creativity

Day 811

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Her Voice – a short story

‘I hear her. Her voice is in my head’ says Joe.
“How long has the voice been there?” asks the trainee psychiatrist.
‘Since I was 12.’
“And you are now 18.”
‘Yes.’
“Is it really upsetting for you?”
‘Yes. Distressing. I feel terrible.’
“What does the voice say?”
‘Different things. Often cries desperately.’
“How often does this happen?”
‘At least 3-4 times every day. It’s painful.’
“Hmmm. Let me speak to my senior and come back to you in a few minutes.”

A few minutes later.

“We think you might have Schizophrenia. Let’s start you on Quetiapine and see how it goes.”
‘Okay.’

Joe waits at the pharmacy to collect his medication. A trainee nurse is also waiting there to collect some meds for a patient on the ward. They talk. He tells her why he’s there. She asks him who is ‘she’? Whose voice does he hear?

‘She is my little sister. When we were kids we shared a bedroom. At night, my mum’s boy friend would come into our room and trouble my little sister behind a curtain. She cried. I could hear her but I was powerless. I could hear her then. I can hear her now.’

‘Do you think these pills will work?’

Day 799

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Happenstance
(An exercise in creative writing)

Carousel number 6 rolled and tumbled squares and rectangles flown in from Dubai to London Heathrow. People crowded around it, like moths to light, waiting impatiently. The black boxes looked suspiciously similar yet, 2 good-looking men in their late thirties, both in well-worn denim jeans and greenish t-shirts, both roughly size 40 picked up 1 each, assuming ownership and walked to the exit. One of them Steve, the other Matt.

As Steve left in a black cab, the thought of his ex-wife from a decade ago, Tara, struck him out of the blue. She most certainly lives in London now. He wondered if she had finally found ‘satisfaction’, smirking to himself. This business trip had been thrust upon him. He tried hard to see the upside with no luck. He had half a day to himself with no plans. He managed to check into his allotted section of the travel factory and sat looking blankly at the heavy maroon silk curtains, really bored.

Well, best unpack and venture out for a walk, he thought. Surprisingly, the number-lock on his suitcase was undone. However unlikely, he must have forgotten to lock it before departure, said his rational mind. He opened the black Tumi and was hit by an explosion of floral perfume. Looking through the fragrance, the contents of the box appeared textural and colourful, most unlike his own belongings. A red feather boa lay strewn across the top. He was shocked and intrigued, completely sucked into the suitcase. He picked it up like a thief, peering shadily around the empty room to check if anyone was looking. It was softer and lighter than anything he had ever touched before. He had to know what it felt like on his cheeks, so it automatically came up to his face. It was so soothing that his eyes closed all by themselves. After a while he respectfully placed it on the bed. On second thoughts, he bravely wrapped it around his neck. He then pried back into the box.

A pair of purple silk net stockings came next, another delicate, tactile article. It seemed ridiculous that he had a strong desire to try them on. For once, he allowed himself to go with it and changed into the sexy, luscious, figure-hugging, perfect leg wear. His hands didn’t want to let go of it but his legs loved it even more. Then came the little black dress, the dramatic fake eye-lashes, the flashy silver bracelets, the red pencil heels, the gorgeous make up, the Jitterbug perfume and the flamboyant blonde wig. And, they all fitted him superbly!

Suddenly a jarring sound shocked him out of his rhapsody. It was the blasted phone. The airline-man said there had been a mistake with baggage handling. Steve didn’t know how to speak with lipstick on but before he knew it a feeble ‘yes’ escaped his lips. It was arranged for him to take the suitcase back to the Information Desk as the owner of this suitcase was in a hurry to have it back. Steve felt somewhat curious and embarrassed.

A handsome couple stood at the desk, slightly pensive. Steve feigned complete innocence as he blokishly shook hands with Matt who leaned forward slightly to pick up the fragrance of Jitterbug perfume on Steve. He gave him a slightly crooked knowing smile that Steve dodged and furtively looked away. His eyes fell upon an older, more elegant Tara, Matt’s partner.

Steve’s ego was shot to pieces but he was grateful for this introduction to his own little piece of heaven.

Day 797

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My generation is the last one to have grown up in a world without screens. Being an army family we were often stationed at faraway places in India where the TV signal was too faint to be picked up. It was an occasional luxury to see a snowy screen in black and white that showed a hazy picture after much manipulation of the rooftop aerial and imploring of the Gods. Our neighbours were kind about sharing their big black telephone with us in case of an important call.

One day a magic box called the ‘cassette player’ arrived. It was a source of great pleasure as we could listen to songs of our choice as and when we liked as opposed to waiting for them to be played on the radio.

A radio that was presented to my parents at their wedding travelled with me to medical school. All through my time there I planned my life around it. My favourite station, All India Radio Urdu Service finished broadcasting at half past 12 at night and hence bedtime was 1 am. By the end of my 5 and a half years there, I had to use sharpened matchsticks to enable the worn little bandwidth buttons to maintain electrical contact. I depended on it. It was my most prized possession, my window to the world.

I remember standing in queues to make phone calls from a manned telephone booth without a door or walls. At the time it wasn’t fun as my side of the conversation was easily audible to all present. There was no time or space for small talk as I was most aware of everyone around especially those awaiting their turn.

That was a beautiful world and so is this. Now it’s so wonderfully easy to stay connected with people all over the world, to share our thoughts and ideas. Our screens can be our windows to the world and allow us to connect across previously unfathomable distances. It has been a blessing for me to be able to share Saagar with you. Thank you for walking with me.

Day 777

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Meditation

I am the breath of eternal presence
I am the resonance of the heart
The sounding of the creation and beyond
The sounding of eternity and infinity
The divine vibration that brought all into being
Not too loud not too silent
Not too light not too dark
Not too hard not too soft
Neither too aggressive nor the abused
I am the balanced inner strength of equanimity
Creation is only a blink of the ‘I’ of eternity
Eternity is only a blink of the ‘I’ of creation
Words carry a vibration of consciousness
I am the spiritual intensity of words
I am the sound of one hand clapping
I am the sound of one whole remembered
I am the heart’s mantra of transformation
I am the sound of virtues nurtured or not
I am the sound of choices made
Eternally and infinitely vibrant
I am also silence resounding
And none of the above
The only one I can change is myself
I am neither the changer nor the change
I am destruction as I withdraw energy and change focus
I am creation as I give energy to the new focus
As I am destruction so I am creation inseparably
I am the ebb and flow of life itself.
Going with the flow is not an aimless drifting downstream
It is a purposeful working with what is
I am the sound of humility and renunciation
The emptiness of the divine
I am the sound of gratitude and fullness
I am all concepts and none
All beings and none
All form and none
All consciousness and unconsciousness
I am everything and nothing
I am and am not.

– Satya.

Day 770

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The Last Time 

The last time we had dinner together in a restaurant
with white tablecloths, he leaned forward
and took my two hands in his hands and said,
I’m going to die soon. I want you to know that.

And I said, I think I do know.
And he said, What surprises me is that you don’t
And I said, I do. And he said, What?
And I said, Know that you’re going to die.

And he said, No, I mean know that you are.

– by Marie Howe whose brother John died of an AIDS-related illness in 1989. She published her best-known book of poems, What the Living Do. The title poem in the collection is a haunting lament for her brother with the plain last line: “I am living. I remember you.”

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days,
some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up.

Waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and then the sunlight passes through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here
and I can’t turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking now: This is what the living do.
And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk,
spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

When you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or not to call, a letter, a kiss- we want more and more and more of it.

But there are moments, when walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself
in the window glass, say, the window of the corner of the video store,
and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

For my own blown hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.