idiot's tale

*1*


. He is affable, caring in a different way and unlike me does not suffer at the slight let down or neglect. He is like Johnny , the idiot boy of Wordsworth’s ballad . He is adorable and a sensitive being like most of us. He was considered incapable of committing a crime till 2007 in the US law. He bleeds like me, breathes affinity as we do. Then why do we call some one an idiot despite his being one of of us? The malady is in our perception. A subsumed or confused soul could be me, you or any one of us at a point of time. In his case it is a bit longer. I remember the movie Taren Jameen Par and the look of the child actor Darsheel and the innocence and piety he exuded.Did any of us not adore the characterisation of Ishan?

In the journey of our life we are idiots or you could name it mild sentimental fools on many occasions. In love and search for honour a man or woman ought to be an idiot many days, many times, no matter how special he or she is.
Some memories never die. It haunts you, soothes you and occasionally ignites you for better or worse. As a young university pass out my first job was in a Government women's college as a lecturer. It was a salubrious feeling to be in an all women environment. Rose was then only red and blood red, and not pink, yellow or white as turned out to be later.

A few male colleagues and a handful of administrative staff otherwise the campus was all red, pink and green, also violet. My head of the department was a charming lady, very fair, a little plump, tall , elderly, oval faced and garrulous. She was a loving, caring woman and I was assured of a homemade lunch courtesy Anasuya Madam. She drove so well and fast that some men were in awe of her. Her husband was a Professor, ENT in the local medical college Hospital. He was also a playwright. For some days I thought the lady was merely a good woman, albeit a little gaudy and nothing extraordinary.

It was a dull afternoon and hot and humid outside. I was with her alone in the staff room and I had a tutorial class late afternoon. In the morning she presented me a light read novel, of which I had heard, but it was then out of print, The Thorn Birds. Our favourite authors and poets were almos the same and we had always something to share.

That afternoon to drive away the urge to have a pleasurable siesta ,we were engrossed in sketchy discussions on things and nothing and I asked her about Babu, her only child, then around 15-16 years old. Each fortnight madam used to take leave for a day to attend him.. He was suffering from Thalasamea Major. He had blood transfusions once each fortnight. Madam was silent; the woman who rarely smiled and always laughed was in tears. She said people thought him imbecile; idiot and the couple carried this stigma day and night.

That was my first encounter in a serious note with the word. I had read Dostoyevsky and his novel did not hold me long for its volume and penchant for details and the lack of originality in the translation.. But an idiot as a son! I was flabbergasted, the woman had so much pains and she conducted herself so elegantly. I have seen women who break at the slightest hurt. In their imagination and feelings they crave pain passionately; it is equally true of many men.

How a genetic disability or problem could be termed idiosyncrasy? A person unable to reason ordinarily is an idiot, as has been told to us. Mental retardation or for that matter incapacitation to comprehend normally is the sign of idiocy. The boy here was no idiot in conventional sense, he was not agile as his friends were, and he used thick glasses, looked lusterless yet felt about things better than many normal boys. i was in the profession for about three years and was with her for a couple of summer. after that i did not hear about them, recently I heard he is a grown up man and successful in life.

. Nnow he is a teacher in a university and considered brilliant. I could not know about his parents for I am out of touch with my old circles. They had then courage and patience. They did not lose heart; the boy was taken to London for spleenectomy. I don't know much about his present health, but he was a genius or he could not have reached here despite the problem.

An idiot could be lovable and close to heart. I have seen as all of you must have ,mothers are fonder of the child who is least responsive, lovers cling more when the other one is more dependant on them and a little careless. Were they idiots, for a moment think they are, then idiots are closer to heart than snubs and intelligent. A defiant child is less adored than a docile yet differently able; I don't like to stymie physical disability with mental stupor or dullness as different. They have something in common. Then a deaf and dumb or for that matter a blind one has a little idiocy in him,as we narrow our vision in segmenting people and their abilities.

BEING TRUE AND NEVER GREY

Not many days back I said men are not for tears. And my friend glanced at me with bewilderment. She asked me then what could they do. I had a skeptic smile and said shoulders are to be there for men to shed tears. She had a hearty laugh and spoke of her thin but firm shoulder. It was almost a laugh aside thing.
A few months back, writing at another space about broken relationships ,I thought it should be made as easy as possible, no rancour, no misgivings. Apart from one’s family relationships no relationship is seemingly permanent unless endured. Endurance is like the little sparrow collecting odd objects and making a nest. It is so subtle, so soft and sprightly that just an amazing experience is left with the onlooker. Recently I had two relationships on the verge of breaking up, divergent they were and fragile they had been from the very beginning. One we could salvage, the second one I fear, I could not. Bringing personal factors for public gaze is no virtue, yet no other way I could say what I feel should be told. Like a nestling tiny bird we preserve our integrity and shortfalls and disturbing issues are taken care of by our ingrained objectivity. For me instinctive emotions are poor commentators on human relations. Well, I am instinctive and yet I regard my companion’s impulses as important and as virgin I could estimate mine. The moment I say I am always right and he is always wrong, the death knell of our togetherness is there. Rarely we come over.I speak half truth, see him as a bundle of nerves and never think he has a proper identity worth respect and always I am full of myself, could I ever be a friend? I cherish friends as followers, then I am never a companion, but a self seeker.
No relationship could flourish if it is sized in terms of mental maturity and obstinacy. If I am a butterfly I would grease your hand with obfuscate colours and particles. You may be a soft blade of grass, tender and radiant, my presence shall make you dusty and the scarce tenderness you dissipate. . In such cases rarely could we linger a faith. When we sustain such odds, we allow relationship bloom with patience and the waiting pays rich. And there comes the fervour and matured mutual faith . Relationship, friendship or companionship are matters of faith. We need not cast out the fallible between us, but to weather the shortcomings are our real test. If I cry aloud and say I am a fallen angel, much wronged. I will get pity and sympathy in my basket and not love. Not necessarily then I would earn friends. I would draw together bunch of flowers and sighs;if I get someone who feels me and walks with me a distance without hoping for gratitude, then he is my friend, not he who sighs at my raucous sob and pat me.
That day I had a feeling; surviving relationship is a kind of gathering dew drops in palm. Before we gather, those drops are lost. And some are so unfortunate that they never see it radiating and dispersing watery light for visual accomplishment. Yet dew drops are a reality and they are present to light up the tender grass. Your tenderness is not a weakness, or an abject submission; that I should remember.
Choosing relationship is my domain, but my freedom is limited to the extent I do not become judgmental. I am as blind as the other one to guess if I am better equipped than him to deal the situations. We are equal partners in a relation, this is the truth, no less, no better.
While discussing the mavericks of relationships I just wanted to make a choice, whether to surrender or to arraign the misgivings. Suspension of ego and transcending balkanization of superstitious ideas about instinctive maneuvers are best suited when we are susceptible to form ideas about people and the chemistry of two divergent individuals. I am my own master, you are your slave; this attitude stimulates dissension. This is a kingly demeanour , where the feeling is I am no wrong. Here empathy is diluted and a sovereign atavistic disintegration of mutuality rule. Then we cannot rue the fact that we could not sit together for furthering our belongingness.

I sadly admit I can never be anyone’s company having such a stance towards lives’ chameleon fortitude. If empathy is not my forte and dream never a paramour, I will always miss out my friends. Breach of faith is of no substance if my truth later is neither grey nor brown and always white and black. In companionship being true to self and others is of relevance when perception is not dictated by edgy feelings. If I cannot contain my arrogance that stuffs and stilts a raised hand with hope and warmth, I will miss out the palm that tops my head from rain and sun.
I can never earn a friend if I am susceptible to past and unrelenting stubbornness. If I cannot accept without question, I have no right to enjoin mind and souls. If I never allow a squirming soul to speak out his parts of the story and never leave my dogmatic effervescence how can I prove me?
To be a company I need be true to myself, as well others. I have a journey to make and I know I can never cross the marsh and meander the flowing tributaries and rough terrains all alone.
I allow him to cry and sob, but cannot stop him from radiating the joy that he attains after the painful quest. I raise him from pitfalls, then can he wriggle me out of dungeons of hypocrisy. If I cannot endure a company, I am not only lost, the flowering of harmony withers. Joy has wings of a bird, you can feel its flutter, but can never persist without adopting a part of sadness from the other. I can never be at bliss if I never try to linger the same in my friend. Being in company I have no ifs and whys, I have to cross the distance in togetherness. No half truth, no frail thoughts, no coming off . It is absolute, no traits in my company is to dither me, and if I point the arm, it will not bloom rose and jasmine, but distribute fireballs and quell tranquility. Being in company you have no use for them.

waiting

In slumber ,
A patient waiting,
Waiting for the unknown,
The new dawn,
Of revelation,
Jubilation's cause.
An unfolding
Of inner collision,
Course of impregnable.
Soothing memories,
Of past and present,
Known and unknown,
The combative spirit,
To fight a reason
And blot the copy,
Of conscience and Commandment.
A waiting since
Long past millennium,
For a dream to sustain
And upkeep the honour.
A grotesque thrill,
In the waiting,
A cause and end In unity.

joy unbound

She emitted a coy smile
A smile that engulfed darkness around
Radiated joy unbound
In the dark alley I met her.
Withering afternoon
Glistened with golden arrow.
She blushed,
Thousand roses bloom
She heaved a sigh
Thunder storm staggered
Awry , mundane
Thoughts took refuge in the
Backyard of garbage dump.
Compassion took over
I transcend
Found eternal joy in ordinary matter.

EPITAPH

An obscure sky and
The backdrop of a deep blue,
White flock splitting wings
Dark and white;
Interplay of cosmic glory
Against grey earth.

Water, air and grains of
Compassion disperse an epoch
An evocative wonder,
A delight absolute;
For me, for my little heart,
A life for divergent bodies,
Animates and dissipates.
Spring for winter dry,
Sprinkles of little charity
All for murky souls
From above and a little
Deep within.

oblivion

I looked for a flower
That never withered,
Gaze fixed, love extended.
She smiled, a coy gait
Drivelling drizzle.
Stunned silence
Motley emotion,
Pervades.
Creeping snakes In brain and bones.
The boat oscillated
Between river and the high sea,
Ecstasy permeated.
Closed eyes
To savour the opening up
Intense orgy
Opened up
The sky was a white melancholy,
Drops of mystic rain,
Wild saturation Of colours and darkness,
Of orgasm and impotence.
She was not there
Melt into thin air
Shadows linger
From distance and nowhere.

my love

At journey’s end the heavens were sharp
Dark, deep and obvious, silhouettes of light,
A spread encore, a waiting for delight clasp
Opening of buds long due through the night.

The night before, day between arrivals
Dwarfed the windmills of obsession
Before them due, flowers shrivel
Through summer and winter permutation.

Concrete metaphors of peccadilloes dead
Never irk the memory of men and women
Those nagging fancies long bulk wood
Of passion spent and spilled crown.

At fancies end a performance splendid
Rehearsed hug enchanting deep a long kiss,
And a perpetuated spread.
A moving undressing of frenzied minions.