Winter Blues

Same time a year ago, snowy driveways,
frozen roads, icicles on naked trees,
for several dreaded despairing days.
I dreamt of July and a summer breeze
as the dreary darkness wore out its stay.

But even through this darkness bleak, I sought
a break in time. I did not want these days
to end, ’tis the passage of time I fought.

And so it’s true of our fondest wishes:
Of highs, of moments of joy unsurpassed,
that trail gloom toward weary finishes,
where we choose to let go or to make it last.

Awaiting seasons’ ends and new tomorrows,
we watch each sunset with immense sorrow.

About Poetry

Three years ago this day, when I had no interest in poetry or poets and had never imagined I would ever pick up a book of poetry, I was stunned to read the news item in the Wall Street Journal that talked about Ruth Lilly’s bequeathing $100 million to Poetry magazine. According to Joe Parisi, editor of this 1912 magazine that has featured works of Dylan Thomas, Yeats and Auden over the years, this generous donation ensures their existence in perpetuity. What’s even more interesting is the fact that Ms Lilly, a poet herself, has only ever received rejection letters from the magazine and she has been trying for thirty years!

This was a small headline in the Wall Street Journal, where the paper lists all the news in three or four line snippets on the first page.. I remember reading it, remarking on it and moving on. Not even bothering to read the detailed news item in the inner pages. Poetry was not something I ever thought about.

Fast-forward three years and I am like a kid in the candy store. Devouring everything poetic that crosses my line of vision and occasionally attempting a verse or two of my own. Last year was the first time I started paying any attention to poetry. I had joined a writers’ network online and saw some people post a new poem everyday. I was in awe. I was also disappointed with the network because it seemed to be favoring poetry and poets. I never saw much prose being posted. Poetry had always left me cold before but prose was a different matter. I had always loved to write and prose came rather effortlessly to me. But I kept an open mind and started paying attention to the poetry being posted. This was quite an education. I rarely noticed any structure or rhyme. This disturbed me, I found it disconcerting because I expected poems to rhyme. I expected each line to start with a capitalized letter, I expected to see stanzas. I wasn’t seeing any of this. It made me question some folks on the network. I asked them what they thought poetry was. I asked if prose spaced differently can be called poetry (with a healthy dose of sarcasm) because that’s what I thought I was seeing. The answers that came back were in favor of “free verse”. One person who answered me alerted me to the fact that a lot of poetry was about recitation, about reading out aloud and that which distinguished it from prose was the inherent poetic rhythm.

I accepted the answer for the time being. But then I came across the poetry of a person who never sacrificed rhyme or rhythm or structure. The confines were rigid but the message was always profound, albeit filled with extreme hurt and bitterness. This person’s work really sparked my interest in poetry and made me want to read more, to explore, to study styles, to observe and to learn. I am a long way from writing outstanding or deeply satisfying poetry but I have come a very long way in understanding and appreciating what I do read. There are poems that reel me in, each word sinking in, appearing magical making me marvel at the writer and the written word and then there are others that make me wonder why the author wanted something so pedestrian stated in verse. They are uninspiring and leave me cold. But the same poem appeals to certain others, they like it, love it, they celebrate the author while I wonder what they saw.

It isn’t comforting not knowing what’s good poetry and what isn’t. If it is something so subjective, that what some like, others find pedestrian, why expect critique? What does one expect from critique?

The more I immerse myself in poetry, the more I find that this interest was meant to be. This is how my brain thinks. It’s a deep-seated desire to communicate, to say the most in as few words, in les mot juste. I see many do it so effectively. I have been noticing several layers of meaning within very simple sounding words, words like rainbows reflecting all colors, the entire spectrum of human emotions and some with words and sentences that are so opaque, it’s almost as if they absorbed every bit of meaning or associations available, transmitting nothing like light. I see such poetry praised and I get confused to the point of insanity as I ask myself, “What am I missing?” It is almost as if it is too late, as if in early childhood the brain got wired such that I would never know what “good” poetry is. I keep falling back on instincts, instinctively determining whether or not a poem has been successful in communicating its meaning to me. If it has it is the most amazing piece of poetry, if it hasn’t it is just black words on paper or in cyberspace.

But I know that is not enough. I feel the structure is important. I always like poetry that follows a rhyme scheme, meter, that can be read aloud and sounds euphonic with an inherent rhythm. I like the cleverness seen in alliteration and am slowly becoming impressed to the point of marveling at the kinds of poets who tell me they can map out an entire sonnet in their head before they actually transmit it to paper. The idea that there is “logic” and a system to a poem makes me very glad. It gives my pattern-seeking brain a tremendous amount of hope. It is not a riddle, there is a method to this madness and I am going to discover what it is. It has become an obsession. Something I couldn’t care less about up until 365 days ago, is now an all-consuming obsession; not writing it so much as understanding it completely.

It is easy to learn things these days by surfing the Internet and following each link to the next level of information, however, it is heart-warming and extremely enlightening when someone who knows about poetry talks to you and tells you, without a trace of condescension, what good poetry is all about, that a Shakespearean sonnet is a good place to start ones education in poetry. It is thrilling to be taught that one can think of a sonnet as two poems – an octave and a sestet The octave, the first eight lines, sets up the theme of the sonnet and the sestet, the last six lines, is for resolution or conclusion. This however, is not a Shakespearean sonnet, it is a Petrarch sonnet, I believe. The Shakespearean one has three quatrains where the first and third lines and the second and fourth lines rhyme. The Shakespearean sonnet ends with a couplet where both lines rhyme and are always indented. I was also told how important the ending couplet was to the Shakespearean sonnet. Any sign of forced rhyming and it is reduced to nothing but a farce. Of course the iambic pentameter is indispensable to the entire sonnet. This was a lot of learning for me in one incredible chat session with a very disciplined poet. He encouraged me to try writing sonnets, but told me to read enough of them first, to immerse myself in them. I will always be grateful for this advice.

Maybe someday I will know enough to understand the points that literary critics are trying to make when they dissect a particular poem. And perhaps this clarity will come after I learn how to understand every piece of poetry I read.

Until that day, I continue on this quest and see where it takes me. I have found many friends who are willing to share a wealth of poetic knowledge, to offer help and guidance and it is thrilling to see how ones mind can expand when one is exposed to pure knowledge. I have a very long way to go but as Ringo said, “I’ll get by with a little help from my friends…”

One Morning in a Bus...

Another morning’s commute. I left home pre-dawn, my eyes still trying to squint their sleepiness away. I drove to the Park & Ride in a haze. Perhaps I sleep-drove? I have no recollection of passing any of the landmarks along the way and yet I had reached the parking lot and was shivering as I waited in line for my 6:15 AM bus. The dark days of winter were definitely here.

I found myself a warm and cozy corner of the bus, adjusted the seat and found the most comfortable physical position for the two hour ride. I tried reading East of Eden until the words of Adam Trask and Sam Hamilton’s conversation about the Bordoni acres’ irrigational prospects started swimming around on the page. I don’t know when the book slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor.

The bus made its way along the same highway in the stop-and-go traffic and then to the bridge that takes us closer to Lincoln tunnel en route New York City (NYC). The bus needs to climb a little on this bridge, over the very slight gradient, and it was, until I came to the realization that the climb was steeper than normal. I felt my back pressing deeper into the seat as it climbed higher and higher while its rusty gears got noisier by the minute. Something was definitely not right. In my mind I started running through all the bridges that lead into NYC – the George Washington Bridge, the Tappan Zee Bridge – I couldn’t recollect either one being a steep climb. The climbing continued as I awaited descent in preparation of getting on to the other side. But I couldn’t feel the descent. Then my eyes flew open and I was stunned at the sight. The clouds were all below me, except for the wispy cirrus ones that seemed awfully close as the bus hurtled into nothingness. To say I was panicking would be an understatement. I turned my head and noticed that there weren’t any other passengers next to me, come to think of it, neither were their seats, nor were the walls of the bus. It was almost as if I had been ejected out of a flying bus! And yet I wasn’t falling. I was just headed out at warp speed, into nothingness, strapped to a bus seat without any restraints!

This felt as real as it gets and then I opened my eyes. I really did this time because I know I saw the driver in the driver’s seat and the passenger next to me and felt reassured about being safe and secure inside a bus that was intact and still on the ground.

I was seated at a window seat and suddenly felt a draught. I glanced toward the window and noticed that it had slid open. I slid it back in place, settled in and closed my eyes again, reassured that all was well and that I wasn’t hurtling into space. But it happened again. No sooner had I closed my eyes that I found myself on a bridge climbing up into eternity. This time I knew it was a dream. I opened my eyes and glanced at the side to see the window open, once again. I closed it shut. I thought these hallucinations were being caused by the flimsy window.

By now we were near my stop. I had to get ready to auto-pilot myself out of the bus. I started searching for my work ID card and my keys and once again glanced at the window next to me. It was sealed tight, like airplane windows usually are. This was an air-conditioned bus. It didn’t have the kind of windows that would slide open and then slide back in place!!

I felt the color drain from my face. Then I looked around, really wide awake now. The passengers were all familiar, the driver was his usual cheery self and was announcing the stop that preceded mine. Things were wearing their normal November morning frigid sheen again. All was well with the world. I picked up my things, got off the bus and started walking to work.

Needless to say, I haven’t been able to think of anything else all day. I rarely remember my dreams and this is the kind of dream I’ve never dreamt before, the kind where you feel you have awakened from your dream, but the ostensible awakening is still part of the dream and you have to wake up a third time in order to feel awake again.

The rest of the day went by in a haze, leaving me thankful about my feet on the ground and my head far away from wispy cirrus clouds but extremely doubtful about my present state of wakefulness.

An Interview: The Other Side

He arrived wearing an ill-fitting suit, sweating profusely. He forced himself to smile and the handshake was just short of being firm.

I led him into the conference room and asked him to take a seat. He managed to squeeze his considerable bulk in the chair I indicated and smiled as he mopped his brow. I asked if I could get him a glass of water but he said he was fine.

I had an HTML version of his resume in front of me and asked if he had a clean MS Word formatted version of the same. But he couldn't have given it to me if he tried, he had arrived empty handed. And my request for it made him even more ill at ease.

I tried to allay his fears and gave him my business card asking that he send me one as soon as he got home. Then I asked him to talk to me about his work experience. He started his story from the time he was a desk clerk at a major national newspaper, seventeen years ago, and ended with the senior manager position from which he was downsized seven months ago. He was extremely proud of his accomplishments and even grew misty-eyed as he spoke with pride of the increasing levels of responsibilities with which he was entrusted over the years. Several awards, rewards and certificates later he had been told that the company no longer required his services.

Nothing in his experience was commensurate with the kind of job I expected my ideal candidate to be able to do. I searched long and hard for similarities but was hard-pressed to find any, especially since he had already stated that he wasn't a "numbers" person and the person I needed had to be able to write MS Excel macros in his or her sleep.

So I decided to tell him about the company, the job, the prerequisites and then asked him if it sounded like something he could do. This sympathetic question, however, served as a trigger for a catharsis of sorts. He told me,

"Look, I'll do anything! I am a quick learner. I haven't done any of what you described but I am confident I can do it. I have been job-hunting for seven months now, there is nothing out there for me. This newspaper was the only employer I had ever known. I never thought they would discard me in this manner. But I am certain I can do this job. I'll need training, but please, I can do it!" Desperate promises, heart-rending in their intensity.

My heart went out to him. I wanted to say, "Here, the job is yours! I'll train you. You'll do well, I am sure!"

I had been in a similar situation myself, my unemployment had lasted six weeks and I was hired back by my former employer. But those six weeks had made me feel like I had entered the bowels off hell. I had lost my sense of purpose, my self-esteem and my sense of self-worth. I must have appeared like desperation and anxiety personified, it surely must have overshadowed every other personable trait I had. Sweating, yes. I remembered sweating, the fine beads forming on my skin inside the formal interview jacket I wore, could they smell it? No I couldn't smell it on him it was masked by an overpowering cologne.

But I couldn't as an employer, do what my heart told me to do. I couldn't hire someone who didn't know the job, who would be "grateful" for the opportunity. I don't know how long gratefulness lasts and try as I may, I couldn't ignore the fact that he was downsized by his former employer, why him?

I asked him if he had any questions for me and instead of asking about the job, the company, the structure, he asked me about the salary, the benefits and the vacation schedule! Exactly the things one cannot ask at a first interview. Clearly, he had no experience interviewing. His former employer had rendered him unemployed and unemployable.

I bade him farewell with a promise to call after we had interviewed other candidates. I returned to my desk, feeling awful, breathing in the traces of desperation and hopelessness, intermingled with that cologne, that his handshake had left on my fingertips.

Holidays? Well this is the holiday season and I met him again at a publishing industry get together. He was nursing his beer in a corner of the room, many of us had skirted around him after a quick nod of greeting. I couldn't even bring myself to do that.

Pragya

Acorn-stomping Anyone?

Yesterday I read an article by Ian Frazier in the Nov. 7, 2005 issue of The New Yorker. The article is called: Pensées D’Automne and appears in the Shouts & Murmurs section of the magazine. I’ve read it several times since. I am fascinated by the way his words flow at a pace that’s as easy as the leisurely autumnal morning walk that he is describing. The closest analogy would be a train ride where each passing scene is framed by the window for an instant and then it passes as your eyes focus on something else. I was happy to board his train of thoughts for sometime.

Fall or autumn in America is always a memorable event, especially in the north east where some people are even described as leaf-peepers, they take to the roads in mid-September and head for New England just to stick their heads out of the window and absorb the fall colors at their peak, spotting hues they didn’t know existed in deciduous trees, interlaced with the greens in the evergreen gymnosperms; an innocuous yet magical activity that has the power to overwhelm, the power to soothe the soul.

Ian’s article, as the title suggests, is about his thoughts during a crisp fall morning walk. He talks about the special heavy, shin-high boots he’s wearing, a “Danner Foothill model with Vibram soles”, that he declares are perfect for, take a guess….”acorn-stomping”!! It was this talk of acorn-stomping that grabbed my attention in the first paragraph and I was hooked, I had to read on and discover for myself what acorn-stomping was all about.

Ian managed to convey the exhilaration that he felt at this favorite childhood activity. His Danner Foothill boots apparently have a “sweet spot” in the heels and as he walks along the oak-tree lined sidewalks of his New Jersey neighborhood he devotes considerable thought to a strategy that would maximize his satisfaction from this activity. He says, “Hit a single acorn just so and you get a satisfying, shivery tingle between the shoulder blades. Hit a series of acorns, first right, then left, then right, and so on as long as the random distribution of acorns on the sidewalk permits, each acorn struck square on the sweet spot, crunch, crunch, crunch, never breaking stride – well, that’s what you’re looking for.”

Now this article is really not all about acorn-stomping, it is about present day America, about the deep satisfaction derived from an effectively stomped acorn, the sound of its gunshot-like report and how disheartening and jarring it is to stomp on it the wrong way, in a way where one fails to make it pop and it just whooshes out its contents in a mess.

While walking and stomping he wonders about his reasons for doing so. Perhaps it is a way of working out his frustrations, his deep dissatisfaction with the rising healthcare costs in the country. But then again it can’t be because the more he thinks about the issues that are plaguing this country the more inaccurate his stomping becomes and the more unpleasant the activity. For an inaccurately stomped acorn, leaves one with a “jangling, teeth-grinding wrongness”. He compares this “wrongness” to the way certain theologians have described sin, as an “apartness from God”. This gets him thinking about the state of his own health which is why he’s walking in the first place. He talks about the obesity of this nation, a country where even the raccoons and squirrels are getting morbidly obese by rifling through suburban garbage cans, scurrying away with toaster waffles in their mouths. He talks about innocuous events that could shape the future. He thinks about these vast spaces, this land of plenty where deer are found dead on the road while we build homes in their natural habitats and the gourmet smells that rise up from our manicured, never-grazed lawns as we mow down the wild onions that are a part of many a lawn.

He talks about Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez’s visit to America and his comment about 99% of the cars, rather SUV’s, on the road being driven by a single occupant and how unsustainable a mode of life this really is. Hugo decides to sell Venezuelan oil to the poor in South Bronx, at half price, and an evangelist is prompt enough to issue a death threat on Hugo’s life.

As an American I can appreciate Ian’s concerns, I have felt the jarring, discordant note in many an aspect of my own life. A sense that things are essentially wrong and that this way of life cannot possibly be sustainable. However, thinking about comparing this to an acorn-stomping autumnal activity as a metaphor for contentment or discontent is what makes me feel like a stranger in this rather strange land. I could never write an article such as this one because this wasn’t my childhood. I have lived in America for seventeen years and this is the first time I’ve heard about this favorite childhood pastime. It is a detail I could never absorb, a metaphor I could never use.

This makes me realize how right Maugham really was when he said:

"It is very difficult to know people and I don't think one can ever really know any but one's own countrymen. For men and women are not only themselves; they are also the region in which they were born, the city apartment or the farm in which they learnt to walk, the games they played as children, the old wives' tales they overheard, the food they ate, the schools they attended, the sports they followed, the poets they read, and the God they believed in. It is all these things that have made them what they are, and these are the things that you can't come to know by hearsay, you can only know them if you have lived them. You can only know them if you are them. And because you cannot know persons of a nation foreign to you except from observation, it is difficult to give them credibility in the pages of a book. Even so subtle and careful an observer as Henry James, though he lived in England for forty years, never managed to create an Englishman who was through and through English."

But does this passage assume that one could feel at home, living and breathing the inherent, generational culture and memories in one’s so-called “homeland” as opposed to one’s adopted home? What if no place feels like home? Perhaps I should try some acorn-stomping along my own sidewalks and see if I can get to experience the sweet satisfaction of the shivery tingle that could start at the heel and travel up to a spot between the shoulder blades, perhaps practice could make me perfect at this exercise and then finally I’ll feel at home, enhancing the American dream by “living” the American "fall".

Table for Two

Table for Two
------------------------

It isn’t the cardamom or cumin,
nor the rosemary, sage or thyme,
there’s a hint of oregano but the taste
is mostly undefined.

You spent several hours over it,
Stirring it to a smoothness divine,
Then offered me a taste from a ladle,
And laid out my favorite wine.

Now we sit across from each other,
Candlelight shining in our eyes,
I ask you for your secret recipe,
And the “je ne sais quoi” it hides.

But some questions are rhetorical
Asking them a pleasant routine,
We both know the answer’s love
it's richness felt but never seen.

Minesweeper

It is like the game at which you excelled,
Broke all records, found all those mines
In 30 seconds flat. Ready to go again.
All set to win every game, ready to outshine,
Our counter-strategies always in vain,
As cold logic got you there, your luck held.

But life my dear, is not a computer game,
Just like relationships don’t run in binary.
Something you never could fathom.
As you went on believing her in a hurry
Discarding their complaints as random,
Scoring points and passing around blame.

Now there’s no turning back, no amends
possible. Each loved one is on the brink,
teetering at the point of no return.
While you watch, incredulous, and think
of numerical equations to soothe the burn
of seared souls and blazing fences you can’t mend.

Now the logic of ifs and thens leads to walls
of stony silences or acrimony. Tread light
my dear, to find your way out of this minefield,
there’s much to lose to the darkest of nights.
Where no one is prepared to give or yield
Or help you gauge whence duty calls.

Generalization

When it comes to generalizations I suppose someone will tell me soon enough not to knock it until I try it.

I have observed the writings of two people who have recently left their homeland for higher studies abroad. They are bloggers and aspiring writers and have been recording unusual events in their blogs. Reading them makes me think how important this generalization function really is to the brain. It seems to be the very first response, the first defense. It is like the strange and funny though entirely lovable robot - Johnny V - in the movie Short Circuit. In the big city or any new environs, he actively scans his surroundings saying, "Input, Input!" My two friends are doing it too. Observing, recording and processing so many new events, new sights, new linguistic nuances, culture, behavior that has the potential of creating utter chaos in the brain. In comes generalization. Now they can consolidate reams of new data in fewer categories and attribute certain traits and patterns of behavior to each category. Voila! They've built sorting bins in their brains. Now they have some rudimentary means of coping with the deluge of sensory perception.

So far so good, it is just a coping mechanism. So you think Americans are not good at Math or Sciences, you think they are rude, you think they are shallow and superficial, helps you tailor your own behavior toward them. You think the country is all form and no substance...a dangerous one. Maybe it works for you now to think that. Things are fine at this initial sorting bin stage but when these bins morph into really tall and fortified walls as time goes by we have ourselves people with unshakeably dogmatic views on how a certain group of people will behave. They start extending the analysis to how an entire country or race or people with a certain ethnology will behave. That is when the real danger kicks in.

My resistance to the idea of generalization stems from a realization of this danger. When I encountered a new culture for the first time I wasn't generalizing at all, I must have been born with a gene that was averse to such a defense mechanism. But I was coming across many people who were trying to force me down one particular hatch or the other. There were people who really believed that Indians loved to burn new brides whose parents had failed to arrange for dowry, they believed that infanticide of the girl child was a widespread phenomenon. The odd uneducated American also questioned me about snake charmers on the street and felt that all Indians, male or female wore turbans on their head. My hackles were always raised in defense of all things Indian. "Ah you're from India, to which tribe do you belong?" or "When you go to pick up your Mom on the airport will she have a humongous turban on her head?" or "What do Indians have against beef?" or "Why are they so clannish?" or "My doctor is Indian. How come all Indians are doctors?" or "Mr Patel runs the local Dunkin Donuts or 7-11, told me he's from Delhi, do you know him?"

This could have led me to generalize that all Americans are adept at asking the dumbest questions possible but I chose to believe that this wasn't the case. There are enough Americans out there who know better and have educated and informed opinions about India and Indians. In fact, your Indianness doesn't trigger any automatic value judgments about you.

So if I could, I would love to caution these two people to keep this instinct in check. America isn't all form and no substance just as India isn't a country where dowryless brides are regularly burnt. Just reading the inscribed words of Thomas Jefferson at Jefferson Memorial, Washington DC could have sent home just the opposite message of how substantial a country America really is.

Vanilla Days

I have been reading what people like to write, for a little over a year now. It was exciting in the beginning. I have always loved snooping, always loved to bury myself in someone's old diary, reading their deepest, darkest secrets, reading about what made them tick, their quirks and their motivations. But juicy diaries were hard to come by. And then I discovered blogging. I felt like I died and went to heaven when I discovered the "Next Blog" button. So many juicy tidbits and delicious morsels of humanity all around me. Every perspective seemed new.

That was then and this is now. I have now discovered that not only are most blogs most uninteresting, filled with bad poetry and worse prose but that the "Next Blog" button can easily bring some exotic computer viruses your way.

There really are no unique perspectives anywhere, somehow each human aspect merges and fuses into one common consciousness. It is almost as if we were cyborgs. We are one.

The only things people write about is being in love, being out of love, how love hurts, how lack of love hurts, how one-sided it is, how full of longing we are, how obsessed we are, how surprised we are that someone else is so obsessed with another, who did what to whom, how one is never understood. It all runs into the same theme. It is like the color black - the color that absorbs all the other colors of the spectrum or perhaps it is like the color white, the color that reflects all the other colors in the spectrum, a matter of perspective...yes, which is never unique. Uniqueness lasts only as long as one hasn't previously been exposed to something. It is like the sandy/beige color of my Dad's Fiat in India. When we bought it we all thought, "Wow! What a unique color! We've never seen that color before!" Then as we drove on the streets of Delhi, we realized that every other car on the road was of the same color.

I read several blogs today. P's blog was the same as always full of what he considered a witty, pithy turn of phrase. Another P's blog was full of heartache again - a personal relationship causing such angst, such tears and such predictability in her significant other's reaction to her words and her tears. Then I read D's blog, again more of the same "I-am-up-here-and-the-rest-of-you-are-jerks". A's blog was full of bad poetry and J's blog was full of affirmations and lines that could have come from a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. Most of these blogs were very popular. Each post generating 50 or so comments and each comment was as inane as the post itself. They would start with "Ah.." and say something like *sigh* or *shudder* based on how the post moved them. *Sigh*

So where do I find the next mystery? What is the next thing that will make me say, "Wow!" I keep waiting for the next such thing with bated breath. Hope springs eternal in the promise of each new day, each sunrise. But it is quelled again with the setting sun. There is very little variation in the routine of each day. It's a flatline with not the tiniest blip in sight.

Well, there really isn't anything better to keep me entertained, the palate tickled. So I'll keep savoring the vanilla, if only to reassure myself that I can still taste.

Boredom Haiku

Intense boredom
Boa constrictor
Swallowed me whole

Reviews of sort

I find myself fascinated with common themes that run through the works of my favorite authors and novelists. Even if the writing is not autobiographical in nature it inevitably reveals more than it conceals about their motivations, their passions and the uniqueness of their message.

I remember reading Wally Lamb’s masterpiece – She’s Come Undone – seven or eight years ago. It was about Dolores, a girl who hailed from a broken home and had absolutely nothing going for her, no confidence, no prospects, a 257 lbs weight problem, a drug problem, you name it she had it. She had the most bizarre ailments possible. The event that turned things around for her was her finding herself washed up on a beach, following a suicide attempt, waking up staring straight into the dead eyes of a beached whale.

Quite a memorable scene, something a reader cannot easily forget, a pivot around which her whole life turns. The dead whale is an omen, as well as a metaphor for her life so far, a sign that she has hit rock bottom and that the only thing left for her to do, was to turn her life around and to start afresh.

Dolores does turn her life around then. She checks herself into a rehabilitation center and emerges a slimmer and more confident version of herself, someone well-equipped to start over.

Lamb’s biting humor, his portrayal of dysfunction in Dolores’ broken family, Dolores’ use of sarcasm as a defense mechanism, all made for an intense reading experience, making me examine the various ways in which I related to Dolores, even though my life is nothing like hers. She was essentially an observer, even while stumbling through life as she was. Her circumstances angered her, frustrated her, drove her to suicide while she remained someone who let life happen to her, who watched with eyes peeled, from front row seats. Her character shared a likeness to the interactive and engaged participants in a stage rendition of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Wally Lamb possessed the gift of exploring banalities and elevating seemingly mundane aspects of life to the most profound statement and analyses of our subconscious drives.

Naturally this book of his sent me looking for his other works, in search for his first novel – I Know This Much is True. I didn’t review these books at the time I read them which was several years ago, so please forgive me for glossing over many essential details. What I do recall, however, is that the book was about twin brothers. One of the twins became a schizophrenic spending time in and out of institutions. His life was a complete mess. His delusions even led him to interpreting the bible quite literally and severing his right hand after being deeply affected by the line – And if thy right hand offends thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee.

Lamb’s consummate storytelling and his observations about despairing, ruined lives was evident once again in the depiction of the mentally ill twin, the shattered pieces of whose psyche, are viewed juxtaposed against the jagged pieces of the normal twin’s equally hellish life; the burdens he bears, the responsibilities he owns and the pain that is as much his as his brothers. Lamb depicts well the warped fusion of the two psyches together.

What stood out for me, in this book, was the normal twin’s coming to terms with his need for counseling and rehabilitation, a need that was equal, if not exceeding, his brother’s. I remember many fascinating pages devoted to the course of treatment his extremely competent psychiatrist prescribed.

The psychiatrist was an Indian lady with a statue of Shiva in her office. And I remember this part, even after seven or eight long years, because of the message the author conveys through her character. The doctor thinks of herself as a “shrink” in the truest sense of the word. Shiva is the God of Destruction and she sees herself as his instrument where she slowly but surely sets about dismantling all his defenses. It is said that schizophrenics are divorced from reality. Yet those of us who are medically sane are even more adept at precipitating this divorce by erecting fortified walls of duty, history, religion, social position; all mere illusions. The doctor successfully dismantles these walls within which the patient, the ‘normal’ twin, has progressively trapped himself, leaving himself no way out. She allows him to return to first principles, so to speak, and then to rebuild his life. She enables him to see himself as separate and distinct, clearly resolved and more objective about his perceived role as his brother’s keeper.

Both Lamb’s books found strong resonance with me. Both are essentially about starting over, about clean slates, about getting back to the very beginning and rebuilding, the right way this time, untainted by other influences and relying on the ‘nature’ rather than the ‘nurture’ aspects of our selves.

He hasn’t written a book since, at least not one I am aware of but I am certain I’ll pick it up when I see it, I like to see lives coming together.

Is there a theme?

Does one common theme emerge out of the writings of those of us who love to write? Have we looked back to see what's reflected back at us? Probably not, because in more than one discussion here and elsewhere people have admitted feeling detached and removed from the words they've spun.

Well, some of us do go back and analyze and are often surprised by the image in this 'mirror'. The analysis often raises more questions than it answers and plunges us deeper into further introspection. Here's one such analysis:

She talked about being an outsider, about being left out in the cold and then about getting glimpses of what it was like to be let in, to be accepted, to bask in the warmth of neon lights, to enjoy being a part of something until the very thing that she had become a part of left her cold from inside, so cold that she couldn’t stand it anymore. She wanted to leave, to run and hide anywhere but here, trying to find some warmth again, real warmth from glowing embers, the kind that conducted through each cell of the body, one cell at a time, mellowing her from within.

She thought about life being lived on a plateau, unchanged, uneventful, dormant, yet simmering within. Did this show prescience of sorts? She was also referring to the illusions of reality, of nothing ever being what it seemed, insincerities and pretensions and again the familiar lack of warmth.

She wrote about tropical vacations and about starting over, about cleansing her mind of all burdensome insecurities, of clutter, of giving life a second chance, this time living in the moment, giving it her all, really settling in.

Then the nightmares began, they were relentless. The guilt set in of not being there for her family, her friends, her work, of a growing disenchantment and disillusionment with everything.

She felt the observer’s woes every time she saw her daughter playing with her husband, enjoying summer sports and winter fun with him, while she watched, while she wrote about it and photographed the two of them together. She never found herself in any pictures, the Kodak Chrome moments didn’t belong to her.

She wondered about her detachment, about being ruled by mercury. Not the planet, the element. An element that adhered to nothing. The detachment reared its ugly head again when she saw herself skirting around the noisome presence of a homeless man, of his cart-borne lifetime of grief.

Coming full circle in this epiphanic exercise in introspection, she reached the inescapable conclusion of her growing detachment, a clinical shearing away from all emotional ties, the first few steps toward a virtually solitary existence.

Is any of it true? She can't be sure. Images are often distorted.

On Letting Go

These years will go by in a blur,
I’ll find myself in a lonely room somewhere,
Living in the past, ruing lost times with her.

Voices raised in song, the trilling laughter,
Frills and laces, ribbons in her hair,
These years will go by in a blur.

I’ll think of eyes full of mischief and wonder,
Monsters in the closets, the dolls in her care,
Living in the past, ruing lost times with her.

Her sweet kisses that made me feel better,
The adolescent fears, her thinking I didn’t care,
These years will go by in a blur.

Shadows will grow long across a barren shelter,
Its every corner yearning for her appearance rare,
Living in the past, ruing lost times with her.

Unless, I learn that its mind over matter,
Our gentle togetherness, a brief affair,
These years will go by in a blur,
Living in the past, ruing lost times with her

Grandfather's Coat

That coat, its cavernous pockets, the hidden treasures within, it graced Benny’s Scarecrow now.

My hands were always cold. My earliest memories are of times I’d slip my tiny, cold hands into his and ask, “Grandpa, how come your hands are so warm?” He would tell me his coat pockets had special hand-warming powers. He would ask me to see for myself and every time I tried I would come up with candy bars or other trinkets I fancied. The coat had inside pockets as well, for his books, notebooks, pens and pencils. Grandpa’s coat was a source of eternal fascination for me.

I loved our long walks through the woods, the fields, hand in hand stopping by Pirates’ Cove. His binoculars would come out of those pockets so we could watch the Peregrine falcons perched atop the rocks or circling up above. We walked by the scarecrow in the field, its arms extended in mid-speech, exhorting crows to stay away from the corn. Grandpa never failed to hum, “If I only had a brain…”, whenever we saw Benny’s Scarecrow. Benny was Grandpa’s childhood friend and they had crafted it together as little boys.

Deeper in the woods we would wait for the red-breasted bullfinch or the loons on the lake. His notebook always at hand, recording the stunning descriptions of flora and fauna he’d observed around us. I still remember him telling me the zoological name of the bullfinch - Pyrrhula Pyrrhula – and my inquiring if they called it that for its sound, its quiet warble. He laughed at that and told me it probably referred to the male bullfinch’s fiery red breast. I was in awe of Gramps and never left his side throughout my summer vacations.

I watched him now in his room at the Sunset Home for Seniors. The sunken eyes staring out into nothingness. I held his hand in mine watching the translucent skin stretched tight across his frail hands, crisscrossed by underlying blue veins; they had lost the warmth I had sought as a child.

He wasn’t sitting up today or pacing or throwing things in anger and frustration. This lack of energy seemed so uncharacteristic of him. His condition rarely stopped him from pacing around the room or sitting up in bed, scribbling in that notebook of his, its pages yellowed with age.

I’d tucked him in on many a night, before leaving his side; smoothing his brow, positioning his head on the pillow, unclasping his fingers from that notebook. It’s pages were immortalized in my brain, each notation firmly etched, each sketch as fresh as the day it was first rendered, at least in the earlier pages. The latter ones gradually devolving into a spidery scrawl, increasingly unintelligible, just dark squiggles now, meaningless to anyone but me. Yet his arthritic fingers clung to it with ferocity. The nurses weren’t able to pry it away.

He didn’t recognize me anymore, didn’t know my name. He even threw things at me or pushed me aside when I tried to get him to change his clothes or to go out on the lawns or to eat or drink. In his more lucid moments he recalled Benny from seventy-five years ago. He talked about the games they played, their bird watching, their tree house, his mom’s apple pie. But he never remembered his siblings or my parents. It was as if they had never existed for him.

I sat down beside him, tears rolling down my cheeks, on to the notebook, smudging the blue ink. I found the entry from fifteen years ago where he wrote about the morning he’d taken me out for breakfast and had shared the shattering news with me. We’d found our favorite spot at Papa Gallo’s Diner. He had calmly shrugged off the coat as he settled into the booth and ordered the stack of hot pancakes that we both loved. He told me his sudden bouts of forgetfulness had taken him to his doctor and that they had diagnosed the onset of Alzheimer’s Disease. He’d warned me about the progressive degeneration, reassuring me, telling me not to get disheartened. He knew things would only get worse from here on end.

They finally were. I stared at the thick blankets covering his frail form. Was my beloved Grandpa really in there? Where was the person I knew and loved?

He had handed me his favorite coat that day at the diner. He had wanted me to replace the frayed one on Benny’s Scarecrow.

Travel Recollections, Random Associations

There are places I remember all my life,
Though some have changed,
Some forever not for better,
Some have gone and some remain… BEATLES

I often reminisce about places that exist only in my memories now, overwhelmed by nostalgia The 101st floor of the World Trade Center at the restaurant, suspended at an unbelievable altitude and, on a clear day or night, looking out of those windows, across the New York Harbor to New Jersey and beyond, a view that would make the most cynical amongst us pause and ponder the surreal. Fast forward two years and there isn’t a trace of the Twin Towers, there’s a gaping hole at this site of former majesty, of power.

Then there were Princess Diana and Christopher Reeve, every time I think of them I think of Lisbon, Portugal, 1995. The first thing I saw on TV, as I settled in my Lisbon hotel room, was Barbara Walters interviewing a svelte and confident Diana, breaking her silence for the first time in an interview, telling all about Prince Charles’ infidelity, his longstanding affair with Camilla. She discussed her bulimia, her insecurities. On the same trip I learnt that Christopher Reeve had been thrown off his horse in a riding accident and had sustained spinal cord injuries. He never recovered fully. So one need only mention Lisbon and my mind takes me to a Diana’s tentative steps toward freedom, toward strength, showing firm resolve for the first time in her life. And Superman lying crumpled, broken.

Cintra, Byron’s Eden, its cobble-stoned streets, the dense foliage crowding the mountain side, our unbelievably tiny car getting stuck in an uphill, hairpin turn while we tried pushing it back onto the road, Fatima’s Basilica, the majestic Pena Palace, all slide into the deeper recesses of the mind as the dominant celebrities of our age and their lives rise to the forefront.

Then Paris, September 1997, flowers piled high at the mouth of the tunnel near Pont Neuf, the site of Diana’s fatal accident, we were there the day after. The confident Diana of my Lisbon memories was no more. We watched her services at Westminster Abbey on the hotel room TV again, the Queen’s cold speech, Diana’s brother’s impassioned speech, the sad Princes. I remember scanning the faces of the members of Britain’s royal family for residual anger or remorse from their strained and embittered relations prior to her death. Once again the human element had overtaken the sights and sounds of Paris. It’s taken three trips to this enchanted city - its Louvre, Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysées, Notre Dame, boat rides on the Seine, French cuisine and Rive Gauche enchantments - to leave an indelible impression on our minds and it would certainly take many more.

I' have talked about a landmark that no longer exists, of people whose memories are intertwined with the places I visited who no longer exist and sadly now I have in my travel recollections a city that no longer exists.

The Big Easy they called it. Their slogan - laissez les bon temps rouler - New Orleans: the jewel of the deep American south. An eclectic collection of Spanish, French, Haitian, Cajun, Creole influences, its diversity reflected in the cuisine, the unique architecture, the characteristic wrought iron balustrades that graced each home. Streets filled with sounds of jazz, blues and zydeco music – a New Orleans invention. Napoleon’s fifteen million dollar sale to the Americans in the historic Louisiana Purchase, it went on to become the unique and unforgettable city that it was. It was devastated by two fires during the eighteenth century and rose from the ashes both times. A city that was seventy percent below sea-level where bodies buried underground used to come floating up during heavy rains until they solved the problem by burying their dead over ground in heavily decorated mausoleums.

The Big Easy all the way, easygoing folks, their sense of direction attuned to lakeside, riverside, uptown or downtown instead of north, south, east or west. They never needed an excuse to party, to flood the streets with celebration and color. Every store sold those ubiquitous colored beads bestowed upon women who could lose themselves in the moment, flashing the crowds around them during Mardi Gras. The good times always rolled enveloping everyone in a contagion of bonhomie, laughter and joie de vivre. A city known, ironically, for a rather potent alcoholic beverage called “Hurricane”, leveled by a hurricane.

What’s more bizarre than having travelled to places that ceased to exist within the last few years, people who’ve vanished leaving behind vague recollections and mental associations?

Bluebird Inn - IV

Hank watched the car pulling away from his driveway with a sinking feeling. All he remembered was Nisha’s stricken face, her disappointment, disgust, anger and sorrow, each emotion that flitted across her face in those irretrievable moments.

“Hank, honey, are you OK? Come back to bed. What’s wrong, Hank, Hank, HANK?”

He finally heard Donna’s shrill voice shatter the silence in the room. He turned around from the window. He couldn’t bear to see her face anymore. He wanted her gone. He scooped up her clothes from the floor and threw them at her.

“Get dressed and leave!”

He felt as though he was thrashing his arms around in a dense fog that showed no signs of clearing. He wanted to come out of the fog, to reach out and find Nisha at the clearing. Her leaving felt as raw as a severed limb, as an “-ectomy” of some sort. He wanted her back in his life.

He walked into the bathroom and took a look at his face in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. He couldn’t understand his infatuation with Donna, couldn’t explain it even to himself, but one thing was certain – she needed to leave.

He walked over to the bar and poured himself a scotch on the rocks. He walked over to the balcony and saw the city lights flashing, the fast-moving traffic, the red taillights and the glaring oncoming headlights. Life elsewhere went on, its rhythm unchecked, while his own lay in pieces, broken shards that reflected back a distorted vision of himself, filling him with self-hatred.

He walked back in to see Donna dressed and poised at the doorstep.

She pointed a long manicured finger at him and said, “This isn’t over yet, Hank! You haven’t seen the last of me!” Then she left, slamming the door behind her.

He didn’t care. He leaned back in his chair, thinking, regretting his recent behavior, replaying memorable moments with Nisha, hearing her laughter, seeing her relax and unwind from the pressures of the day, on this very same reclining chair. He remembered the final look of hurt on her beautiful face. He visualized her driving, speeding away on Route 80 West, eyes clouded over with tears. Then he saw her on a desolate stretch of Route 46, staring up at a crackling neon sign that read - “B-UE-IRD M-TOR INN”. He saw her walk up to the lobby and then up an elevator walking up to Room 613. The brass numbers 613 grew larger in size, until they took over his thoughts completely, swimming in and out of focus, swirling around, making him dizzy and then he saw her sitting in a rocking chair by an open window that looked out into complete darkness. He woke up in a cold sweat, shaking.

Hank rarely spoke about it. Ever since he was a child, he saw things. He could rarely make sense of these visions. The images were disjointed, some vivid, some hazy. They always troubled him but he never could tie them together in a lucid reconstruction. Often he would see things in the news or glance upon a news headline and feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. This time the vision was real enough to make him sit up, it was clear, sinister and, most significantly, it involved Nisha.

He knew what he had to do. Getting dressed in a hurry, he ran out the door and into his car, setting out along Route 80 West.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bluebird Inn - V


“Fancy meeting you here, Clara. Still hanging around?”

He walked toward me, his loping, stumbling gait as ominous as that fateful day. I felt cornered and trapped. His bloodshot eyes looked right into mine and asked, “Why Clara? Why?”

“You were in a murderous rage, you would have killed me. I was scared Tom, so scared!”

“ It came so easy to you, the killing, the first stab…after the first stab…, Clara, why did you keep stabbing me and twisting the knife each time? What did I do to deserve that? I had never struck you, had never laid a finger on you, woman, drunk or sober, never! I never would have hurt you, never!”

“There was no way for me to know that, Tom. I couldn’t take it anymore. You had imprisoned me in a life with no escape. You had snatched away every freedom I ever knew!”

“Well, my dear, there’s something to be said for being six feet under, under a mountain of dirt, worms crawling in and out of every pore, clawing at the darkness, at my eyes, trying to dig out the dirt, trying to see, seeking the faintest ray of light and finding only pitch black, screaming, with no one there to hear me, no wind to carry my stifled voice anywhere. That changed me in ways you can’t imagine. You see Clara, you buried me alive! I still had a breath or two left.”

“B-b-but you were dead! I knew you were dead!”

“Merely unconscious. Imagine opening up your eyes - or struggling to open your eyes under the weight of dirt, clawing at them, blinding yourself, can you imagine that Clara?”

“You were dead, you were dead!”

“ I wasn’t then, but yes, those conditions didn’t support life for long, I did die….I am quite dead now. And after you, all the women who remind me of your simpering, sniveling self have been paying for your crime Clara. Paying with their unfinished lives. That boy hates you Clara but he can’t kill. He can’t take a life. He talks to me every night, describes all our female guests in exquisite detail. He is merely a facilitator, in cleansing the world of cowards like you, one restless soul at a time. Yes we’ve lost a few, due to his incompetence, his resolve crumbles, he ends up calling the ambulance or the authorities and they carry them away on gurneys. But our backyard is filling up rather nicely with women who were buried before they drew their last breaths.”

“ Noooo…..I am not really hearing this, please tell me it isn’t true! You can’t do that to her, she is with child! Show some mercy, please!”

“Mercy….where was your mercy?”

Bluebird Inn - III

I walked up to the window where our guest sat in the rocking chair in the corner, eyes closed, lying back touching her belly in that certain way that could only mean one thing. Room 613 faced the backyard. I knew what I would see there. This was the time of the night when Kevin visited that particular spot. He was kneeling by the tree, his head down. The wind carried his voice upstairs and I heard him say, “Yes Father” every few seconds. I can’t be certain the words were actually spoken but I heard them, every night, at the same time. I kept staring out of the window, looking at Kevin and feeling weighed down by the burden of my actions, my cowardice from twenty years ago.

Our guest continued to rock herself on the antique rocking chair that had been in our family for generations. I had spent many a night on it, rocking baby Kevin to sleep. Strange how one never has an inkling where one’s life or death would take one. I added a push to the rocking chair, startling her. She looked around, wondering what had upset the rhythm of the chair. I had startled her out of her reverie. Then she got up and walked over to the bathroom. I saw her splash some water over her face as if she was trying to wash the dark circles and the puffiness away. I walked up behind her and stood close to her, if I had any breaths left she would have felt my breath rustle the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Then she looked up at the mirror after one final splash of water and saw me in the mirror. I could tell she saw me. The color drained from her face. None of these women had ever been able to see me before. I was as startled as she was. She stared at the red spot of blood on my blouse and the knife sticking out of my chest and was about to let out a scream when I decided to test the theory that this one could probably hear me as well. I spoke and asked her to pick up her stuff and run. She screamed then, a scream he must have heard.

A knock on the door confirmed it. It was Kevin. She was too shell-shocked to get to the door, several minutes passed while Kevin kept knocking, he finally let himself in. He saw her standing there, rooted to the spot and asked, “Ms Alec, are you alright?”

She was shivering now, uncontrollably. A very concerned looking Kevin walked up to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders asking if he could get her anything. He led her to the foot of the bed and sat her down, draping a blanket around her. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down, facing her. He was very patient, inviting confidences, giving her time to compose herself. He asked if he could get her anything to drink, she asked for some water. I had stepped away so she couldn’t see me while Kevin was around. He poured her a glass of water and asked her if he could get anything else. She shook her head and sat there quietly until Kevin asked if she thought it would help to talk. He asked her to unburden herself and to tell him everything. She must have been searching for just such a confidante, a perfect stranger, who would listen to her without passing judgment. I heard her tell her story to Kevin and was saddened. I wished I could sit by her side and comfort her. I watched Kevin comfort her. He was like her best friend, radiating sympathy, gaining her trust completely. She told him all about the events of the day and blamed her screams on the delusions of a troubled mind. She seemed to have relegated my presence to the realm of delusions. Ms Alec was certainly made of sterner stuff than anyone else I had met in these rooms that ended in number 13.

In the past, these women had been terrified by my actions and had run out of the room screaming. Ms Alec was different, she had screamed but she had stood her ground and what complicated matters further was that she could see me and hear me. This changed things. I was standing near the window, contemplating the next move, while trying to keep myself out of her sight when there was a loud knock on the door. Kevin left Ms Alec’s side and got up to answer the door. He opened the door and craned his neck to look in either direction. He appeared not to have noticed anything. He kept looking up and down the hall but saw no one. He couldn’t have. He had never been able to see me either.

I saw him. I saw the shirt he had been wearing that day, blood-stained, every wound I had inflicted raw and visible and a face that wore the perpetually angry expression that I had learned to loath and fear in life. After twenty long years we were sharing the same space again, our seasons in hell about to overflow into two innocent lives, one still unborn.

Kevin walked back to Ms Alec and asked if she would accompany him to the kitchen for a cup of hot cocoa. He told her it would help soothe her nerves. She agreed. They left the room and then he turned to face me.

Bluebird Inn - II

The events of the day had taken a toll on Nisha and she felt drained. An unthinking reflex had carried her away from the slightly ajar bedroom door through which she had glimpsed her shattered dreams. She had dropped her keys as she watched them and they had both looked up to see the shocked expression on her face. He had called out after her but her feet had carried her out the front door and into the car, the tear-filled eyes unable to focus on anything in her path. She had started the car and had briefly glanced up at the bedroom windows, long enough to catch the twitching of the curtains, then she had stepped on the gas and had left his home forever. She had no idea where she was headed. She took the exit for Route 80 West and kept on driving and playing back the last three years of her life.

She had gone to work for the law firm of McDermott, Roberson and Chenault (M,R&C) as an associate. Hank had been a senior partner at the firm. They often ended up on the same legal defense team and she had seen Hank as a mentor. He showed her the ropes, helped hone her skills and sought her assistance in the most difficult and high profile cases. Looking back she wasn’t sure if this was by accident or design. It was just a matter of time before she was too far gone in love, with his mind, his brilliance, the power he exuded. The seduction was complete. She owed her own meteoric rise to him, or so she believed. She had loved him, couldn’t imagine life without him. He was a married man when they met and although this was an initial deterrent it was impossible to ignore the attraction. He had said there was no love lost between him and his estranged wife, that the marriage was on its last legs and it was just a matter of time before the divorce came through. She believed him completely, he sounded sincere, he hadn’t even been living with his wife. He lived alone in a brownstone in the city.

She started spending an occasional night or two there. They often brought work home, work that didn’t last too long once the bottle of wine had been opened, once she ended up on his lap, kissing him, lost in him, work that ended up in the bedroom trailed by a line of shed clothing. Soon enough it became rather pointless for her to maintain a separate residence. It was impossible to wake up at his brownstone and commute cross-town to her own place in order to get dressed for a busy day at work. She started leaving spare clothing, toiletries and bare feminine necessities at his place, before she knew it, within a matter of two exciting, whirlwind years, she had moved in with him.

She now wondered if she would have done this had she been thinking clearly, had she retained even an iota of rational thought and objectivity. But the clarity of hindsight has never proved helpful to anyone. The thrill of the chase, after all, lasts only as long as it takes to get to the finish line. Expectations change, perceptions change almost as soon as a certain milestone is reached, but not quite. The rose-tinted glasses stay on for another year or so. The attraction unabated, the mysteries intact and then things start changing very slowly but surely.

It started with the arrival of Donna, long and tall Donna with her lacquered black, waist length hair and fitted suits with the shortest possible skirts and high-heeled look. She was a recent Yale grad, the newest associate at M, R&C. Hank was impressed with her intelligence and their bedtime conversations often ended up in discussions about Donna’s latest courtroom antics. At the office she was often seen in Hank’s chambers, ostensibly going over the finer points of criminal law but Nisha’s heart skipped several beats every time she noticed them putting their heads together. Hank had also started coming home a little bit later each day. They weren’t working on the same cases anymore ever since she had been promoted to junior partner. Hank used to kiss her goodbye with instructions on whether or not she was to stay up for dinner. He told her how heavy his caseload was and how much of a godsend Donna really was. She had walked into his office once to see his hands caressing the back of Donna’s head looking as if he wanted to drown in the silkiness of those tresses. She was shaken to the core at the sight of the obvious attraction they shared. She had even confronted Hank about it but he had denied it and had said it was all work.

She had convinced herself that all was well until today. She had come home from a week long business trip to Philly where she had been doing some research for a case she was on. She was excited. She had some news to share with Hank. Their lives were going to change forever. She had been feeling slightly unwell for several days now, a persistent queasiness that followed her around. She had felt so ill at one point that she had taken herself to the emergency room at the hospital in Philly. The doctor had smiled at her and given her the news.

She had rushed home and was running, taking two steps at a time, calling out for Hank when she had heard voices from their bedroom. She had slowed down her steps and reaching the door, had turned the knob, cautiously pushing the door open. Her world froze at what she saw inside. Donna astride Hank, she couldn’t even say she had interrupted their lovemaking because it went on uninterrupted, they hadn’t noticed her. After several frozen, catatonic moments, she turned on her heels, blinded by tears, dropping her keys. They noticed her then. But it was too late.

She couldn’t tell how long she had driven. The stars were out now and she found herself in the middle of nowhere. She needed to find a place for the night. She was lost, disheveled, tears still stung her eyes and she started looking around for a place to spend the night. Soon enough, she saw a battered sign for The Bluebird Inn. She took the upcoming exit for Route 46 and nervously pulled into the parking lot of the “B-UE-IRD M-TOR INN”.

She sensed a presence here, something sinister but she put it down to her current state, a heightened awareness and vulnerability. She sat down on the rocking chair near the window of her room and leaning back, closed her eyes, hands caressing her belly in that certain way that could only mean one thing.

Escape

I had wondered at this proximity,
an intimacy of thoughts, like a nakedness,
unimaginable, a union supreme.
Distances were irrelevant, propinquity -
a word that applied, when our oneness
amazed, silences weren’t rude.

It’s said we seek mysteries; an escape
from the banal but in a meeting
of minds, could banalities intrude?

Perhaps they could if on barren landscapes,
mirages, mere illusions, had sated a longing
undefined. They could serve as preludes
to deconstructed lives scrambling
for slivers of reason to conclude:
the enchantment’s as real as the escape.

Bluebird Inn - I

It was 9:00 PM, Kevin was about to close up for the night when a car pulled up at the Bluebird Motor Inn. She seemed distraught; her eyes were puffy as if she had been crying for days. She glanced furtively at the crackling neon sign that read, “B-UE-IRD M-TOR INN”. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the night here and I could see the uncertainty on her face that lasted less than a second before she resolutely stepped into the lobby.

She asked Kevin if she could get a room for the night. He gave her the once over, running various scenarios in his brain about her special circumstances. He took in her rich clothes, the make of her car, the pearl necklace around her neck and her tear-stained face as he tried to understand what a woman like her was doing on a desolate section of the highway at this hour of the night. He removed the key for Room 613 from the hook on the wall and asked her to fill up her information on the guest card. He asked if she had any luggage but she shook her head, lifting up the valise she was carrying, to emphasize her point.

She made her way to the elevator, glancing behind every few seconds, as if she was expecting to be followed. I studied her face, the tears were flowing unbidden now in the privacy of the elevator. She was definitely the type. I suddenly felt nervous, accosted by a sense of déjà vu. Exactly a month ago, a similar woman, who had appeared to be a victim of reduced circumstances, had motored in and had been carried out on a gurney the next morning, dead of multiple stab wounds. She had been in Room 513. I watched our new guest’s anxious fingers turn the key and enter her room. I came back downstairs and saw Kevin locking up the cash register for the night. He was headed to the block of rooms next door where he lived. I used to live there with him, until that fateful night twenty years ago.

His Dad had come home drunk again. He was staggering around the kitchen, unsatisfied with the dinner that was waiting for him. He was throwing dishes around, slamming the lids on the pots and was about to overturn the kitchen dinette in his rage. I had had enough. I begged him to stop but he came after me, cursing me for the rotten food, his sorry life, my perpetual tears. He started shoving me toward the kitchen counter, cornering me, when I grabbed the kitchen knife and stabbed him. He died instantaneously. I was appalled at what I had done; I stood there in shock and then slowly turned around to see Kevin. Ten-year old Kevin had been cowering in the doorway. He had seen everything. He ran from the room when he realized I had seen him.

I had a son to raise and I certainly didn’t want to be put away for life. I dragged the body outside and buried him in the backyard. I said my prayers, made my peace with God and decided to move on with my life. Everyone believed he had left home in a drunken rage and only Kevin and I knew the truth.

Kevin didn’t talk to me anymore, his dark eyes shone with angry tears and intense hatred every time he looked at me. He wouldn’t come home for days and when he did, he used to pick up his things and leave to spend time at his friend’s place.

Then one morning I found myself gazing at the lifeless body of a woman lying on my bed. She looked like me but there was a knife wound in her chest, bloodstains on her clothes. The police called it an unsolved mystery.

But he didn’t feel avenged. The Bluebird Motor Inn was only frequented by stray travelers now, who knew nothing of its sordid history. I tried to warn them if they happened to be emotionally distraught women. I had tried to write messages on the misted bathroom mirrors asking them to leave, warning them of dire consequences but I only succeeded in frightening them into scurrying out of their rooms, right into his arms. They never trusted what they were seeing. They imagined themselves delusional in their weakened states. This was always the perfect opportunity for him. He got them to open up, to tell him why they had run away from home, from a brutal and insensitive husband or boyfriend. He wiped the tears that he had come to detest as much as his father before him, and pretended to be their best friend. He offered them hot cocoa, which always included a rather strong sleep-inducer.

The bodies were always buried in the grounds that had first been converted into a cemetery by me, our backyard. Their cars were then driven to abandoned lots or junkyards, never to be found.

I had to put a stop to this and I was stronger now. I wasn’t about to leave our guest’s side this evening.

Juana's Pearl

Based on John Steinbeck's - The Pearl. Tried to write it from Juana's perspective.
He asked Juana to throw it away. She gazed at it, the briefest hypnotic trance, before deciding this was something Kino needed to do, for his sake, for their sake. It needed to be done to restore some semblance of sanity to their lives, even if it was just a facade.

She thrust the pearl in his hand as he shirked away, flinching, refusing to touch or even glance at it. But she was determined. It had to be done and Kino had to do it.

Pearls fascinated Juana. She came from a long line of pearl divers, people whose boats were their most prized material possession and pearls, that helped line the King of Spain’s coffers, were what kept their small town clothed, fed and one step ahead of hunger and starvation. As a little girl she accompanied her Dad on pearl diving trips, eagerly awaiting his emergence from the depths, bearing the haul of the day. She could gaze for hours at the lustrous sheen, mesmerized by the distorted reflections she saw on the glistening surfaces, they seemed to be teasing her, tantalizing her. He told her how the pearl, in essence, was simply an irritant, an intruder that changed the oyster forever. She wondered why he never let her keep them, selling every single one to scrape together a living. It was a harmonious existence amongst gentle people who lived, loved feeling the serene music of existence within their sensitive souls.

Now as they stood by the shore, purged of all joy, she remembered her Dad’s fear, his wariness of these glistening, shimmering things of evil beauty. Her life with Kino had been a song, the melody of the earth sung in three simple notes until the day it all changed, forever.

That morning, she woke early and stood for a few moments, watching the dawn’s first light playfully dancing on Kino’s back She turned her head to Coyotito, asleep in his hammock, and gave silent thanks for her blissful existence. She was humming her favorite tune, going about her chores when Kino came up behind her and planted a kiss on her neck. Then, as she lifted her eyes to glance at Coyotito, she saw it, out of the corner of her eye, a scorpion. It was crawling down the rope that suspended the hammock from the beams above. She screamed and pointed as Kino glided across the room. Suddenly awake Coyotito burst out laughing at the sight of his parents, shaking the rope. The scorpion fell on him and stung him the split second before Kino could get there to pulverize and grind it to dust. But the damage was done, she had witnessed the most horror-filled moment of her life. The neighbors came, word about the baby being stung by a scorpion had spread. They stood, paralyzed, not knowing what to do as she ran to the baby and placed her lips on the wound sucking and spitting out the poison. She yelled at Kino to get a doctor and saw them exchanging sad glances. They knew the doctor would never attend to them here.

Juana insisted they walk to the doctor’s house. The townsfolk set out behind them, too distressed to note they had left the brush houses behind and had walked into the stone and plaster city. They knocked at the doctor’s door and asked the servant to fetch his master. The servant came back asking for money. They handed him three small pearls to take back but he returned apologizing, shaking his head, indicating that the doctor was unmoved. Juana had heard them inside, the doctor screaming at the servant, amazed that they expected him to cure insect bites on an Indian child! She heard him remark he was a doctor, not a veterinarian.

They had walked back, steps heavy with dejection and anger. Juana had prayed. She remembered praying the doctor would relent, she had sought the doctor’s help in her prayers not God’s, while Coyotito’s wound swelled. They had set out in their little boat the next morning, Kino wound tight as a whip, ready to strike. She sensed his anger and shame, felt his determination. She had watched him dive and had known it was different this time. He stayed submerged for what felt like an eternity he then emerged holding the biggest pearl she had ever seen. He held it up to her, proud. They rejoiced, their prayers had been answered. Word spread fast. The excitement palpable as everyone celebrated their good fortune, talking about the sums its sale would fetch praying their sudden luck wouldn’t change them. She was swept away in Kino’s excitement as he planned their glorious future, dreamt of making Coyotito a man of letters and of bidding farewell to penury.

The doctor appeared at their door the next day bearing medicine for the child, agreeing to postpone the collection of his fees until the sale of the pearl. The priest who had refused them a church wedding now came a-calling, expressing hopes of charitable donations.

Juana noted Kino’s gradual transformation from protector to fierce defender of not just his wife and child but the pearl as well. She saw him dig a hole by the fireplace to hide the pearl and she saw him take to wearing his knife on his person. His watchful eyes never slept anymore. She recalled the burglary attempts on their home and through her own lack of sleep heard the discordant notes getting louder, reverberating and filling her head until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She asked him to return the pearl to the ocean, she told him it was evil but he refused to listen. He assured her they would sell the pearl the next day, casting off the evil and holding on to the good.

They set off to the market the next day to pit their wits and wares against the pearl buyers’ collusive powers. They were offered a miserable amount – 1000 pesos. An infuriated Kino had refused to sell it for the pittance he was offered and had threatened to take it elsewhere. That night someone tried to steal from them again and Kino was hurt in the scuffle that ensued. Juana couldn’t take it anymore. She extracted the pearl from its hiding place crept out of the house while Kino slept. She intended to return the pearl to the evil depths from whence it had emerged. But as she was getting ready to do this she took an instant to notice a menacing looking Kino right behind her, enraged. He snatched the pearl away from her and struck her with a force that sent her crashing against the rocks. He left her there and walked away. When she gathered her courage to get up and walk back she noticed Kino in a struggle with a man, but by the time she walked back to them, someone had died. Kino stood, staggering, attempting to steady himself and at his feet lay a murdered man. Juana had to think fast, she left Kino there and dragged the man to the nearest bushes and hid him. Fugitives now they needed to leave town, the murdered man would soon be found and trackers set on the trail of the murderer.

They set out in the wilderness, Juana carrying Coyotito in her arms. They walked for miles, hiding whenever they spotted the trackers, climbing up the mountains evading them as best they could. They spotted them in the distance, two men and a horse. Seeking shelter for the night, they found the cave by a lake. The trackers were close now and they hid, knowing it was just a matter of time. Kino was restless. She had always been submissive and knew men. She knew there were no half measures with men, she viewed them as half insane and half god, willing to plunge their strength against the mountains and the seas. Juana knew the mountains would break him and the seas would drown him but there wasn’t a thing she could do. He felt cornered and wanted confront his pursuers and snatch one of their rifles away. He asked Juana to wait in the cave and left. He attacked the trackers like a man possessed, with a vengeance and fury she hadn’t known he possessed. He shot at them while she crouched within and then saw the sight no mother should ever witness, a sight so gruesome, so evil that she was now amazed she was still alive, standing, breathing, walking. Kino’s stray bullet had blown away Coyotito’ s head.

The songs of their soul, the music had been silenced forever. The irritant had left them tainted and changed forever, altered beyond recognition. She wanted nothing more than to see Kino cast the evil back to the darkest depths from which it had emerged as she stood there rocking a blood soaked bundle in her arms.

Boredom

When you commit yourself to a strict regimen of diet and exercise your advisors always tell you to keep ramping up the degrees of difficulty. In weight training they suggest you keep moving up to higher weights. In aerobic exercise you find you can handle higher and higher levels of activity. Each day you find that your body is capable of enduring larger stresses. The same is true for your mind, I suppose.

The problem with me is that boredom with the activity, physical or mental, sets in around the same time as I realize that I am capable of taking on more. Just when I know I can do better I find that I don’t really want to be doing it anymore. I hate this about myself. The discontent, the search for greener pastures and more exciting ventures continues.

At what point will I say to myself that the search ends here? I ask the question knowing that I don't want to get to such a point. It is a strange craving for something you know you don't really want. Someone just showed me a beautiful ghazal which was, in essence, a description of a state of being akin to living in a vacuum and a discussion about the ghazal started moving into an area where I was being told that a vacuum sometimes, is as essential to ones life as oxygen. Our discussion got cut short but I can't help feeling that it would have come close to what, in my own disjointed way, I am trying to say here.

People everywhere are getting along with their lives, living, loving, working, grieving, feeling depressed, feeling momentary joy and then returning to a bland steady state. They tend to a steady state, striving for balance, for equilibrium and no sooner than they get there they yearn for disequilibrium and imbalance again. And we all come up with our own personal philosophies during this journey of life where inevitably, the more things change the more they remain the same.

Then there's this whole business of love, of analyzing love, pondering love, writing poems about love; love lost, love found, misunderstandings in love, in relationships. It is always about relationships, ad nauseam. I am amazed at the numerous poetic renditions of relationship dissections. People love exposing their own wounds along with those of others for all the world to see and I often wonder why. Didn't someone once say - "aur bhi gham hain zamae main mohabbat ke siva"? I keep going back to the frustration I hear John Lennon felt with McCartney's preoccupation with love songs, I identify with this frustration.

Then again, perhaps the transformation is complete - nothing can surprise me now, nothing can cause a ripple in the surface, least of all reading about the angst from being in or out of love.

And this is my blog - I should occasionally allow myself an incoherent ramble or two. So if you stumble upon my blog and this piece of writing someday, feel free to just hit the "Next Blog" button - and move on to greener pastures.

What If...Password Incorrect

“PASSWORD INCORRECT”

Inserting his card again, he typed the password he had always used. He was bewildered. He needed lunch money. He tried once again but it never came back. Instead the digital display flashed:

“SEE TELLER”

“Ma’am, I need forty dollars but my card got swallowed up!”

“Sure your password’s correct?”

“Yes, I’ve never changed it!”

“Let’s take a look. May I see a photo ID?”

He displayed his driver’s license. She glanced up then typed in his name.

“Mr Merrill, you no longer have an account here. You closed it yesterday, withdrawing $20,000.”

“What?? Closed my account? How can this be? I’m here every Wednesday, for my forty. Had no reason to close the account.”

“But you did, sir! Says so right here!”

“You’re not making any sense, why would I try withdrawing money, knowing I’d closed the account?”

“You tell me! I’m wondering about that myself!”

“I’m suing this goddamn bank!”

He stalked out, shouting profanities, masking considerable worry and confusion He was bankrupt, had no other savings. He lived from paycheck to paycheck. Now all his savings were gone! He walked along the sidewalk, numb, the magnitude of the discovery hadn’t quite sunk in. He was incredulous, in denial. There must be a rational explanation. He walked back to his desk at SCENARIOS GAMING Inc., and tried checking his balances online, giving up after several attempts. He logged into his retirement account, thinking he’d solve his immediate problem by borrowing from his future - only to feel the cold terror at the flashing message:

“EMPLOYEE TERMINATED”

What a living nightmare!

He walked into his boss’ cabin.

“Merrill! What happened? Forgot something?”

“What’re you doing back here? Left something behind while clearing your desk?”

“Clearing my desk? Just stopped by to ask if there’s a problem accessing Fidelity. Got a funny message trying to log in, said I’d been terminated.”

“Everything OK Merrill? I know the board’s decision to let you go, on your birthday, seems harsh, but I’m just a purveyor of bad news, equally vulnerable. They’ve offered a healthy severance. They’ll even help rework your resume. I can’t help, can’t do a thing Merrill, think of it as a new adventure, as I told you yesterday. And yes, you can’t access Fidelity, you’re no longer an employee.”

He felt the ground give way. He couldn’t believe it, the horror was unimaginable, beyond comprehension.

He stammered out a response, “W-w-what did you tell me yesterday? You weren’t in yesterday. Worked on the “WHAT IF” project this morning until I decided to go grab a bite to eat. What lay-offs are you talking about, what severance?”

“Merrill, you alright? Need a doctor?”

“No thanks Sean, I’ll be alright!”

“Good luck!”

Dejected, he walked back to his apartment. Carlos, the doorman, wished him a happy birthday and said, “Back so soon, Mr Merrill? I thought you’d be gone for three months!”

“What do you mean, Carlos? I’m just getting in from work, a little early. It happens!”

“But I loaded all your bags in the limousine this morning, you were headed to Ladakh!”

“Ladakh!! You’ve got to lay off the sauce this early in the day, Carlos!”

He walked into the elevator as Carlos stared after him, open-mouthed.

The doors to the ancient elevator slammed shut. Hitting the button for the 25th floor, like an automaton, trying to make some sense of the events of the day, he travelled up. Suddenly a jarring, clanging sound! His eyes flew to the display above as he noted the numbers counting down 24, 23, 22…. the elevator descending with amazing speed! He was trapped, helpless, in a metal box and falling fast. He hit the alarm button, hammering on the walls, the descent showed signs of finality, certain death…darkness.

He woke up with a start, cold sweat running down his forehead, clothes drenched. He looked around the room. His surroundings seemed familiar, down to his Tweety Bird night-light. He was awake, alive! He breathed a sigh of relief. Walking over to the windows, he gazed out, smelling the unmistakable aroma of coffee.

Coffee? Who made the coffee? He lived alone!

He turned around and saw her walking in with a tray.

“Happy Birthday, dear!

Good Morning America did a piece on Ladakh this morning. It was awesome. What if… we were to take a trip to Ladakh? I think we really need the time away. You’ve been too absorbed in work!”

Christina's World

Their quarrel last night had been scathing, bitter, a furious unleashing of twenty years of pent-up anger and resentment, a ferment brought about by a dragging eternity spent in Schererville, Indiana, where their house was the only one for mile upon endless, dreary mile. Lately Diane had been ridden with anxiety about the best years of her life, fast-disappearing while she stood still, helpless.

She had been a top sales executive at John Deere when she met Robert. She had helped him negotiate a perfect deal and they had fallen for each other as she finalized the sale of tractors for his 100 acres of midwestern farmland. Love often makes one see the world through a loved ones eyes and a life amidst the cornfields seemed peaceful and extremely attractive then. She sold her home in the city, loaded her possessions in Robert’s pick-up truck and eagerly transformed her life at his behest; the stars in her eyes comparable to the wide-open, glittering night skies of Schererville.

This was 20 years ago. Those early years were idyllic, just her and Robert. He had time for her then and they would often go riding together on tractors, enjoying the harvest, picking strawberries, pumpkins, corn. She loved helping him with his bookkeeping and with the management of his extensive agricultural interests. He depended on her wisdom, her business acumen and sought her advice on every matter big or small.

Then came Christina, followed by John and Matthew a few years down the road. Her days were now spent with the children. Robert would come home to a harried Diane with babies at her breast or bent over the stove preparing massive dinners or cleaning up messes that the three kids, especially the rambunctious boys made. He used to come up from behind, trying to kiss her or fold her in a warm embrace but at the end of her day she felt completely drained of energy and enthusiasm; she was gradually becoming a shell of her former self, devoid of romance and too jaded to be impassioned about anything. She would brush him off casually asking him to clean up for dinner, or to help her lay the table or to run some other errand.

An unbreakable pattern slowly emerged, a rut out of which they were unable to climb. Their behaviors were predictable, entirely too familiar, and contempt, we know, is always lurking in the shadows of familiarity. Avoidance, of each other and of their mind-numbing routines, soon followed. And, as is often the case with these things, the distances soon became unfathomable till they were two strangers sharing a roof, an uninviting one, sheltering a bleak existence, amidst a wretched poverty of souls.

The kids were older now. She had given them her best years. Christina a somber eighteen-year old, had always been a thoughtful albeit shy girl who preferred her own company and spent several hours of the day wandering around in the fields. She loved feeding the animals, watching them graze and even helped her Dad with the rather taxing farmhouse chores whenever schoolwork wasn’t too pressing. John and Matthew, 13 and 10, were also quite used to this life. They loved the horses, they could spend hours with them, feeding them, tending to them, and were both expert riders. Whenever Diane looked around she saw a family that was self-sufficient and content with their existence, busy with the business of growing up and no one ever seemed to have any time for her. She dreaded the reality of her growing invisibility. Her discontent colored her existence completely, obliterating all rational thought.

Christina, their oldest, had an empathetic soul. She had always been aware of her Mom’s moods and sensitive to her emotional needs. Lately she had even started feeling sorry for her, but she hadn’t been able to find the words to comfort her. Shyness or perhaps a lack of maturity had kept her from a heart-to-heart talk with Mom. She had always been a big help to a harried Diane, especially after the arrival of John, and Matthew shortly thereafter. She was thoughtful and insightful enough to sense Diane’s unhappiness. Christina was someone who seemed to absorb all the negative energy around her, reflecting only light, and now she could sense impending doom. She felt as if they were all on the verge of disaster.

To say she was concerned would be putting it mildly. She was distraught and felt completely helpless. She wasn’t able to reach Diane on an emotional level; Diane had been shutting herself out to her family members and Christina seemed to be the only one who sensed this or cared enough. She had always been fond of wandering around the wide-open acres, walking seemed to ease her mind. She would walk around observing things, picking dandelions, or just lying down on the grass lost in thought. She used to wonder about their future as a family, the growing distances between her parents, even her brothers who were blissfully oblivious to it all.

The quarrel she witnessed last night had kept her in tears, worried sick all night. Her parents had been yelling at each other. They had both used words as weapons, hammering away relentlessly. They had staked out their positions and neither one was prepared to budge. Their differences seemed irreconcilable. Her Dad had seemed angry and Mom angrier. Several harsh words were exchanged as the kids all cowered under the covers.

Christina was lying in the field thinking about last night’s events, her eyes shut tight, trying to hold back the tears, fists clutching at the grass when she was startled by the jarring noise of a revved up engine. Before she could get to her feet she saw her Mom’s truck speeding out of the driveway. She sat there gazing at the tire tracks for hours, wishing she’d had the words to say something, unable to move, even though she knew she would soon have to brace herself to walk back to the house to offer comfort and consolation and to pick up the pieces of their shattered existence.

Phantom Pains

One has heard of phantom pains in people who lose limbs in accidents or amputations. They are seen reaching out, seeking the non-existent source of their ghostly agony, the pain real and tangible.

I hadn’t just lost an arm or a leg, my loss was complete. My physical form lay scattered in ashes across the Pacific Ocean. But the pain remained, an excruciating reminder of the labor pains that had started shortly after Matt suggested the Christmas Eve boat ride in Half Moon Bay.

The baby was due any day and our excitement and anxiety had peaked. The nursery was ready. Friends and family had organized a surprise baby shower the week before and her room was full of more gifts than I had seen in my entire lifetime. Matt had been extremely solicitous, he had comforted me, pampered me, kept me off my feet and had accompanied me to every check-up and ultrasound session. He had carried around the ultrasound pictures in his wallet, proudly displaying the grainy imprints to everyone he met. It was a wonderful time, our first child, the daughter we had always wanted, we had come up with the name together, she was going to be our little angel.

Matt was my high school sweetheart. We had been inseparable since the first time I saw him in the football field, the star quarterback of Fairmont High. The entire cheerleading team idolized him but his eyes always sought me. We even attended the same college, took the same classes and I didn’t have to think twice before accepting his proposal. The last ten years had been idyllic, blissful but parenthood had somehow eluded us. Until it all worked out and the testing kit finally registered a positive, eight months ago.

Christmas Eve! We were awfully close now, Angelica could come anytime. The dinner was at our place. The house was full of people, Christmas music playing, kids scurrying around opening up presents and comparing bounties. This was shaping up to be quite a memorable Christmas. The care and concern shown to me was overwhelming.

Then Matt suggested the midnight boat ride. It was a balmy night, the idea was tempting. We told our guests we wanted to spend some time alone and left. Matt helped me up the boat and revved up the engines. The night air was exhilarating. We talked, we laughed and then I leaned against the railing watching the twinkling city lights drift away. I felt a slight twinge in my belly but put it down to the baby kicking and didn’t think twice about it. I was lost in the beauty of the moonlit night, the lapping waves, the silent hum of the engine. Matt came and stood with me for sometime before retreating to the cabin. I thought I saw a humpback whale and started yelling out to Matt, “Matt come, see! Am I really seeing what I think I am?”

Then I felt another twinge, followed by yet another. They were coming faster now and with greater intensity. I kept screaming for him, “Matt, I think my water broke, please hurry! We have to go back”. I was holding my belly, buckled under in pain. These were labor pains. I heard footsteps behind me. Then suddenly the site of the pain changed. I was being garroted, I clawed at the rope around my neck, trying to speak, then my world went black. I had been pushed overboard.

I watched them dredge my body out of the bay, Angelica’s shortly thereafter, a short distance away from mine, the umbilical cord still attached. I saw my parents crying, shaking their heads, holding Angelica’s limp body in their arms and smoothing hair away from my face.

I watched the courtroom proceedings, seeking clues. I needed to know. They found the rope he had used to kill me. They talked to his mistress who told of their five year long affair and his plans to kill me, the meticulous premeditation disclosed to her in passionate moments of invincibility. The perfect murder. Through it all, the unperturbed expression on Matt’s face, still confident, still feeling invincible even as the jury announced the guilty verdict and sentenced him to death by lethal injection.

I lost my physical form that Christmas. Now I move around, cradling Angelica in my arms, in screaming agony, confused, still trying to understand, my life, my love, my final moments. The phantom pains continue, no end in sight, haunting me even now.