The Ground Beneath Her Feet

It's funny how much we take for granted. The irony, of course, is that we rarely realise what we're taking for granted - until it's been taken away. Like the carpet protecting your bare feet from the cold marble floor, for instance. You wouldn't even notice it existed unless it were to suddenly absent itself. Realisation of the missing taken-for-granted-object strikes like an unexpected blow; much like the alarm you experience when the rug you're standing on is pulled from under your feet. But that doesn't mean you can't live without the rug, does it? The shock you're experiencing is a momentary lapse of reason, that's all. After you've inhaled deeply a couple of times, and attempted to rationalise your way out of the "fight or flight" reaction, it'll slowly dawn upon you that the situation is not as bleak as you had initially imagined. You'll learn to go barefoot. Soon enough, you might even learn to enjoy it.



[Title courtesy: Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet]

... and you're standing still.

You always thought if you loved enough,
Held it close for long enough,
You would never lose;
How wrong you were.


['Standing Still' by Buddahead]

The Red Door

I remember walking into your sparsely furnished room, and finding you utterly engrossed in yet another book (usually of the “Classic Literature” genre), and then the bewildered look in your eyes as you look up on detecting my presence; a look that conveyed your disorientation on being wrenched from the world in the mildewed pages, to your slightly chilly, bare bedroom. We would stare at each other for a few seconds. Unblinking, I ensured that I did not utter a word. I was afraid of dispersing the look in your eyes. Your uncertainty and confusion were intoxicating to me. They were the only glimpses I received of your true self, of your innermost thoughts. Without moving a muscle or emitting a sound, I simply met your gaze, soaking in as much as I could from your large, ebony black eyes. Those few initial minutes of every meeting were usually identical, and, for me, the most meaningful. And of course, though they seemed to last for hours, they spanned a few seconds only.

You would quickly regain your composure, take your index and middle finger away from your lips (while reading, you were wont to placing the former on your lower lip, and the latter on your upper lip), carefully mark your place, and put the book away. Then, you would swing your legs off the bed gracefully, and slowly walk towards me, with that partly sardonic, partly teasing smile on your face. I was always absolutely awestruck by your confident and purposeful stride, and would wait for you to reach me, too intimidated to move towards you. You used to tell me that you thoroughly enjoyed the effect you had on me while you would take your time walking up to me, slipping a gown over your skimpy nightdress in the process, and finally halting a few inches away from me. The eternal tease that you were, you would raise your head and move your mouth merely an inch away from mine, and then pause to look into my eyes while you slowly intertwined your fingers with mine. You wanted me to succumb, and succumb I always did. Strangely, every first kiss with you felt like the first, and the last. I would try to draw that first kiss out as long as possible: I would relish the taste of you; savour the feeling of running my hand through your long, thick dark hair; dwell on the satisfaction in gripping and releasing your hand; and inhale deeply the distinct, lingering scent of you. Too soon, you would snap me out of my reverie by gently detaching yourself from me, and leading me to your unmade bed, with two large, blissfully soft pillows, and a thick white quilt as its only adornments.

Afterwards, I would sit up in bed and look around your room. It seemed as though every time a new aspect would be revealed to me. I was always intrigued by the fact that you substituted cupboards with two large wooden trunks, which were spilling over with your soft, brightly coloured dresses and a pair or two of old, comfortable-looking jeans. At every visit, there would be a different pair of very expensive-looking high-heeled shoes sitting beside a trunk, along with the perennially present pair of battered red Converse All Stars. The two trunks and the waist-high piles of books scattered all around the room were the only belongings which furnished it. No rug covered the worn wooden floor; no pictures graced the spotless white walls. I had noticed a photograph of an exceptionally handsome boy with a schoolboy’s mischievous grin on one of the trunks once, and asked you about it, too. But the aversion of your face and eyes, and the folding of your arms over your chest following your curt response, “He’s my brother,” made it abundantly apparent that the subject was not open for discussion. That photograph, or any other, had never made an appearance again after that day. On having skimmed through a few of your books, I remember asking you how on earth you had developed such an intense adoration for the likes of Wilde, Salinger, Beckett, Anouilh, the Bronte’s, Hardy, Proust, and, of course, Shakespeare, and several others. You just sat on your bed, the white quilt draped over your torso and your long, bronze legs folded sideways beneath you. A cigarette in hand, you surveyed me quietly, narrowing your eyes slightly as you blew the smoke out in perfect rings. Shrugging slightly, you’d smile your smile again, and once again we would lapse into an easy silence. After you’d finished smoking, you’d slide under the covers and rapidly fall asleep. I remember lying awake on my side, watching you sleep, bringing my finger-tips close to your face but never actually touching you.

Eventually, of course, I would drift off to sleep, and wake with a start in the morning. You never stayed till the proverbial “morning after,” always leaving a note on your pillow instead, which provided polite instructions of the amount of money I owed, and where it must be placed. My clothes would be folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and I would, more often than not, discover a new tooth-brush awaiting me in the bathroom. I would dress quickly, resisting the urge to pry into your belongings to wring any possible information about you. Having scribbled a note which merely said, “Thank you,” I’d leave it in the aforementioned location along with money, and rush out of your bedroom, and would be off to the real world again, shutting the red door firmly behind me.

Double-edged Sword

You can't live with it, you can't live without it.
You realise that you've surpassed the proverbial "point of no return" by miles and miles.
Trapped?
Completely.

And all the roads we have to walk along are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding

People are Strange, When You're a Stranger

I am unsure whether I find people strange because they actually are,
or because they refuse to react to certain occurences the way I want them to.


Faces look ugly, when you're alone.



[Title and italicised text courtesy 'People are strange' - The Doors]

"Don't you want to go down like a disgraced cosmonaut?"

Sometimes I want to take you down.

Sometimes I want to get you low.

I'll be with you

Like being low.

[Entire post, including the title, consists of lyrics from the song 'Low' by Cracker]

Devil and the Deep Sea

I've always wondered
Whether I've grown up too fast,
Or never grown up at all.

Paper Flowers

"You're quite like the paper flower you bought from that stall. The one which had stuff made by underprivileged kids?"

Her strong British accent more evident than ever, she said, laughing, "What, artificial and clumsily crafted?"

She was enjoying the thoroughly random and meandering nature of their conversation; much like the long walks they insisted on embarking upon, in spite of losing themselves completely in the process.

"No!" he said, with a supposed-to-be-stern side-long look. It did not have the desired effect, apparently, and merely elicited more laughter.

"No, I meant," he continued, "A bright and cheerful red on the outside, with a deep blue core concealed within."

She stopped walking. Agape at his uncanny ability to gain insight into her mind, she gazed vacantly at his rapidly receding back.

Realising that she was no longer beside him, he turned around and called, "Come on! What are you waiting for?"

What was she waiting for?

She hesitated. Slowly releasing her breath, she took a tentative step forward.

Excerpt from the Journal

Every so often, one begins to feel as though one is living a role; and the incidents which occur seem to be happening to at a distance, in spite of direct involvement. You begin to realise the reason behind the aforementioned distance: Of course it'll seem like someone else's life - that's precisely what it is, isn't it? It is the life of the character whose shoes you decided to step into, not yours.

Depressing as this role-assuming sounds, occassionally, you discover that the recent role you have acquired sits with you much more easily than the last, than any you have ever adopted, for that matter. The sensation is unpleasantly comfortable. Comfortable? Certainly, but unpleasantly so. Because you are so highly unaccustomed to being at ease with and enjoying essaying your role, that this newfound comfort fills you with a wariness which you cannot escape. In fact, you may even cherish your wariness and reluctance to settle into these shoes which fit you like a second layer of skin, and leave you feeling as though you are barefoot. The fact that you don't immediately accept them means that you're less susceptible to the disappointment they'll induce when the fall apart at the seams on their first encounter with rough weather.

Meanwhile, you can't help but appreciate how this character's shoes are almost frighteningly suitable for every occassion. You enjoy wearing them, savour the ease with which they envelope your feet. Gradually, and without you noticing, your suspicipicions about the shoes fall away, and you begin trusting them - the notion which had terrified you so very much initially. However, unlike your attitude towards the shoes of other characters you've played, you don't depend on this pair, even though you have immense faith in them. You realise that you've finally learnt, "matured" if you please, or, plain and simple, GROWN UP. It doesn't surprise you, therefore, when they rip at the heel due to constant use; and you, devoid of any malice or bitterness, put them away in your closet. Why taint their memory by permitting regret to seep in? They served you exceedingly well, after all. The worn and battered shoes sitting upon your shelf taught you to go barefoot, in the skin, and crutches be damned.

'No Time to Wallow in the Mire'

Her eyes reflected the uncertainty which had surged within her at his words. He looked away; fully aware that it was he was responsible for her sadness and, above all, immeasurable confusion.

"Look, you don’t have to fret. I will be there,” he said in, what he would like to believe was, a calm and reassuring tone.

In an inaudible whisper she asked, “Will you?”
But he had turned towards his desk and was readying himself to depart for his umpteenth interview of the day. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed with the familiar traces of disorientation, wistfulness and immense grief in her eyes. He felt her watching him as he strapped his watch on, unplugged his cell-phone from its charger and ascertained that he had his wallet. He fiddled with the money-clip lying on the tabletop. Neer was afraid of being assaulted by Agni’s eyes, afraid of the guilt that would weigh upon him on seeing the expression they bore; and was, therefore, childishly delaying the moment he would have to turn around and face her. His hesitation, however, was not required.

With a jolt of surprise, he felt Agni’s arms around his waist, and her mouth against his ear as she whispered, “My disappointment shall rise to a whole new, irreparable level if you aren’t here in time, Mr. Neer Malhotra.” He barely had time to turn his head in her direction when she had lightly kissed his cheek and broken away with a soft chuckle. As she sauntered out of the room, she must have been anticipating a gaze of wonder upon her back, because she turned and smiled at him, and laughed after blowing him a kiss. Her eyes are surprisingly mirthful, he thought to himself, as he remained rooted to the spot, staring after her in amazement with a dumbfounded (and mildly bovine) expression upon his face. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he lifted his briefcase and walked out the door. “Women”, Neer muttered, ensuring the door was locked behind him and walking towards his car.

(Title courtesy: ‘Light my fire’ by The Doors)