They are everywhere. Hidden men. Hidden women. But if they are hidden, how are they visible?
When I read about traces of a bearded man, wearing a bow-tie, his chin resting on his hand, that was found in Pablo Picasso's 'The Blue Room' my first thought was that it was a mind trick. I still believe so, despite expert analysis. Is that a fairy in the clouds, or are feathers flying from pillows in the sky? Sand dunes look like women in repose, and try splitting a flower into two.
If blood flowing from the veins of a Christ image is a miracle, why is Picasso's work seen as a superimposition of one painting over another? If you look at the woman bathing, you might see other images — of touch, of gaze, of remnants. Beneath the skin there is a lot that is hidden.
Think about the hidden man and what it could mean as part of this painting. He might be watching her as she pours water. But he looks bored. And why is he dressed up? Is this a salon for men of leisure to slake their thirst, as water dribbles over body?
I am aware that he is not in the frame. They never are. Hidden men. Nobody draws them, or draws them in. They are scrawled over.
There are other paintings in the painting, there is a vase with flowers, a window. Different pictures. They are visible. The moment the invisible was noticed it took over, captured the imagination. 'The Blue Room' is now about the hidden man, the brushstrokes that covered him, who he could be and what he might have meant.
For me, he represents what the woman triumphed over. Can't you see her cleansing herself? Blue was Picasso's low phase, but the lady and her hidden treasure of emotions are best expressed in her nudity that reveals so much that her secrets ricochet off blank walls and imprint her belly.
He still sells. Anger sells. It has buyers. However, are they "Nazi lovers"? A bit simplistic.
You must have already read about the JC Penney tea kettle that looks like Hitler and the reactions to it. They were forced to remove a billboard, but the damage, or publicity, had been done.
Those who probably did not need a kettle right then rushed to purchase it. Some are selling the $40 steel piece online for four to six times the price. It has become an investment.
The description of the kettle is that one can see the “handles as Hitler’s hair parting, with the lid being his moustache and the spout a Nazi salute".
Is this only about imagination or was it deliberately designed as such? A report quoted JC Penney from its Facebook page, “You won’t be able to stop yourself from whistling at us when you see this billboard off the 405 Freeway in LA!!! If you find it safely shoot us a pic if you can.”
Why would anyone want to whistle at a kettle? It seems obvious they knew what they had — whether by design or by chance. If it was the latter, then clearly it was a whoa moment and the kettle went right up there to claim its Calvin Klein moment.
It was a stripping of both sensitivity and political correctness. I wish they had gone along, for it would reveal facets of how we as a society treat history in a contemporaneous setting. Unfortunately, the page was removed and the Penny people said, “If we had designed it to look like something, we would have gone with a snowman or something fun.”
Given the sales and the bidding, it seems this is people's idea of fun. I do not agree it is about love for the Nazi leader or the Nazi credo, though. There are many souvenirs available. And the ideology, for whatever it was worth, is not quite dead if we extend it to the 'superiority of the race' theory. In almost every part of the world, there are groups that believe they are superior or better than others. These might span from religion to socio-economic policies, trend-setters, divas, the rich and in some ways the poor, who by virtue of their disenfranchisement are beyond the system.
Californians are known to be quite liberal, so it was surprising that the kettle billboard was forced down by its residents. Is anti-Nazism a way to assert liberalism? Isn't such a badge of 'we are more liberal than the rest' itself an assertion of superiority?
Let's talk about fun, then. It is possible that the buyers merely like something that has curiosity value. Some might enjoy 'Hitler' boiling, which says a lot about Nazism as a psychological phenomenon that has nothing to do with a specific ideology.
We aim darts. There is road rage. We need magnets and stress balls to keep ourselves in check. We use voodoo dolls and burn posters and images of hate figures.
Is this peaceful? It reveals our hate. Quite naturally, there is the value dimension of what is generally considered good and evil. However, the fact that good has traditionally been known to triumph over evil means that it went into battle. It gave a good fight and had its hands bloodied.
When we use figures like Hitler and Gandhi as opposites, we forget the nuances of how non-violence too chooses the self-destruction of a people. The leaders in both instances are safe. Incidentally, images of Gandhi too have got into trouble, because people don't like their heroes tarnished, when there is a whole industry that fools people by selling themselves as Gandhians.
Were JC Penney to use a look-alike of, say, Martin Luther King there would be opposition. Yet, people will use fridge magnets and other knick-knacks with his image. The same goes for pop celebrities. But, there is less of a reaction to a Marlilyn Monroe being used to sell products, and this also should bother us. Why do some people become public property and, only due to their profession, their memories can be treated with scant respect?
And, no, I don't see Hitler in that kettle. It looks like Chaplin to me.
M.F.Husain has taken off on his paint brush into the other world. Age 95. Dead. Obituaries are tricky. I think about the ceiling of his house; he had sketched stars – black on white. I sat on a chair waiting for him to turn up. He did not. His wife said no one knows when he comes and when he goes. I disliked him, anyway, and my conversation would not have been about him walking without shoes.
He was surrounded by women, the kind we rather disparagingly refer to as society dames. What could he find so entertaining, forget enlivening, about them? For them he was Fame. At one of their homes I saw a painting by him that was unspeakably sad. Fine crystal shone below it on a mantelpiece. I smirked. Then one day many years later I saw shards on the floor…and experienced the sadness of broken crystal.
Husain, for reasons I have been unable to fathom, continued to look like an arriviste, despite all the celebrity, the money and the artistic talent. We all perceive art in different ways – for me he was more skill than soul, and not many possess that kind of skill, the adhesive-like hold on the imagination of the artistic fraternity.
Curiously, I got a note yesterday from a person of the rightwing persuasion questioning me about his portrayal of nude goddesses that I had tried to explore in an earlier piece. This is what he became known for – not the works, not the ideas, but the controversies. He was restless, but not a gypsy. He was the nomad who had luxurious homes everywhere he went. It won’t be much different now.
duniya ne hum pe jab koi ilzaam rakh diya
hum ne muqaabil us ke tera naam rakh diya
ik khaas had pe aa gayi jab teri berukhee
naam us ka hum ne gardish-e-ayyaam rakh diya
- Qateel Shifai
- - -
Here is an old piece I had written in my Rediff column of October 27, 1997, well before they started stoning galleries where his works were displayed:
M F Husain has a major problem. If we start with this premise it would be far easier to approach his persona. And the problem lies not with what he is, but what he is seeking to be.
Today, few talk of Husain as an artist – he is either the showman, the maverick, the risk-taker and, finally and conclusively, a product. His market value is under discussion rather than his palette's wild guesses and sometimes calculated conundrums. It is very likely that he feels trapped and is now seeking to assert his independence. No artist in his right mind would rush from one canvas to the other to show the onlookers the process of painting, as Husain claims to have tried to do. But, at this point in time, he is not in his right mind. He is on a binge to negate his art by harking to his hoarding-painter days of relative freedom. The days when he could paint the other icons of cinema, without having to worry about whether his unshod feet would gain celebrity status.
Husain' painting on the Mumbai blasts
The very concept of being a celebrity can be difficult to handle, its reality even more so. Husain's position as a product has to do with his being many other things. As a showman performer, he is expected to toe the classic 'I pretend, therefore I am' line. This includes massive image-building. But the man about whom it was made shows all signs of not being at peace with himself. The result is whimsical behaviour. The charitable will call it maverick moods.
But why would a man already on the pedestal want to be a maverick? It cannot be to get attention. Not a genuine desire for experimentation either, so the possibility of his sense of boredom at being 'known for being known' cannot be ignored.
To this end, the artist has begun taking risks, not so much with his work but with his reputation, which has been the cause of most of his ecstasy and all of his anguish. Kierkegaard put it beautifully when he analysed, "It lays a prodigious burden on a person to have to support the weight of everyone's eyes." Even a Husain work is merely a work of Husain. Snapping the chain with his offbeat acts, he has in effect put the ball in the court of his 'audience', the subliminal message being, "Since you have made me, you might want to unmake me. But before you can do that, I will do it myself."
Therefore, the new Husain is essentially the old one trying to come out clean, but not without attempting to kill two birds with one stone – by hankering after his freedom and at the same time (and perhaps because of it) making sure that the public does not run after someone else. This is the hallmark of a celebrity. Or an insecure man.
“Why?” was my first instinct. Why and how can business books adapt into comics? Then it struck me that with the graphic novel gaining currency – fiction has always been considered the hallmark of imagination – showing a ‘How To’ series should be a more natural progression.
The little I have seen of graphic novels, too, does not intrude into the manner in which words are used. It is just a different way of seeing. Being personally more inclined to imagery and metaphor, the idea of a pictorial depiction may take away from the reader’s way of looking at the work. But then, if the work is different from one’s ‘area’ in a manner, then the graphics add rather than take away from what is being conveyed. It is like watching clouds and then you see flashes of the sky that has already been ‘painted’. It gives a different dimension to how we watch the cumulus disperse or words tumble.
Non-fiction of a certain kind lends itself wonderfully to such pictorial depiction. As a report states:
SmarterComics is to produce a line of comic books based on bestselling business, motivational and personal self-help titles. Among the titles coming out next month in graphic novel form are personal motivator Larry Winget's business bestseller 'Stop Whining & Get a Life', sales and marketing guru Tom Hopkins' 'How to Master the Art of Selling', performance psychologist John Eliot's 'Overachievement' and technology magazine Wired's editor-in-chief Chris Anderson's 'The Long Tail: Why the Future of Business Is Selling Less of More'.
I do not read self-help books (ah, whining gives me a chance to dine and wine and, occasionally, shine), but it is a huge market and there could well be titles that I would find cumbersome to read because it just isn’t my territory but would like to know about. Of course, there is pretty much everything available on the Net, yet I would be curious about how a book like I’m Ok, You're Ok would translate in images. It is such a psychological journey and it just so happened that at around the same time I was reading Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman, which I think would be an absolute delight as a comic book. I do tend to visualise and even imagine while reading non-fiction, the drier it is the more vividly I think about the characters or ‘players’ or ‘scenes’.
Unfortunately, the publisher’s targets are the “Twitter and Facebook generations” for whom the books will be “lively, visually appealing comics, for a generation of readers who want valuable information in easy to understand bits”.
I think there is no specific generation anymore on social networking sites and the need for valuable information and easy to understand bits need not be seen as dumbing down. Serious issues can be dumbed down, poetry can be dumbed down in the manner in which they are interpreted. It would be quite educative if instead of drab graphs one can watch the more complex works made accessible, rather than easy. And the difference lies in placing before us a well-laid out meal and spoon-feeding.
Even at the most basic level, if the works reach a wider readership, there would be some who might want to explore it in greater detail.
To give another example, I discovered many old folktales in their pure forms after reading comics.
Long before Indian television gave us garish images of mythological caricatures, there was the Amar Chitra Katha series of comics. As a comic book aficionado, I admit that except for the Panchtantra series, there was not much that kept me regaled. It was a simple and simplistic rendition, but so are most text books. However, what these books did was to make children conscious of our epics. Anant Pai, the founder, writer, illustrator kept at it till his death recently, because he noticed that youngsters knew more about the Greeks than Lord Rama. Of course, he did not realise that this would become a household name for entirely different reasons.
From mythology he ventured into stories of real people, the heroes. Again, I can well imagine how much more wonderful it must be to read these with quote bubbles and loud drawings for a mind that is transfixed by butterflies and in a hurry to chase them.
One should hope children grow up and grown ups can retain a wide-eyed wonder.
Sitting in a coffee shop, I am reading up some news items that might be deemed serious. At a table at the far end, she sits. Her blonde hair tousled with gel. I can smell the spray that holds it. There is a bright light before her eyes as she talks in a language I do not understand. She speaks loud, then laughs, her little girl voice now throaty, and then it drops to a whisper. She is on webcam and I cannot see the monitor but I watch as she winds her fingers into her curls and bends a little to reveal some cleavage.
It is obvious that she is talking to a known person. Maybe a husband, a boyfriend, but most certainly someone with whom she is intimate. There did not appear to be any obvious intimacy. She would not have chosen so public a place and there would be people who’d understand her language. I understood her language, in an unspoken manner – the language of distance, of pain, of pining, of sexual tension. It was evident as she inadvertently pulled out the headset and the male voice could be heard on the speakers; she plugged it in quickly, as though it were a cigarette butt left burning.
She did not say any goodbye. I only heard a sigh as she snapped close the laptop. She wore a skirt with a misaligned hemline and stilettos; her blouse clung to her tiny frame and her hair suddenly seemed too much, too big for her frame, for her face, for her body. It was like a camouflage for her person, since for a long time that is all I saw of her.
She went to the cash counter to pay and the jerkiness of her hand movements as she fidgeted in her purse and insisted that she did not need a bill even as she grabbed it and then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the tangles, almost straightening it, those curls now needing to be tamed into relaxation…she might go out for a drink and let the slight headiness weaken her senses or she might retire to her room somewhere and recreate the conversation. I can hear her voice in the breeze as it blows gently and then creeps in between the fronds with a whoosh sound that falls silent as maybe a leaf falls into a whisper.
She’ll find that breeze echoing in her room and envelope her body.
There is literary merit in the fact that J D Salinger’s toilet seat is up for auction. Think about the ideas many creative people say they get when they are digesting more than thoughts. Is there any truth in this phenomenon?
As a somewhat creative person, I do come up with the most imaginative description of post culinary indulgences while responding to pathology tests. One doctor even guessed I was a writer based on the poetic justice I did to what appeared to be a drab report that exposed me not only to amoebae and bacteria but also to a future reader.
Given this little episode in the nascent stages when my literary yearnings got a boost, I can conjecture with a degree of certitude that it has to do with the seating arrangement.
It is said that Rodin’s The Thinker is in such an inspired pose. With feet on the ground, while the left side of the brain is occupied in logical activity, the pressure reaches the right side and sparks off the dance of the cerebrum. There is also the psychological fact that something is leaving you; although the departure is welcome in this case, it harks back to a past. This becomes the manure to fill the fertile soil of the future. The mind suddenly has ideas and on occasion they could be psychedelic. It is quite akin to a state of deliriousness as closure is being reached.
The difference between a scientist and an artiste is that the former can soak in a bath tub, think up something and run out stark naked screaming ‘Eureka’ because he has a hypothesis; the latter, due to the peculiar task at hand cannot leave until it is over and therefore there is time to ruminate and think it through. You can later always say that you were preoccupied with your Muse.
- - -
“I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.”
(Holden Caulfield in Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye)
If my leg was the Roman Empire then it had a fall. I ought to have used a more commonplace metaphor, especially considering I do tend to fall off beds. This time I did not. I was walking with what might be an autumn in my stride, the feet felt like they were crushing crisp brown leaves; they ambled from the balcony towards the bedroom and near the bottom corner of the bed a protrusion, a hook that had come off and hung loose with vicious intent, stalled movement. As it grazed my left ankle, the floor, smooth as a lover’s skin, dragged me down. I was on my left knee, in half a prayer pose, my hands akimbo – a bit like an opera singer and a bit like a bat in flight. The right leg had by then turned and my foot had twisted.
I screamed, as though the scream would untwist the foot, get me up from my knee. I was only slipping further, the foot twisting even more. I had nothing to hold on to except the bed. I tugged at the blanket like an urchin tugging at someone’s sleeve. I finally managed to sit on the floor, legs stretched out. With a great deal of effort I got to the edge of the bed and slowly slid up and wept into the pillow.
It felt strange. Just minutes ago I had opened my shopping bag and was admiring my new pair of shoes. When I had tried them they fit like a dream and I walked on air. Is this irony? Co-incidence? Or just another fall?
I know people fall. And this is hardly the stuff of Greek tragedies, pardon the mixing up of nations and metaphors. I had been on a high the past few days. I was treadmilling, bicycling, walking, sweating the hell out of myself, and I deserved those new shoes. An Iranian lady had helped me select them with facial expressions and delicate movement of hands. Our unspoken language made me feel good as she pointed me out to her whole family and they all smiled as though I looked like a bottle of Shiraz.
Minutes later, I was fragile glass. I had to manage the night with Deep Heat, which comes in spray form. Its sensual warmth penetrated my feet that ached uncharacteristically for the cold comfort of numbness.
Next morning brought a new pain, the pain of realisation of pain. Feeling pain is one thing. Realising that pain exists outside of feeling is quite another. Pain becomes an entity. It has its own dynamics, its own reason, and it chooses its victims carefully.
X-rays showed two broken bones. “Femur?” I asked the doctor, trying to sound knowledgeable about my body. “No, this is another bone.” He did not name it. There were two – they could be twins or they might be different. He did not think my bones needed names. The nameless bones were cracked. I imagined some fine piece of crystal on a mantelpiece with two cracks. Fractured feet. I needed a cast.
Before we could get to it, I asked the ortho if it would hurt. “Just a little,” he said. I either like a lot or nothing. I said, “Why must it hurt?” He smiled quizzically. I told him to give me local anaethesia for putting on a plaster. He was not amused. The new-fangled things are neat. He just kept winding what looked like an ordinary bandage, the soles touching his chest; for a while my soles could hear his heartbeats – I think on my feet! He was touching the wound gauze with water, pat-pat-pat, and the wetness set the plaster. I was amazed at how a simple bandage got so fixed to my feet. Now I can knock on it and it won't open any door. It is shut so tightly that no air can enter. It’s upto my calf because the pain travels. It must have chalked up quite a few qualifier miles.
I was out in a wheelchair and it felt like a stretch limo. If only I had a gown with a fur stole and a hat with ostrich feathers, I might have been in quite another age. The momentary charade of the imagination has now been replaced with a walker as I limp my way within the four walls. I see images on the walls, picture windows, the river, a beautiful table set for fine dining and the scent of jasmines as white as the cast on my leg. I think of sheesha, cinnamon flavoured, the smoke rings creating a haze, and I think how walls have doors and windows and yet we can see pictures on them without looking out. And I thank such moments for thoughts, for people, for strangers who make all this possible.
X, Y, Z belong to three nationalities and do not live in their homelands. We first ‘met’ on the page and the monitor screen. I was a byline. There was communication beyond that, but I remained a Person Who Wrote (PWW).
One day I met them in person. It was not the first time I was meeting readers, but the first time I was meeting such disparate people within a span of days in one city.
X and I had the longest correspondence and talks and he knew quite a bit about me; he also knew what was not there. In effect, I came away feeling like a curiosity that had been satiated. I was still the writer, the metaphor for a person. I was familiar but that sense of familiarity was black on white. I never became grey or blue or red or pink…and if I did it was as a ‘colourful’ character. The writer became a character. If my blood had been drunk it would have only congealed into ink.
Y is a new recruit! We exchanged only two notes; the first time he was ticking me off because I had written something about his area of expertise and he felt I was wrong. I said I was right about my right to be wrong, and he agreed. So, we were okay. Then, we met. It was nearing sunset and I was dying to look at the sky in all its flaming brilliance. I sipped iced tea; he stuck to Earl Grey. It was an amazing chat, completely metaphysical, and he did what I often do – drew various patterns with his hands on the table: pyramids, squares, other shapes to highlight a point. I don’t know when exactly, but he mentioned a personal incident from my life in passing. I immediately reacted, “How do you know?” He laughed, “You wrote about it!” I did not expect that as someone new he would have read this. More importantly, those pyramids and squares, so meaningful in our debate, now became me. I was also an atom, a molecule, something you brought to the table. I was a PWW.
Z knew me from my book, primarily. He had written a few times, and had got fairly acquainted with my work. He invited me home and I would have met his wife and child, but it was too short a notice. So it was dinner at a club without them. Fun insights about his life, about the diaspora. He asked little. Towards the end of the meeting, he said, “The moment I saw you, I said this is F. Frankly, if you were not what I had imagined, I would have been devastated.” Again, I was the writer, except that he had imbued me with the flesh and blood of his imagination. Yet, the imagination was about what I wrote. During the conversation he had said, “I see you as completely liberated…” I paused. I knew what he meant. As an Indian woman writing on certain subjects I am seen as a bit of a rarity, especially the language I use. In fact, I am told it has little to do with my nationality. I am bold and far too upfront even by normal western standards. Z was, like many others, projecting that onto me as a person. The parting shot, just before I left, was most amusing and interesting. “But, you can also be quite frightening. There is a divinity about you that seems to go contrary to that other image.”
I chortled. I began to think of a halo around me, but again it was either as a writer or as an imagined person going a bit against that which he said he had also thought about.
It has made me contemplate about whether I want to be seen as just that. Recently, I did not write for a while. One of the reasons was, as I mentioned in Who moved my bubble?, to unwrite myself.
From being a curiosity, a pattern made on the table, an imagined entity, a bagful of words seeping out on the sand, leaving small little imprints and occasionally metamorphosing into crabs clinging to what will be washed away.
Even more importantly, in this supposed bonfire of the vanities I was in fact trying to reclaim my person. I realised only later that although I knew all along that these three people are hugely accomplished in their fields, have interesting experiences – professional and personal – by seeing them see me as only a writer, was I not seeing them only as readers? The difference is that I know them from what they say or do; they know me from what I write.
What sort of synergy is possible in such sharing? It also makes me wonder whether there can be any equitable understanding. Different perceptions aside, does the reader not have the upper hand? S/he can see you as you are, as you could be, as you may not be, as they think you are, as they want you to be, as they hear you are. There is no room for factual analysis at all. Strangely, the subjective makes you into an object.
I used to crave the company of people who had not read me. One friend would boast that she had met me without having read a word and wanted to stay away from my writing as much as possible to see the real me.
As the friendship evolved, she often remarked, “You are so transparent. I can read you like a book.”
A thrill ran down my spine. I had got what would have been called a fatwa. I am not sure whether there was prize money offered for my head or something else but it sure sounded like an edict. It came from Blogger, which gave it international appeal and made me feel like I had crossed all barriers. As some of you might be aware, I have a special affinity towards this fatwa thingie.
At first I thought it was fake but the fatwa-hungry part of me took it seriously. I awaited the time when I’d be martyred. Salman Rushdie would pen The Boor’s Last Sigh; Taslima Nasreen would finally discover a Bengali ghetto in Sweden and live happily ever after in that free country. No one would care about those drawing Danish cartoons or doing things to holy books. All the world’s attention would be on me and my rantings about holes in ceilings and skies with feelings. My poems would be deconstructed even as it is known that they were never constructed in the first place.
Media houses would have debates on the freedom to express sexual desires towards oneself. I’d have mikes thrust near my mouth to emphasise the point just made.
The mullahs, sadhus, priests and transvestites would come on one forum to agree. Some literary giants would join in the chants because I was assaulting their idea of prosaic prosody and had transformed the iambic pentameter into an octometer only because I like things big.
Blogger was going to make me big. Next day I looked suitably rebellious and ready for e-martyrdom. The dashboard had a few lines written in red (I think. Yes, dammit, sometimes I do.) It said, “Your blog will be deleted in 20 days if it isn't reviewed, and your readers will see a warning page during this time. After we receive your request, we'll review your blog and unlock it within two business days.”
Business days? Readers? They knew I had readers? I did? It gave me other details which are not suitable for people planning families. Isn’t stuff that is unsuitable that goes into Spam? I wanted to cry my heart out and give a little speech about how I had given my blood (A+), toil (never mind), sweat (with expensive unisex deodorant), tears (the real McCoy and not crocodile) to this little space.
This could not be happening to me. I had not reproduced salacious pictures, and I cannot help it if Modigliani and company did nudes. I had not written anything that adults under 30 have not experienced and those over that age might desire. I did write about politics, but who does not? I wrote about religion, but everyone prays. I even exposed my soul because our culture talks of the atman/rooh as though it is something tangible. I did it without any expectations or benefit to self.
I have suffered, uff, I have! Yet, I put on a brave face and sallied forth, thinking that those few people who Blogger assumes read me would take me for what I am.
Those words in red stared at me as though I were a common criminal. And, mind you, the red was ordinary font, not even embossed or engraved. I smiled the shaheed smile, the one which looks like you are carrying cyanide pellets in your head. I would be in hiding and imagined being exiled in some country where the temperature dips to an inelegant low; how would I look in faux fur and mannequin mink? And why should I not alliterate, after all it would be F’s Fatwa? I started thinking about the bodyguards who would one day pen a book about what all I did not do.
It must have taken 15 minutes of my useless time for such cogitations. By then I had read all the dos and don’ts of the Blogger Das Kapital, and nothing that I had written crossed any limits.
Yes, do what you want, I muttered. I did a cocky head nod and my mouth curled into a sneer. I was mid-way into my ‘hah’ when my test post went through. I had entered the den as a tigress and ended up chasing a ball of wool. I clicked on request to unlock. Okay, it was 20 days away before I was told to clean up and move the hell out. Then I checked the dashboard and those red words had disappeared. Did they do their checking already? Was it some Ku Klux Klan doing its underground research and waiting for me to bite the bait? Or did they believe that I wasn’t worth the fatwa spewed from the mouths of greater believers?
I knew it. This fatwa desire shall remain unfulfilled. It is entirely possible that in this holy month, it is god’s idea of doing zakat towards me.
So, friends, desperate housewives, gigolos and whoever else I have offended, do remember to keep up the vigil and all. Meanwhile, I am assuming this may just fizzle out. But if you see a note that does not let you access this blog and you really want to access it, then remember to write a nice little obit.
In my next birth I will be a blog.
PS: My other blogs here have no writing in red. Yet.
“Your flight has been rescheduled,” was the text message. It was followed by a voicemail. I read and heard both these the next day. My phone was in silent mode.
The messages were not for me. It was for a person with a very long name travelling on an international carrier from a far-off land. Why did he have a Mumbai number? Probably a businessman.
Today, it happened again. He was flying between cities. His flight was delayed. I called up the Indian private airline. These guys talk real smartly. I told him about the error and could he please update the information so that the real person gets the message?
“Oh sure, ma’am. I will need your name.”
“Why is my name important? I am giving you details about the passenger, and you should be concerned about his information.”
“But I will need to tell the department who called.”
“Tell them Helen of Troy.”
“Huh? Sorry, I did not get you?”
“Yeah, you won’t. Just do what you have to. Here are the flight details, the gentleman’s full name. Feed it into your system.”
“See, why don’t you call the reservations department, they might be able to help.”
“I do not need help. And I do not have the time. It is your job, you do it.”
Trrring, trring…cellphone rings. An automated voice informs me about my flight delay. I want to scream.
Yet, somewhere, I am thinking about Mr Long Name. Christian from Kerala. I can imagine him working his ass off in some Gulf country, returning to India, going to different cities to sell adream he has sleepless nights over.
He must have reached the airport early, picked up a quarrel with the check-in staff…and shrugged. He, in all likelihood, did not expect them to inform him. He does not know that the number he gave them is not his number. It is mine.
He is probably travelling well, but even in Executive Class he will be with a plastic carry bag, usually from some department store. Something will poke out. He will say, “Side pliss,” as he tries to haul it up in the overhead luggage bin after the flight attendant has told him that he cannot keep it near his seat as it is inconvenient and not advisable during emergencies. He has travelled so many times, yet he will repeat the performance, jut his tongue out to indicate his mistake, roll his large eyes, and maybe look over his reading glasses.
Then he will sit down, ask for the newspaper that is already in the seat pocket, and wipe his face, neck, arms with the wet towel. When the drinks are passed around, he will first touch the glass of juice, then the fresh lime and finally pick up the Coke. He will spread the newspaper to its full broadsheet size.
He will change channels of the in-flight entertainment till he has watched two minutes of each. He will have the full meal on board, ask for extra milk in his coffee, then recline his seat all the way back and start looking around. After a few minutes he will get up and start walking down the aisle to confirm whether he needs to visit the loo. When he is certain, he will pull up his trousers and go towards the toilet. When he is done and comes out, his hand will be on his zipper. Just like that.
Back at his seat, he will ring for the attendant. He will ask for "magsin” and pick up a serious news mag and look at the ads.
Once the flight has landed, he will switch on his mobile and start punching numbers. When the aircraft door is opened he will pull out his plastic bag and his strolley and his laptop, carry the paper and mag with him and try and rush to the exit. He will make a call saying he is late for a meeting.
Right now, as I type this, he must be on that flight from Bangalore to my city. He does not know me. But for the airline staff I am him.
