me by telling me to go check upstairs because he heard a strange sound…

On Marriage

Me – “You know Papa divorce can be very liberating”

Papa – “You don’t chop your head off no matter how bad the headache is!”

Despite a fraught and desperately unhappy union, Papa would never hear of leaving. “Marriage like mortgage is for life” according to Papa. I shudder to think of what he makes of me. Who knows, maybe he would grow to approve of the liberated chopped off head, stuck firmly in the clouds.

On Politics

Me – “Papa why do you have to be such a bleeding heart liberal and anti national?!” (Papa scorned my jingoistic pride at my obvious glee at seeing our nation’s arsenal on parade)

Papa – “Patriotism is manufactured, but liberalism is a statement of evolution”

I have always been an Enlightened Despot. I like order. I like productivity. I admire patriotism. I love compassionate people, but expect them to be rooted in reality. Papa was the exact opposite. I am not averse to the display of weapons and consider war to be the last but sometimes a necessary option. I favour a strong defensive position to safeguard nations.

Papa was on the left side of the Left, but in Indian national politics he was of Nehruvian Gandhi stock. A huge fan of Indira, and later of Rajeev. Although he was extremely liberal and left leaning – he was not a great fan of communist/socialist/student protests etc. Papa was a peacenik. He wanted people to stop contemplating war. He had no favourite missiles or warships. Not one.

Papa cried like a baby when Indira was shot. I have never seen him so upset. He told me I had not seen his tears at Kennedy’s assassination. When Rajeev was killed, Papa cried and strangely I joined him. It seemed such a waste.

Papa would be completely opposed to my political allegiance today, and I would have relished every heated debate.

On Elections

Me – “Why do you have to stay glued to hear the outcome. You won’t be able to change it. This is so stupid. Why can’t we play instead?”

Papa -“There are moments in your life when you should just bow your head in reverence to democracy. Many died to secure the right to vote. There are many Gods, but it is only democracy which is truly sacred. I want to bear witness to democracy”

And so I have inherited his madness. Staying awake over 24 hours glued to the news. Waiting, watching, bearing witness.

On Marmalade

Me – “What is so wrong with marmalade? I can eat marmalade if I want to! I will name all my dogs marmalade when I grow up, just you wait and see”

Papa -“Marmalade is made of crushed mermaids. So many innocent creatures died so you could spread your toast. Its bad for your teeth. Your dogs will turn into pumpkins if you name them marmalade”

No dog of mine has ever been christened Marmalade. I have never understood his hatred of marmalade, but I tend not to have any in the house.

On Love

Me -“Love is a huge social construct. A polite way of legitimizing chemical reactions. Love is just the means of passing property between generations. Love is a capitalist wet dream”

Papa – “and that may well be, but where would you be without love? Who would dust you out off your big books and bring you into life? Only love and Papa”

Papa took sole credit for my existence. Apparently my mother was just the vessel. Without going into the unfortunate events surrounding my birth or childhood let me just say I would not be alive without Papa. I would just be a bookmark in a forgotten library book.

On Death

Me – “Does it hurt when you die Papa, like with injections, is it super bad?”

Papa -“Wait let me remember. The last three times I died was due to Meena Kumari. I can assure you my demise and resurrection were extremely enjoyable!”

We had our jokes, but also had a morbid fascination with death. He was true to his word, dying early (aged 49). He said he would continue visiting. I am unsure if my hallucinations/dreams are due to a heightened sense of grief, or the paranormal. It is just Papa. I am so used to him, I forget he is no more.

We still talk.

Oo ka bolat hain? Giraffewa ko Janamdin

Oo ka bolat hain re
Giraffewa ko Janamdin hoi
Hum ka soche re
Tumko thora sa kavita path sunaibe
Ka bolti ho? Suno tani
Angreji ma likhbe ka?
Kyun hum apne bhasa ma tumko denge na
Ka denge bolo tani?
Abhinandan
Are phool chandan nahi re
Bolbe kari ka suno theek se
Tumar janamdin ma hum deibe tumka
Ek chota sa tohfa, ee lio, dekho jara ka diye tumka
Are bap re ee kaun hai chutki topi wali?
Aur ee kaun hai re chasmewali?

A long long time ago, when we were just little buds
You and I became thicker than thieves in a shared childhood
And our story became the stuff of legend
As I count down the hours to your birthday babygiraffe
I remember all the things we used to do, and still do
The crazy things we said
The lovely things we did
All our mad games
And all our happiness
Do you remember the night
We stayed up talking – and then felt hungry
We tiptoed into the kitchen
Walked past sleeping doggies
And decided to devour a whole bottle of Maggi Imli Ketchup
Thora khatta thora hot?

Hey Bhagwan Ji Raksha Karo Tani
Kaiso pet dukkha tha dusre din yad hai?
Humko dant padega kya khudai roye bilakhne lage itna
Mar khane ke dar se, dono ka halat kharap kaisan hua?
Aur bhi yad hai humka sab kand, kya kya gul khilay the apan dono
Ooo yad hai tumka, kaisan bhoot chada tha
Dress designer banna tha
Keynchi lekar cut cut cut cutting kiye dono
Sab magazine ko kaat kaat kar
Banaye sare dresses – usme bhi tum ka bolti thi humein
Mamoni tum peeeeeeeeeeeenk vala banao na peeeeeeeeeeenk vala pleeeease
To humau banai diye na gulabi gulabi sab kapde sare
Aj bhi kuch bhi gulabi dekhte hain to tumhara vo peeeeeeeeenk chikhna yaad ave
Take a look, in most of our photos together – you wear peeeeeeeeeeeenk!!!

If it is possible to be
Two full adult sized toddlers
Then that is definitely us
We will still talk about stuff
That we spoke about when we were 3 years old
And we will still play silly games
And laugh till our tummy hurts! You always make me laugh till I cry
I love how our little girl selves never grew up
And although we experienced different ages, went from babes to babydolls to hey baby, to oh mera bachcha re
We essentially remain
Two very naughty little girls
Just happy to be
Two little monkeys running around
And I do not think we have ever learnt
How to shut up or how to edit our dialogue
Or how to pretend to be all grown up
We are what we are – and there aren’t many samples like us
If you love us, we love you right back
If you mess us about, we will bite back
AND GOD FORBID IF ANYONE MESSES WITH YOU
THEY WILL HAVE TO COME PREPARED TO DEAL WITH ME
Remember when we were kids, and someone teased you
You would tell me, and we would both of us chase them about
With little wooden rulers held like swords
We were warriors then, we are warriors still
And we are each other’s strength and shield
You are the sweet one
I am the sour and the chilli hot
And together we are no less
Than Maggi Imli vala Tomato ka sauce

There was a time when we spent the whole night talking
(This happened frequently at sleepovers)
There was so much we had to discuss
We also wrote little letters, to ourselves and to each other
All about things that were really really important to us
Like which was the best Titaura and which was the worst
Which was scarier a ghost or a tiger or your mummy!
Things have moved on, we have grown older
But we still talk to each other every single night
Thank you social media, and the modern age connectivity delights – you are never more than a ping ping away
And I am still the most scared of your mummy (as are you)
And you still don’t sleep until I tell you to go to sleep!
Heaven forbid anyone hears our madness
Conversations begin with Kyun re Kaisan ba
and usually end with Jai Ram Ji Ki, Ab hum javat hain samjhi ka?

And there is literally nothing I would not do
To make you smile, my little 5 star bar
Like being your soulmate for life
Like carrying a stuffed cat on my head
(Don’t believe me check the photo above)
Or jumping down two stairs at a time
While holding a glass of ice and water!
Or do you remember the time
When we played with a great big fat lemon
Drew a face on it
And gave him a name
We called him ‘Bhenkutibaba’
We played with him, till he “died”
And then we gave him his last rites
And buried him (poor dead lemon)
And then told each other stories
About the ghost of Bhenkutibaba
Not many people know, but these are our secrets
Our little games, our happiness

You are still my curly haired beautiful babygiraffe
I can remember your little fingers in my hands when we first met
And your shrill little squeaky voice
Whenever we went to birthday parties, and we sat down to eat
Your podgy little finger poking me
A sweet little request
‘Mamoni khila do’
Too small to manage your plate, you would happily be fed
And I would tell you silly stories
About a flying elephant that would bite your ears off
If you did not finish your plate (you always finished!)
You have given me more laughter, and more happiness
Than any other friend, and you always always come first
You have given me the best gift of all
Two miniature Dollu Babus, and two whole worlds to love and cherish

Wishing you a very happy birthday my darling Dholak
My beautiful Dollu Babu
My cute little baby girl
I love you more than the colour green
And that is a lot of love (green is the best colour of all)
(better than peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenk)
Wishing you a wonderful happy year ahead
Filled with happiness
Filled with many many hours of laughter
Lots of advice – me giving gyan, you giving gyan turn by turn
Lots of photus – selfie jindabaaaaad banki sab murdabad
Lots of cuddles and kissies and lots of love
Always yours
Mamoni (dekho tani ee budbak cakewa pe naam galat likh diye – eenko to maro pakad ke ek dum)

Of jewels and happy dust

“Get your hands dirty completely, the seeds need to feel your love” said Papa. He was frowning at my daintiness. We were planting Dahlias. Life was a rosy dreamworld for a few snatched moments in our garden. My mother was away.

Papa wanted me to get elbow deep in good honest compost to ensure the bulbs were laid in fertile soil. I had other ideas. I was going to use a trowel to just skim the surface and dump the seeds. Mud be damned. We were at total gardening stalemate. I did not fancy all the dirt getting into my hands and especially into my new rings. Papa wanted me to “respect Mother Earth”. I told him I preferred Father Earth. “Mothers were earthworm infested and they were barren”, I said. “Stop playing with your rings, and think about the Dahlias!” impatience seeping into his usual good humour now.

The little rings were a recent acquisition. My maternal grandmother had lovingly commissioned delicate rings for my fingers. An emerald ring, and a Burmese pigeon blood ruby. Set in gold. They were beautiful, and far too ornate for a young child. For a stubborn child who only craved to be loved, the rings came as a distracting substitute. For a few months they were my universe. I was mesmerized by their sparkle. I would wear them every day, but carefully take them out before going to school. I was taking great care of my little possessions. They were mine. They came in a box lined with deep green velvet. The sheer luxury of it went to my head.

I did not want to get my hands dirty, and I was not going to be a gardener without finery. The rings were to stay on, the seeds would have to suffer. I was not going to give in.

Papa saw I was not budging so he got his own hands dirty. In went those big fat sausage fingers. Lovingly digging into the dirt. Creating a deep hollow for the waiting bulb. Covering it with fresh earth and compost. Sprinkling water and the final tap to tuck them into the fold.

I watched this ritual with knitted brows. Why wouldn’t he just follow my lead and use the trowel. Papa was a poor gardening student of mine I declared in a huff. He chuckled and nodded his head.

We went inside and I washed my hands with an almighty great fuss. I got an old toothbrush and scrubbed my precious rings clean. I then sought out Papa and washed his hands. I told him about the germs while he patted my face. I then decided to wash all his rings. He had several.

Bengali folk and their superstitious foppery. Emerald worn to please one God, Pearl to woo another, Sapphire to mitigate xyz etc. This hocus pocus runs a strong thread throughout Asia. Astrologers and Jewellers run a thriving business based on fear and hope. In the countries I have visited the prevalence of benign and malign rings runs high. Everyone has atleast one ring which they swear by. The rings become mute companions to dastardly deeds. Heavens forbid you lose your rings. The astrologer will charge you thrice as much to sanctify and recommend replacements.

My grandmother had tried in vain to get me hooked into this madness. For a few months I did wear them hoping my life would change. Sadly my mother was not swayed by the protective glow of no less than five divine rocks. My beliefs however did change. I found a big weathered copy of “Rocks and Minerals” in the library. I was fascinated by the photographs and the exotic names (Lapis Lazuli in particular). There were chemical compositions and geographical locations for each stone, including a hazy photograph of rock samples from the Moon! There was no mention of wrathful gods appeased by Diamonds etc. Hah. All bunkum.

However the above discovery took place a few months after the great Dahlia planting ceremony. Let us rewind back to that moment where I having become as clean as a vestal virgin, now pounced upon Papa’s hands with a burning desire to clean his rings with my now rather worn old toothbrush and a bar of slippery Liril.

Papa tried to talk me out of it at first. He asked me to draw the Dahlias as he hoped they would bloom. Nopes. Not working.

“Give me your rings. I will toothbrush them. Then I will boil them to kill all the germs”. I was getting ready to conduct the full sanitization. My rings were sparkly and were spared the boiling option.

Papa must have been quite worried by now. He scooped me out of the bathroom, past the kitchen, sat me down on the little cane sofa and started telling me about “happy dust”. Apparently rings are only as powerful as the happy dust they accumulate. Hah! No wonder mine were not working. Off I went to gather happy dust. All thoughts of disinfecting by Lirilisation abandoned. For a few weeks I would pour all kinds of sediment on my rings to see if their magical properties were enhanced. Not much came of it. Ultimately I gave them up. They went back into the green velvet box and dropped out of my existence for many years.

That little snippet from my life had lay forgotten till today. Like an old leaf swept in by the storm, trapped under the carpet. It lay preserved. The flesh of the days and turbulent years dropped off leaving behind a latticework skeleton of a memory preserved.

I have long abandoned my precious rings. Though they continue to accompany me. I left India in 2000 under dark clouds. I had to wrestle and take whatever little was given to me other than my books. I wanted to start a new life. Papa was no more, and there was nothing left to love. I was seeking refuge in England. An aborted legal challenge saw me acquire a pitiful amount of said family jewels. I was being cast aside, and I was only going to get stale crusts. One of the crusts were those rings from my childhood.

I never really open my box of treasures. I do not wear the damn things. They are there merely as a reminder of another life. I have to carry them with me until such time that I cannot. There are some delicate pieces. Papa had me design my own wedding jewellery, it has never been worn. He was going to put them on and get me ready on my wedding day. Life had other plans. The wedding and the brief marriage were stained with tears.

Time sweeps all such minor tragedies under its great scythe. Life carries on. Seasons change. Sometimes old things come out of the woodwork, and momentarily trap us in their memory.

What of today then? Today with great ferocity I was spring cleaning the spare bedroom. Tidying up my scattered lives. I came across many items that just needed to be put away, put into place, folded, cut up, smoothed out and emptied. I saw lots of old photographs. Each accosted me with a memory. I saw the photo of us taken on that rickety cane sofa. Taken on the very same day. Papa smoking a cigarette as his reward for working hard in the garden. I put the photographs away, and saw some old jewellery boxes.

I found Papa’s ring in the midst of chaos. It is perhaps one of the few actual pieces of him that I have. He gave it to me about a month or so before he died. He said nothing, just left it in an envelope for me. In the wrapping up of preciouness the ring was kept safe in an enamelled box, together with other items. I recognized the box and opened it with fluttering heart. There it was. Delicate silver filigree choked up with his carefully acquired “happy dust”.

I found myself collecting my tears for a very long time before I shut my box of terrors and locked them away again. Not to be opened for many years. Another small insignificant snippet. Perhaps in another decade or two I shall look back, read these very words and wait for the tears to come back.

Long awaited

Jasmine woke up with a warm bellyful of contentment on Christmas eve. Life was beginning to fall into place. The cut out grooves of Fate were marrying themselves beautifully to her intended outcomes.

She took stock of her life and lay absolutely still thinking.

~~~~

In the last three years Jasmine had seen considerable changes. Her marriage was finally laid to rest. There were no casualties no remorse. What started as an innocent girlhood romance had seen her through to a more mature self aware womanhood. She knew what she wanted, and what no longer made her happy. She had been frightened at first but determined.

Moving out of her old life and decanting her soul into the new was not without its messy debacles. She persevered. Her work kept her sane. Jasmine was one of the finest and the most ruthless divisional directors for H.M Inland Revenue. Her shrewd planning had seen her team become irreplaceable (for they had cannily positioned themselves as waste reducing reformers now tasked with streamlining the whole organisation). Who could get rid of the get-ridders?

~~~~

Work saved Jasmine. It also burnt a sizeable hole in her heart. A string of unhappy unfulfilled liaisons pre and post marriage. She was ready for the long haul of single living when M chanced upon her.

On her own she had decided the need for exhilaration does not always require a man. A good book would do just fine. Some time invested in searching and meeting book club organisers led her to ‘The Dark Place’. An adult reading club reserved for lovers of occult fiction. Her kind of secret vice.

This was not the Goth infested, vamp loving teenage shlock fest she had endured several times. This was a small coterie of genuine occult affectionados. People who took the longer route to savour Castle Cachtice or those who actually paid an obscene amount to have dinner served at Borley Rectory. They had stories to share, and they were without fail all skeptics (unlike Jasmine). The membership took pains to make it clear they were not a lunatic Satanic cult…but were a genuine group wanting to explore and learn…and given evidence were prepared to believe. However there was never any consensus but a lot of good natured debate.

In one of the group’s legendary debunking sessions (a forlorn attempt to revive interest in the vampiric sightings of rural Derbyshire circa 1799) Jasmine first met M. It was on all hallows eve at a special reading of Poe. The group kept membership interaction to a minimum outside of gatherings. Each member simply selected an alphabet card to wear and that is how they were known. No need for useless chitchat or pleasantries or the need to ask about impending holiday or Christmas plans. This was an efficient quiet group solely focused on stroking theories and reviewing good occult fiction.

“Hello J”

A small chilling sensation at the nape of her neck momentarily distracted Jasmine. She had quite forgotten her chosen alphabetical identity. She found herself staring at a very handsome slim (decidedly country) gent. Pale blue piercing eyes. A cruel chin. An Errol Flynn tribute moustache. Very expensive tan leather gloves. Quite possibly old Derbyshire country stock.

“Oh um..hello…H”

She realised she had been staring. She nodded and shook hands with the lovely Asian lady next to M. She pointedly ignored the man and lavished her attentions on ‘H’.

Jasmine had seen this raven haired woman a few times. Petite, beautifully turned out, pearly white teeth. ‘H’ was as close to a friend as she had in the gathering. She took H’s hand and began to outwardly pay attention to H’s opinion about the featured Poe short story. All the while trying (failing) not to look at M…or surreptitiously move closer to M. Nudge or walk past, or sit one seat further (closer). That delicious feeling of denying herself the chance to get to know anything about M.

~~~~

She had met M at the gathering and refused to engage in any conversation. She nodded and a half smile goodbye later left the book club completely giddy with girlish excitement. A man had finally caught her fancy. A tall handsome man… a man she wanted to know but decided it would be equally pleasurable not to.

Jasmine had surmised the need for a man’s physical presence was wholly unnecessary. She could and did much better on her own. She enjoyed her solo holidays. Her solitary pursuits of cinema or the countryside was no longer spoilt by the company of someone she had to please. It was cheaper. It was far more pleasurable and peaceful. It was logical. Its how she functioned.

M would do just fine. She would fantasize about M. Go on “dates”. Make love. Enjoy the spoils of the afterglow all by herself. Knowing the man (and his weaknesses) would only ruin the illusion.

That first night in the throes of sickly passion Jasmine felt a strange cold oddly chilling sensation as she ‘arrived’. She was thinking about this blue eyed tall rather handsome man… and suddenly felt two piercing stings to her neck. Like a ballerina gracefully dancing into a screeching carcrash finale.

It broke her trance completely. Wrapped in her emerald brocade dressing gown she walked up to the bathroom mirror to find she had scratched her neck. Odd. Two small marks and a faint trickle of blood. She laughed nervously as she cleaned the damaged skin carefully applying antiseptic. She had a dreamless night. The stars were eclipsed and M held her heart.

~~~~

The next day her neck smarted enough to warrant a Doctor’s appointment. She felt ridiculous sitting in the waiting room. She lied to her Physician claiming she had no knowledge of how they happened. After clearing and dressing the area, she was given a course of antibiotics and a precautionary jab. Goodness! Never had one man’s reverie landed her in such hot waters.

Okay M. You are to be shelved for now. She returned to the familiar happy musings of her beloved tennis champion (Greatest of all time no less) or her favourite romantic poet.

Hmm.

Odd.

Throughout the day she found herself completely utterly obsessed with M. The more she thought about him, the more she wanted to scratch her neck. She picked and pulled at the dressing until it came off. Inspecting her neck she was amazed and oddly thrilled to see the innocent scratch marks now resembled two angry deep red punctures. There was at first just a single ruby drop. Then a small stream of fresh oozing. Jasmine worried enough to cash in her growing mountain of annual leave. Taking two impromptu weeks off.

~~~~

She was going to (did she… didn’t she?)spend the next two weeks alone in her hideaway cottage in Buxton. It is here where M stained her life in ways impossible to undo. High in the Derbyshire peaks walking past heartbreaking views…she stopped to catch her breath. Feeling her neck and a momentary terror of not being able to feel her own skin. A numbness had taken over her neck and her left shoulder.

She hurried indoors and lit a fire. In the crackle of the log fire she relaxed (suitably brandied) and picked up an unfinished book. The Argumentative Indian would have to wait. Jasmine was slipping away.

As she drifted off she felt a strange warmth envelope her and a searing hot gnawing at her throat. Too weak to open her eyes she felt a face close to her own. An unmistakable face and chin and cold cruel lips locking on her throat. She gagged as she felt a suckling tug at her neck.

She steadied herself and forced herself awake. And that is when it finally hit her.

She was not in her lovely cottage in Buxton.

She was not on annual leave. There was no more in tray to strategize.

She did not drive up the winding A52 route so tricky in the snow. Her car was not parked in its chosen spot picture perfect.

She wasn’t even awake anymore. But this was no sleep. This was awake and asleep and in between coldness.

Surrounding her were a few sad familiar faces. H wearing a single strand of pearls. There was a photograph of someone familiar. Maybe her mother? Lilies. She could smell lilies everywhere. She hated lilies. There were some candles.

She tried to focus and finally could distinguish the features in the photograph. It was her face. These were her friends surrounding her, looking at the gilt framed image and back at her. Her hands were held by a few but she could feel nothing. She wanted to scream but could find no voice. She was alive and yet unseemingly not quite present. A garland of false tributes and weak words kept wafting up to her like cheap perfume and she could do nothing. Nothing but listen and lie absolutely still.

~~~~

“What a horrible shocking thing. She was in such good health. I last saw her two weeks ago and she seemed so happy”

“Did you know the board approved Jasmine to take over the whole East Midlands portfolio and oversee the merger. I mean this is just crazy I was supposed to go shopping with her in the new year. We had confirmed tickets to Berlin”

“Isn’t it odd how they found her”

“Exsanguination. How does this even take place naturally?”

~~~~

As the mourners left one by one he silently folded his newspaper. It was the only paper M ever did read. The Eastern Gazette dated 1895 (preserved with great care) was folded back into its smart (though now fraying) velvet case.

When the room was finally empty as the walking stench filtered out into the street he decided to try a second introduction.

The coffin (his gift) was an absolute beauty skillfully decorated by his native craftsmen. She lay as beautiful as he first saw her only brighter with the foul trappings of life now stripped clean from her veins.

He leaned over and gently whispered into her ear. Like a moth whose wing brushes across a frosted window pane in stillness.

“Hello J”

~~~~

Jasmine felt a strong tidal wave of heat emanate from within her cold (long dead) body.  She opened her eyes and felt truly alive. This was to be a singularly happy Christmas. She smiled and whispered back.

“Hello M”

~~~~

That time of year

Autumn opens its sketchbook and chooses the richest colours to tell a story. Crisp blue skies and a sweet chill that for now is quite pleasing before it turns vicious. Misty mornings and quiet afternoons hushed with a sense of fulfillment as summer ends. It is the season of many memories unfolding and for me a time of great unease. In autumn more than at any other time do I feel like I never truly belong anywhere. Perhaps I was never meant to.

As a child growing up these months were a hive of activity all around me. We lived in Nepal and in a way were shielded from the full frontal assault of the festive season. Autumn in the Hindu calender sees a great rejoicing as many divine visitors decide to step down for a jamboree of sorts. The scent and sounds, sights and tastes, feel and immersion of the season had lasting after effects.

My father hated the vulgar excesses. There was deep seated resentment against the whole artifice of festivity where there were such sharp contrasts to humanity leering in the face with the poverty stricken and weak staring in from the outside. In his own way he would try to equal the situation. He would lend a hand in cooking the festive feast as long as a large portion was given to the most hungry. He hated the very act of worship on display. They say I am my father’s daughter. I say nothing.

I am trying to understand how each significant soul known to me intimately viewed the season. My father hated it. It is his blind hatred that perhaps colours most of my views. What of the others?

My brother studiously avoided the entire proceeding by refusing to leave his room. There were more important things to consider. Pure mathematics for one. His annoyance was such that he would not even acknowledge the festival. Like a driven maniac he would doggedly pursue his own work and not blink.

My grandfather had a beautiful sense of painless sarcasm. His remarks would indicate the festival wasn’t for him – but he “tolerated” those who quite clearly wanted to waste time demonstrating their need to flaunt recent purchases in the clothes and jewellery departments. Everybody is owed a stage.

My mother was always impeccable in her outer finery but like many of the idols on worship there was a hollow core. It did not resonate.

What of me? What did I think?

I visited my maternal home for the dreaded holidays. Was I not in the gang of cousins and friends staying up all night visiting different neighbourhoods? Did I not take part in the dress up make up pretend to make out sessions? Did I not eat my fill of the festive feast? Was I not around indulgent aunts and doting grandparents? Did I not meet the eye of a handsome next door boy and pretend to be wholly uninterested while secretly relishing my triumph? Oh the disappointment when he finally spoke and was revealed as an idiot. Young men. If only they had a drop of charisma and integrity of their quieter older brethren.

I was a part indeed at the heart of the blinding chaos. I was all of that and some more. I was hollowed out and empty. I was with people and I was alone. I was supremely beautiful and felt entirely wretched.

This whole festive nightmare goes up one notch at Christmas and New Year when the entire planet joins in. I feel stifled and deeply incurably unhappy within. I run away to quiet places and watch the sun rise and set and rise again.

Why do we need to be a part of a big swelling tide when we feel we do not belong anywhere? Belonging is a strange word. Stranger concept.

We are meant to grow and explore. Not stay bound to one place. And yet somewhere there lurks a faint trace of nostalgia. I wonder if the old cripple I daily fed by the broken temple breathes still. I know full well they must have fled this earth many years ago. I want to see the idol workshop that had an array of half alive deities carefully worked upon. I spent many hours gawking at those skilled hands.

Ten days of frantic worship and then the final immersion. I always wanted the sequence to be reversed. For us to bring our weak forgotten gods out of the filthy water and to restore them to their full splendour. For us to keep them in glory for ten days and then return them to the innocence of untouched clay. Is that even possible?

I lead a fairly simple life now. With a wide steer away from any such festivity. I find it easier to become my invisible brother than my seething father. I could never hold a candle to my majestic mother. I do not even try.

Of late a friend has steered me back into that world of colour and chaos. It has been an uncomfortable homecoming. I find many tears and many memories spilling forth from a tightly corked bottle I had safely stowed away. I have resolved never to feel this way again.

I like to think I am away from the rumbling excess and cloistered in my own world of bejeweled beauty. Surrounded by the sights of autumn’s plenty and the gentle lapping of a golden sun. The divine lies beyond this play of mud and malice. Somewhere far away and far greater than what my puny mind could ever comprehend.

Thoughts in the garden at noon

Someone I know
May have died
It might even be me
As I tiptoe past those roses
Lavender burning my fevered skin
I know someone left these here
To quietly remind me to mourn
It may no longer matter
I am not sure anymore
Certainty escapes me
Like weeds around sunburnt flagstones
I know of an undoing
And I wonder when
My casket opened
You floated then
Like a half forgotten dream
In tender words once so certain (now unseen)
Yes yes it has to be
This feeling of immense lightness
Nothing holds me fast (anymore)
I am free to soar
I have left
I have fled
Nothing remains
There has been a dying (of sorts)
I am no longer
My post mortem in poorly cobbled verse
Shall from this Earth transcript
All that was churlishly unsaid
Between us
We remain locked
Like a single black spot
On a healthy musk rose
Like a cancerous mole
On fragrant fair skin
Like mellow wine and unwelcome loud thoughts
That in irritation remind me
Oh my dearest
Someone I know
May have died
It may even be me