As I sat next to him, watching his life bleed out of him, thoughts of our first encounter came flooding back. That night, that smile is all I could think about. Even then I knew that this would be inevitable; the day when I would sit by his death bed and curse the gods for forsaking me with this affliction, his affliction; our affliction. Another broken heart, another chamber of my heart that has been filled with crumbs of another soul, of another possibility. Another person that I must bury: Not figuratively, but literally, this time around. So I sit here and wonder whether on June 11, 2008, about the mistake I made. Did I make a mistake getting drunk? Did I make a mistake in falling in love? Did I make a mistake in talking, even though I was terrified, even though I thought he was ok?
His CD4’s started to decline six years after he found out. And right about the same time, I found him dancing to a house track by Chris Morales, the one that infuses meringue to a 118 to 135 bmp. It was nice to watch, he danced without a care. His presence was felt and everyone around him, from what I could gather, could only notice the energy that vibrated from his soul, like the vibrations of a small tremor, you knew that you were watching a wonder. He was not that remarkable, only that his presence was there. There was something odd about him, his eyes and his facial hair made him mysterious, coupled with his slightly pudgy exterior made him lovable. Every Italian mother’s dream, to have their son turn into this delightful creature that managed to grab the hearts of all the girls and boys, not by his looks but by his presence. So I watched and wondered and eventually it came to be that we were sneaking out to Fran’s on King to catch the midnight breakfast. There we ate and told our stories and our secrets.
And he turned me on and made me think that I could be held the way I should be held, loved the way that it was not possible. That moment could not be forgotten as my heart began to break, before I even fell in love. I knew then that he would leave, he would leave me and go, way before his time. So I ask, can you really fall in love with someone who has already broken your heart?
Two days later, I could not work, could not think; I could only muse about was his smell and the memory of sleeping with him that night. So that’s where it began, five years ago on that suicide bridge between Broadview and Castle Frank. As the sweat poured down my back, infusing into my MCE backpack, thoughts of ending it began. I knew, I had the premonitions then, I knew what was to come. As I walked high above the DVP, the steal wires reflected the sun. They were put there I guess by the authorities, far too many tried to end it. The drop was not that high but if you did decide to take the plunge, the ground below was quite rough, undeveloped and obviously this would be the killer, compounded with the impact.
As I contemplated my fate; I could think only about was the possibility of being with someone that would make me feel special. The things that I have been looking for was about to be staring at me in the face in a few days. Could I let this go, because he was a carrier? One wrong move, one lustful mistake could be the end of my life. The life that I had constructed so delicately; with so much effort and hard work. Only to be decimated by a ludicrously menacing illness that would rob me of everything I hold dear. That same night, as I sat in front of my mother, eating her chicken curry with bitter gourd, I could not help but disclose my feelings. I recalled how I was heart broken the year before as Manon left me with those simple words, “I think we should take a break” and the break never ended. During those days, I would sit on the sofa and just stare at the television. She would be there, most of the time and she would ask, what’s the matter my child. One day I had enough courage to tell her: manamm knowuthu amma. Those words are so hard to translate, the closest words that allow the transmission of the right sentiment would be “my heart, my feelings and my emotions hurt mom”. It is strange, the limitation of language to express the simplest sentiments. Like that, this was similar too. As we sat there and talked, I just wanted to tell her: mom, I am a fudge packer, fucking faggot and guess what, my soon to be boyfriend will die of a disease that you think only afflicts the sinners. As I began to tell her, I could not muster the truth. So I made up a story about life being hard and how a friend of mine had just discovered that her boyfriend had the disease. Even before I could finish, she said, I worry about you my child. You go around with god knows who and I just worry. Right then and there I knew the totality of the love that she had in her heart. No matter whether we happened to be the whore, the homo, the alcoholic or the domestic, she would love us unconditionally.
Standing on the cliffs of the wondrous mountain, next to the plains of Cornwall, near Lizards Point and the Atlantic made me realize that the heart and soul that I have been searching for is one that has been looking back at me. The thought of the last time I saw him, sitting on that stoop near King Street seemed so far. The Fudge Packer and his dreams of grandiose love seem to be nothing but a façade for the mediocrity that exists within. It is an attempt at trying to hide the lack of essence, the true essence that is possible.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
The Whore cont'd
As she walked the streets of Manipai, she screamed at them; scolded them for their inability to see reality. The reality that she knew existed, a postmodern truth that could only be availed by looking at the binaries of existence. Reifying the truth, their unreal and her real, she would recast it to them, so that they would awake from their delirium.
The doctors had prescribed Prozac and Valium, but she was wiser. She knew that their concoctions would only limit Kali’s influence over her. So she dropped the pills as she walked out of the office- only to be cast out as the nutcase that would rain on and on about the fallacies of the world.
Have you ever imagined that the world we live in was a lie, that those that speak out of turn, those that would question, those that have been deemed as the radicals and the village idiots are the ones who in fact are sane? Well this was her reality. She thought us to be crazy, to be filled with delirious ideas of reality that were impossible to be reality. For her the truth lied in the heart, in the abstract and nuanced world that her mind and her subconscious delivered. The truth for her was cast in front of her, through her eyes and ears. Her world was one where the trees and birds spoke to her, where the grass whispered the conspiracies of the sky and the night; where the lone crow, through its cawing revealed the imminent dangers of the shells that were marked with death.
The crow’s message would save her that day in January when the Market was shelled out of existence by the Helicopters, built in the backalleys of a bombardier plan in Montreal Quebec. She knew to avoid that location thanks to the crow and his wisdom. But her neighbor, the one that made the stale rice with the chutney was not so fortunate. For him, she longed for, wishing that she could have taken him as her new beau, instead of the disheveled toddy tapper, that furnished her with his sweet elixir.
In her mind, the toddy-tapper was exquisite, representing the true Jaffna ideal- the hypocrite patriarchal delusions of grandeur. All the men in the village would frequent his hut to buy the sweet elixir that would taint their sights and hearts, make them behave like the blasphemous backyard peasants they hated so much, after having consumed enough of the fermented Palmyra blossoms. But none would allow the toddy tapper or his kin to enter their land, their homes or even so far as to gaze at their women. This would be the ultimate disgrace. To her, she knew the fragility of the argument that they had envisioned, based on years of oppression, propagated to sustain a societal structure that would be their demise. Thus, she allowed him to enter her and leave himself within her. She believed, as she was told by the myna bird, that the only way to reveal the façade created by the society was to take him on as her lover, then they would see that he was just like them, equal in parts and sum. With similar interests and emotions, with nothing less to loose than them.
In his eyes, he was doing her a favour by fulfilling her human needs. In some bizarre way, this was his revenge on this elitist nomenclature that had tormented him. Ever since he was a child, he was not allowed to play with his neighbours children even though he lived behind their house and was about the same age. Once he even heard the neighbours wife call him and his sister, those ‘parayas’ and she continued to say that he was only fit to become a cadre in their self-determination struggle. The frontline force that would enter the battlefield, to loose their lives for the cause that they will soon forget, once the infighting begins.
Similarly, She knew that on July 23rd, the trains would be filled with bodies, tainted with corruption as they bleed their way home. It was the gecko, her nightly suitor that had revealed this to her. As his songs infiltrated her heart and her mind, visions of the blood stained trains rolling into the Jaffna station was what she encountered as she closed her eyes to sleep. These bastards had robbed them of their so-called gift once the colonizers had left. Little did they know that this was the actual intent of the colonizers, to create a fragile space that could be re-colonized under a new rubric of democratic ideals and rights based rhetoric. So the peasants, not knowing any better attacked those that were privileged by their former master. For them, the lack of food was a sufficient reason to attack the northerners- could you really blame them? And the merchants and well to do elites, those that had managed to make a living off the backs of their brothers were now the target of racial and ethnic hatred. As the night fuelled the darkness, the evil in the eyes of the peasants became more and more apparent. They looked for all of the demalu in their neighborhood, so that they could rob them and kill them as their leaders had asked. As the leaders of the patriotic state sat sipping tea in the leftover tea cups of the colonial master, their new servants carried out their orders- kill the demalu, kill the demalu at all cost.
And then she awoke, shaking and crying in her bed in her room that she shared with her sister- the domestic. She could not help the tears, it fell out of her without warning and she then finally let go. She had managed to subdue her anger, her tremors and her nightmares; but this was fierce, like nothing she had experienced. She actually felt the fear and pain as if it actually happened. As she stared at her sisters homely face, she knew that something was wrong. Kali had never ever given her a vision of such clarity. She had experienced these truths previously but not this extent. She could not forget the bodies that the gecko had visualized- as if they were in front of her. At that moment, she called out to her mother- AMMMMAAAA, Ammma, where is Appa?
The doctors had prescribed Prozac and Valium, but she was wiser. She knew that their concoctions would only limit Kali’s influence over her. So she dropped the pills as she walked out of the office- only to be cast out as the nutcase that would rain on and on about the fallacies of the world.
Have you ever imagined that the world we live in was a lie, that those that speak out of turn, those that would question, those that have been deemed as the radicals and the village idiots are the ones who in fact are sane? Well this was her reality. She thought us to be crazy, to be filled with delirious ideas of reality that were impossible to be reality. For her the truth lied in the heart, in the abstract and nuanced world that her mind and her subconscious delivered. The truth for her was cast in front of her, through her eyes and ears. Her world was one where the trees and birds spoke to her, where the grass whispered the conspiracies of the sky and the night; where the lone crow, through its cawing revealed the imminent dangers of the shells that were marked with death.
The crow’s message would save her that day in January when the Market was shelled out of existence by the Helicopters, built in the backalleys of a bombardier plan in Montreal Quebec. She knew to avoid that location thanks to the crow and his wisdom. But her neighbor, the one that made the stale rice with the chutney was not so fortunate. For him, she longed for, wishing that she could have taken him as her new beau, instead of the disheveled toddy tapper, that furnished her with his sweet elixir.
In her mind, the toddy-tapper was exquisite, representing the true Jaffna ideal- the hypocrite patriarchal delusions of grandeur. All the men in the village would frequent his hut to buy the sweet elixir that would taint their sights and hearts, make them behave like the blasphemous backyard peasants they hated so much, after having consumed enough of the fermented Palmyra blossoms. But none would allow the toddy tapper or his kin to enter their land, their homes or even so far as to gaze at their women. This would be the ultimate disgrace. To her, she knew the fragility of the argument that they had envisioned, based on years of oppression, propagated to sustain a societal structure that would be their demise. Thus, she allowed him to enter her and leave himself within her. She believed, as she was told by the myna bird, that the only way to reveal the façade created by the society was to take him on as her lover, then they would see that he was just like them, equal in parts and sum. With similar interests and emotions, with nothing less to loose than them.
In his eyes, he was doing her a favour by fulfilling her human needs. In some bizarre way, this was his revenge on this elitist nomenclature that had tormented him. Ever since he was a child, he was not allowed to play with his neighbours children even though he lived behind their house and was about the same age. Once he even heard the neighbours wife call him and his sister, those ‘parayas’ and she continued to say that he was only fit to become a cadre in their self-determination struggle. The frontline force that would enter the battlefield, to loose their lives for the cause that they will soon forget, once the infighting begins.
Similarly, She knew that on July 23rd, the trains would be filled with bodies, tainted with corruption as they bleed their way home. It was the gecko, her nightly suitor that had revealed this to her. As his songs infiltrated her heart and her mind, visions of the blood stained trains rolling into the Jaffna station was what she encountered as she closed her eyes to sleep. These bastards had robbed them of their so-called gift once the colonizers had left. Little did they know that this was the actual intent of the colonizers, to create a fragile space that could be re-colonized under a new rubric of democratic ideals and rights based rhetoric. So the peasants, not knowing any better attacked those that were privileged by their former master. For them, the lack of food was a sufficient reason to attack the northerners- could you really blame them? And the merchants and well to do elites, those that had managed to make a living off the backs of their brothers were now the target of racial and ethnic hatred. As the night fuelled the darkness, the evil in the eyes of the peasants became more and more apparent. They looked for all of the demalu in their neighborhood, so that they could rob them and kill them as their leaders had asked. As the leaders of the patriotic state sat sipping tea in the leftover tea cups of the colonial master, their new servants carried out their orders- kill the demalu, kill the demalu at all cost.
And then she awoke, shaking and crying in her bed in her room that she shared with her sister- the domestic. She could not help the tears, it fell out of her without warning and she then finally let go. She had managed to subdue her anger, her tremors and her nightmares; but this was fierce, like nothing she had experienced. She actually felt the fear and pain as if it actually happened. As she stared at her sisters homely face, she knew that something was wrong. Kali had never ever given her a vision of such clarity. She had experienced these truths previously but not this extent. She could not forget the bodies that the gecko had visualized- as if they were in front of her. At that moment, she called out to her mother- AMMMMAAAA, Ammma, where is Appa?
Sunday, 4 May 2008
The Whore:
She dreamt of Kali and her offspring, the hybrid beast that would chase her away from her slumber and into a fit of panic most nights. She could see and feel the beast’s teeth and the hiss of its tongue; a half snake half hyena hybrid. Kali’s image would haunt her too, like her pet, but to varying degrees. Sometimes she would relish in the knowledge that Kali would visit her when she slept. Relish because it was a true escape from the hell that was her life. The mediocrity and tediousness of her life, from birth to now seems unbearable.
She was born into a civil servants household in Vellan, the eldest daughter of four children. Yet her fate was decided before she even got there. Someone had cracked open a white pumpkin in the front garden of her grandmother’s home, which she would later inherit through the dowry scheme, while her mom was in delivery. The perpetrators must have prayed for a whole night, they must have slaughtered a rooster, whose blood they used to wash the pumpkin in with cumin and saffron to create the evil spell. And this would be the precise moment in which Kali entered her life: as she left her mothers womb, Kali waited for her at the foot of her crib to bring her into her world of darkness and magic. She would later think herself to be special, someone blessed with the dark lord’s presence to which she had attributed her beauty and intelligence.
When she was nine, she realized that she was her grandmother’s favorite. The old woman had taken to her from birth, her sister was cast aside as the domestic whose role was relegated to the outlier of the family circle; forever destined to be the keeper of the broom even into her old age. The old woman was the talk of her village when she was young. Her beauty unparalleled, her hazel eyes and her long black hair, topped with her fair brown milky skin only made the men desire her even more. She was the true radiant beauty, whose linage is somewhat dubious. The back corridors of her house would whisper the dark secret, her mixed blood heritage that was hidden from all, to persevere the air of superiority that is passed down from generation to generation. By watching her grandmother, she knew how to use her charms and she quickly learned how to use her powers to her advantage, like the red hibiscus. Her beauty resembled the flower, alluring to the eye but shrivels and dissipates as the night approaches. Her true self revealed when the night falls, her true embodiment of darkness and its utter cruelty. To her, the night was the time she could be herself, like her true master.
The older boys in her school used to tease her, but she could tell what was in their eyes. Her popularity was becoming noticeable and she too would become enthralled and entangled by its web. She had this way of playing with people, even at that young age. The way her eyes moved displayed the most mischievous and malevolent parts of her and she did not use them sparingly.
The first man whose knees she made quiver was her father’s. From the moment he held her in his arms for the first time, he knew that she would make his life fruitful. That moment was a joyous one, one which could never be replaced. She was his star and she proved herself to be worthy of a son. Yet he was disappointed that god had decided to give him a man-child in a female body. He had hoped that his first boy would be like her, as boisterous and cleaver; but he was docile and moody. From this moment onwards, the whore was molded, relying only on her inherent ability to sense the fallacies that people create, to use these fallacies to her advantage to get to some unknown destination.
She was born into a civil servants household in Vellan, the eldest daughter of four children. Yet her fate was decided before she even got there. Someone had cracked open a white pumpkin in the front garden of her grandmother’s home, which she would later inherit through the dowry scheme, while her mom was in delivery. The perpetrators must have prayed for a whole night, they must have slaughtered a rooster, whose blood they used to wash the pumpkin in with cumin and saffron to create the evil spell. And this would be the precise moment in which Kali entered her life: as she left her mothers womb, Kali waited for her at the foot of her crib to bring her into her world of darkness and magic. She would later think herself to be special, someone blessed with the dark lord’s presence to which she had attributed her beauty and intelligence.
When she was nine, she realized that she was her grandmother’s favorite. The old woman had taken to her from birth, her sister was cast aside as the domestic whose role was relegated to the outlier of the family circle; forever destined to be the keeper of the broom even into her old age. The old woman was the talk of her village when she was young. Her beauty unparalleled, her hazel eyes and her long black hair, topped with her fair brown milky skin only made the men desire her even more. She was the true radiant beauty, whose linage is somewhat dubious. The back corridors of her house would whisper the dark secret, her mixed blood heritage that was hidden from all, to persevere the air of superiority that is passed down from generation to generation. By watching her grandmother, she knew how to use her charms and she quickly learned how to use her powers to her advantage, like the red hibiscus. Her beauty resembled the flower, alluring to the eye but shrivels and dissipates as the night approaches. Her true self revealed when the night falls, her true embodiment of darkness and its utter cruelty. To her, the night was the time she could be herself, like her true master.
The older boys in her school used to tease her, but she could tell what was in their eyes. Her popularity was becoming noticeable and she too would become enthralled and entangled by its web. She had this way of playing with people, even at that young age. The way her eyes moved displayed the most mischievous and malevolent parts of her and she did not use them sparingly.
The first man whose knees she made quiver was her father’s. From the moment he held her in his arms for the first time, he knew that she would make his life fruitful. That moment was a joyous one, one which could never be replaced. She was his star and she proved herself to be worthy of a son. Yet he was disappointed that god had decided to give him a man-child in a female body. He had hoped that his first boy would be like her, as boisterous and cleaver; but he was docile and moody. From this moment onwards, the whore was molded, relying only on her inherent ability to sense the fallacies that people create, to use these fallacies to her advantage to get to some unknown destination.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
The Fudge Packer
Hundred years of solitude was my favorite book. It spoke to me, its rhythm and its lyrical proses elevated the characters vitality to an impossible level, so I thought. And through this story my story came to be; many years of solitude lived in isolation away from anyone that could harm me. Strange to think that words on a page could signal the revival of a spirit cast away for its sheer existence. A true post-structural existence: The binaries of assimilation and subjugation colluded to create an atmosphere of tolerance and affection. In other words, the self was forced to exile itself to the detriment of its true self, for the sake of the other. The words of Marquez, in his brilliant story of the search for self awoke a sentiment of agency. Fuck the structurlists and their assimilatory ideas, the self needed to be liberated and emancipated like the shackled wolf left to die, in an attempt to placate the world filled with bunnies. Hapless and motionless twits and their inability to think for themselves: a true Orwellian reverie.
Accidental logic is the only way that I can explain my ways and even my thinking. The term itself is contradictory and means nothing for the reasonable man. Its meaning as conceived in my mind however is the quintessential raison d’etre of yours truly. So it all began at the age of nine; I used to dream of floods and murder, of mutiny and sex; in my isolated world filled with imaginary wars and epic battles between the gods.
I guess to understand, I need to take you through my years of solitude and therefore it did truly begin at the age of three. I have vague recollections of this. Crawling towards my father on the veranda, the jasmine blossoms intoxicating aroma pulling me to reach for his big toe. My father however was too engrossed in the Sunday Times, which he had had delivered from the Capital, which in turn was brought in from London I presume. My mother was busy in the kitchen or she was probably looking for one of them. I had no other choice, he was it, there was no one else that I could play with. So I crawled as fast as I could towards him and pulled on his big toe. He did not notice and after many attempts, I was distracted by the golden cat my sister was so fond off. Its claws had already left a few marks on my face but I was not to be defeated. So I started to crawl after it, its tail awkwardly teasing me. As I went after it, through the living room and the dinning room, then through the back veranda, he did not notice that the last addition to the household whose birth signaled a shift in the aligned stars, was about to leave his care and enter a world that was unprotected, filled with land mines. He was too caught up in the real life drama of the six Americans posing as Canadians to escape the Ayatollah to realize that his toddler was no longer with him on that Sunday afternoon. He had completely failed his wife and this story would haunt him to his deathbed.
There I was, in search of that bloody golden cat whose presence I could intuitively sense. Once I had managed to get myself from the back veranda steps to the garden, I was sure that I would be able to be with my prized pet. So I followed it to the jack fruit tree, from there to the lime tree, past the chicken coop. From that point on, once I saw the silver flashes emanating past the Palmyra groves, I could not resist. It was haunting me even more than the cat, it was beckoning me to enter its realm to live its reality. So like true solider, I made my way to the edge of the garden just by the patty fields. From that point on it all happened so fast, but rest assured, it was the beginning of the 100 years. As I reached the edge of the small namesake fence, it was no obstacle. I easily moved past it and within three seconds, I was in the water. Before I knew it, the sliver flashes were from the large body of water situated just behind my room that I saw everyone night as my mother lulled me to sleep. Its history is as old as the house; its where the sand that was used to build the house came from or some of it. The pit was quite large and for a toddler, it was an ocean. During the hot Jaffna summers, it was empty but during the monsoon season, the continuous downpour filled its belly full. For me, it was an experience that I could not pass up or so I must have thought and the idea to jump in did not seem so unreal. But little did I know that I could not swim and in 5 minutes, probably after a few attempts at keeping afloat my body weight must have given in. I started to sink and finally my tiny little arm pointing up to the heavens, slowly returned to the years of the known solitude.
Before I knew it, I was being prodded and poked, my mother’s hysterical sobs falling on my face as she pushed at my chest to breathe life back into my motionless body. I could feel the water coming out of my lungs and along with the water, the tadpoles, hundreds of them that I must have swallowed. As I began to cough up the liquid left in my stomach, I could hear the fear and love in my mother’s breaths. But I could not sense him he was just standing there with his paper folded neatly, so as not to crumple it. He just stood there, not saying a word and I knew then that this was the beginning of my many years of solitude. I was the precarious and boisterous offspring that came to them ten years too late. And now it became even more evident that he could not physically be there and it became evident to both, the father and me the son that he was not there mentally either.
From this moment on, I built my castles in my mind and played with my imaginary knights and dragons. The foundations of walls were being instituted, in preparation for the big opening, the true one hundred years of solitude that I imposed on myself, so that he would not feel sad and bitter about his abnormal seed.
Accidental logic is the only way that I can explain my ways and even my thinking. The term itself is contradictory and means nothing for the reasonable man. Its meaning as conceived in my mind however is the quintessential raison d’etre of yours truly. So it all began at the age of nine; I used to dream of floods and murder, of mutiny and sex; in my isolated world filled with imaginary wars and epic battles between the gods.
I guess to understand, I need to take you through my years of solitude and therefore it did truly begin at the age of three. I have vague recollections of this. Crawling towards my father on the veranda, the jasmine blossoms intoxicating aroma pulling me to reach for his big toe. My father however was too engrossed in the Sunday Times, which he had had delivered from the Capital, which in turn was brought in from London I presume. My mother was busy in the kitchen or she was probably looking for one of them. I had no other choice, he was it, there was no one else that I could play with. So I crawled as fast as I could towards him and pulled on his big toe. He did not notice and after many attempts, I was distracted by the golden cat my sister was so fond off. Its claws had already left a few marks on my face but I was not to be defeated. So I started to crawl after it, its tail awkwardly teasing me. As I went after it, through the living room and the dinning room, then through the back veranda, he did not notice that the last addition to the household whose birth signaled a shift in the aligned stars, was about to leave his care and enter a world that was unprotected, filled with land mines. He was too caught up in the real life drama of the six Americans posing as Canadians to escape the Ayatollah to realize that his toddler was no longer with him on that Sunday afternoon. He had completely failed his wife and this story would haunt him to his deathbed.
There I was, in search of that bloody golden cat whose presence I could intuitively sense. Once I had managed to get myself from the back veranda steps to the garden, I was sure that I would be able to be with my prized pet. So I followed it to the jack fruit tree, from there to the lime tree, past the chicken coop. From that point on, once I saw the silver flashes emanating past the Palmyra groves, I could not resist. It was haunting me even more than the cat, it was beckoning me to enter its realm to live its reality. So like true solider, I made my way to the edge of the garden just by the patty fields. From that point on it all happened so fast, but rest assured, it was the beginning of the 100 years. As I reached the edge of the small namesake fence, it was no obstacle. I easily moved past it and within three seconds, I was in the water. Before I knew it, the sliver flashes were from the large body of water situated just behind my room that I saw everyone night as my mother lulled me to sleep. Its history is as old as the house; its where the sand that was used to build the house came from or some of it. The pit was quite large and for a toddler, it was an ocean. During the hot Jaffna summers, it was empty but during the monsoon season, the continuous downpour filled its belly full. For me, it was an experience that I could not pass up or so I must have thought and the idea to jump in did not seem so unreal. But little did I know that I could not swim and in 5 minutes, probably after a few attempts at keeping afloat my body weight must have given in. I started to sink and finally my tiny little arm pointing up to the heavens, slowly returned to the years of the known solitude.
Before I knew it, I was being prodded and poked, my mother’s hysterical sobs falling on my face as she pushed at my chest to breathe life back into my motionless body. I could feel the water coming out of my lungs and along with the water, the tadpoles, hundreds of them that I must have swallowed. As I began to cough up the liquid left in my stomach, I could hear the fear and love in my mother’s breaths. But I could not sense him he was just standing there with his paper folded neatly, so as not to crumple it. He just stood there, not saying a word and I knew then that this was the beginning of my many years of solitude. I was the precarious and boisterous offspring that came to them ten years too late. And now it became even more evident that he could not physically be there and it became evident to both, the father and me the son that he was not there mentally either.
From this moment on, I built my castles in my mind and played with my imaginary knights and dragons. The foundations of walls were being instituted, in preparation for the big opening, the true one hundred years of solitude that I imposed on myself, so that he would not feel sad and bitter about his abnormal seed.
Monday, 31 March 2008
The Domestic
She had been sitting on that particular bench, dubbed the lovers seat by the locals for the last four hours, over looking the pacific ocean. She did not know why or how she got there; but she does recall dropping her son off at school that morning. Like every Tuesday morning, she awoke to find him fast asleep, hugging his bear that her brother brought him when he was here last year. The thing was so cute when they brought it home, a demented version of Yogi bear covered in black spots. It has a red ribbon around its fat neck. And did he love it, that dirty looking thing. She had tried to wash it so many times, but he would start to scream the minute it went into the hamper, he would throw one of his tantrums and she like the good dotty mother, would then retrieve it out of the hamper and place it back in its position next to his bed.
Now she sits here like a vagabond with nowhere to go, waiting for her watch to tell her its time so that she could go and pick him up from school, then her life would be hers again. A week ago, she was happy. Her husbands erratic behavior did not unnerve her, rather it consoled her and made her feel normal. Then it happened, she awoke with the horrible memory of what had happened to her when she was nine. All she could think about was the blood soaked sheets that she lay in and the dark voice telling her to go to bed. It was like a dream and the dream now seems like a reality. She had no clue before that this was an intricate part of her life. She had left the village when she was 16 along with her sister to go study in the land of the billions. Her father’s promise of betterment never came, only failures and mediocrity. The nuns used to tell her that if she tried hard enough and prayed enough, then she would pass her O levels.
But these days, all she has are those memories that haunt her beyond belief. Never in a million years did she think it were possible that she was the subject of such a brutal act, of such violence. Now it all makes sense, her rage that she used to unleash on him, the child’s father for leaving the dishes in the sink. For not filling the hamper with the dirty clothes and leaving it for her to pick up off the closet floor. She used to think that he was doing it on purpose but now in hindsight, the two jobs and all the bills must in some way distract the poor guy. She could not understand herself and slowly the anger creeps its way back into her heart: like the way it used when she was young. She would go and hide in the Palmyra groves from her sister and her endless chatter about school, how the nuns loved her so and her pathetic little brother whose existence was in itself a sham. Her mother had him when she was nine and when she was delivering her pathetic little brother, she was soaked in blood.
She despised that little fucker and his cuteness, his very existence disturbed her to the core. He epitomized everything that she hated in the world, from her father to her no good uncles and she prayed that one day, that little fucker would end up like them her uncles, on the street with the stench of toody oozing out of his pours for all to see. This hatred fueled her need to escape, throw up everything she had consumed and jump right out of her skin. For this sole reason, she would run and hide in the groves where none would find her. Here she would create her mystical realm in which she ruled as the gentile but firm Princess of Vlan. From the day she had started this foray into the groves, she had instituted a very nuanced ritual of sorts, which may shed light on her current neurosis; the incessant need to clean and keep up the façade that everything is clean as a sanitized hospital.
The ritual started with something quite simple: she would move the rocks into position and sweep away the debris with her make shift broom. She would then, remove all the Palmyra leaves and the bird droppings, one by one. Then she would polish the rocks that she had named until her little fingers would turn red, almost to the point of breaking the skin. Then she would create her realm, where she felt fortified. Deep down inside, she knew that she had about an hour until she head that voice beckoning her back to reality where she would have to face another miserable day.
Now she sits here like a vagabond with nowhere to go, waiting for her watch to tell her its time so that she could go and pick him up from school, then her life would be hers again. A week ago, she was happy. Her husbands erratic behavior did not unnerve her, rather it consoled her and made her feel normal. Then it happened, she awoke with the horrible memory of what had happened to her when she was nine. All she could think about was the blood soaked sheets that she lay in and the dark voice telling her to go to bed. It was like a dream and the dream now seems like a reality. She had no clue before that this was an intricate part of her life. She had left the village when she was 16 along with her sister to go study in the land of the billions. Her father’s promise of betterment never came, only failures and mediocrity. The nuns used to tell her that if she tried hard enough and prayed enough, then she would pass her O levels.
But these days, all she has are those memories that haunt her beyond belief. Never in a million years did she think it were possible that she was the subject of such a brutal act, of such violence. Now it all makes sense, her rage that she used to unleash on him, the child’s father for leaving the dishes in the sink. For not filling the hamper with the dirty clothes and leaving it for her to pick up off the closet floor. She used to think that he was doing it on purpose but now in hindsight, the two jobs and all the bills must in some way distract the poor guy. She could not understand herself and slowly the anger creeps its way back into her heart: like the way it used when she was young. She would go and hide in the Palmyra groves from her sister and her endless chatter about school, how the nuns loved her so and her pathetic little brother whose existence was in itself a sham. Her mother had him when she was nine and when she was delivering her pathetic little brother, she was soaked in blood.
She despised that little fucker and his cuteness, his very existence disturbed her to the core. He epitomized everything that she hated in the world, from her father to her no good uncles and she prayed that one day, that little fucker would end up like them her uncles, on the street with the stench of toody oozing out of his pours for all to see. This hatred fueled her need to escape, throw up everything she had consumed and jump right out of her skin. For this sole reason, she would run and hide in the groves where none would find her. Here she would create her mystical realm in which she ruled as the gentile but firm Princess of Vlan. From the day she had started this foray into the groves, she had instituted a very nuanced ritual of sorts, which may shed light on her current neurosis; the incessant need to clean and keep up the façade that everything is clean as a sanitized hospital.
The ritual started with something quite simple: she would move the rocks into position and sweep away the debris with her make shift broom. She would then, remove all the Palmyra leaves and the bird droppings, one by one. Then she would polish the rocks that she had named until her little fingers would turn red, almost to the point of breaking the skin. Then she would create her realm, where she felt fortified. Deep down inside, she knew that she had about an hour until she head that voice beckoning her back to reality where she would have to face another miserable day.
Monday, 24 March 2008
the alcoholic from The domestic, the alcoholic, the whore and the homo- ‘in no particular order’
The day he got on that plane, Bangkok bound, his life changed forever.
Those sleepy days, underneath the mango grove staring at the Palmyra ridden horizon, are a distant memory now as he sat in that uncomfortable economy class seat. He was promised a good aisle seat; he went to the best travel agent in those days near what is now liberty plaza. His uncles (the annoying bastard husband of his fathers sister) best friends brother’s neighbor sold him apparently what were discounted tickets on Singapore Airlines. In those days, the plane would do a few landings before getting its passengers to their destination. For him, it was Kentucky, in the land of the free. So he forked out fifty thousand rupees for that seat and the hotel in Bangkok and Seoul.
During the take off, he reflected back on his journey all the way from Pandatheripu, on that bloody bus, stocked like sardines in that Jaffna heat. He remembered saying goodbye to his mother as she stood at the gate with his sisters and his brother clutching his mother’s housecoat. Those words, her last words to him still rang in his ears: “be safe and come back to us soon my son”. Even 30 years later, those words would still ring true and denote the bittersweet irony of the plight that was bestowed on him. Maybe she should not have pawned her Thali, maybe she should not have pawned her rings and her land to send her eldest to the land of the free only to be treated as a ‘sandnigger’, only worthy of cleaning toilets. He knew that she had no clue about the stark reality that awaited him, the ghastly and lonely nights, wanting to see a familiar face in that bitter Kentucky cold.
As he sat there, little did he know what awaited him in the next few hours, few days, few months and few years. At the moment, his bitterness and sadness at the long goodbye at the airport to his father was being slowly replaced by the idea that he was the first Tamil from Jaffna to be given this prestigious prize; the only one from St. Josephs to have been chosen to take part in this elitist competition. Yet he managed to win the prestigious ASF scholarship, created for the colonized as a way to placate their ultimate and secret desire of become like their white masters.
He studied day and night, memorized every term, every equation and he got it. All those nights, that he had to put up with his pervert of an uncle trying to have sex with his aunty while they thought everyone was sleeping. They seemed so oblivious of him as he sat at the dinner table right next to their bedroom, which they shared with their oldest. He could hear her whispers and his demands for more.
He was so proud at that moment and he could sense the envy from all his peers, as they nodded in that colonized manner while listening to how he managed to complete the impossible test with record time.
And his mind raced, as he thought about all those that have failed him, especially his father and how he managed to neglect his sickly eldest. He recalled every wound that he had, even when he was five, from Atopic eczema. He remembered his father callous attempts at placating his sickly child. The only thing that would calm him at nights, as he itched, was his mother soothing songs, all taken from the latest Tamil mega hits, shown at the local theaters.
And now, he sits in that dark dingy tavern some where in the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky waiting for his foster brother to pick him up for the countless time. As he stares in to that scotch on the rocks, he can see the reflection of his barely open eyes. The bartender is keeping a close eye on that sandnigger he heard him say, he was known for his short temper and his rowdy cloured friends. He can barely look up and see the row of glasses in front of him; the wine glasses, the pint glasses and the plastic shot glasses.
As he drinks himself to death, he remembered, the day he got on that fucking plane, that changed his life and wished that things were different. He wished that he was not so fortunate to have witnessed the dead carcass of his child or rather the fetus. He just wishes that he would have never won that scholarship.
Those sleepy days, underneath the mango grove staring at the Palmyra ridden horizon, are a distant memory now as he sat in that uncomfortable economy class seat. He was promised a good aisle seat; he went to the best travel agent in those days near what is now liberty plaza. His uncles (the annoying bastard husband of his fathers sister) best friends brother’s neighbor sold him apparently what were discounted tickets on Singapore Airlines. In those days, the plane would do a few landings before getting its passengers to their destination. For him, it was Kentucky, in the land of the free. So he forked out fifty thousand rupees for that seat and the hotel in Bangkok and Seoul.
During the take off, he reflected back on his journey all the way from Pandatheripu, on that bloody bus, stocked like sardines in that Jaffna heat. He remembered saying goodbye to his mother as she stood at the gate with his sisters and his brother clutching his mother’s housecoat. Those words, her last words to him still rang in his ears: “be safe and come back to us soon my son”. Even 30 years later, those words would still ring true and denote the bittersweet irony of the plight that was bestowed on him. Maybe she should not have pawned her Thali, maybe she should not have pawned her rings and her land to send her eldest to the land of the free only to be treated as a ‘sandnigger’, only worthy of cleaning toilets. He knew that she had no clue about the stark reality that awaited him, the ghastly and lonely nights, wanting to see a familiar face in that bitter Kentucky cold.
As he sat there, little did he know what awaited him in the next few hours, few days, few months and few years. At the moment, his bitterness and sadness at the long goodbye at the airport to his father was being slowly replaced by the idea that he was the first Tamil from Jaffna to be given this prestigious prize; the only one from St. Josephs to have been chosen to take part in this elitist competition. Yet he managed to win the prestigious ASF scholarship, created for the colonized as a way to placate their ultimate and secret desire of become like their white masters.
He studied day and night, memorized every term, every equation and he got it. All those nights, that he had to put up with his pervert of an uncle trying to have sex with his aunty while they thought everyone was sleeping. They seemed so oblivious of him as he sat at the dinner table right next to their bedroom, which they shared with their oldest. He could hear her whispers and his demands for more.
He was so proud at that moment and he could sense the envy from all his peers, as they nodded in that colonized manner while listening to how he managed to complete the impossible test with record time.
And his mind raced, as he thought about all those that have failed him, especially his father and how he managed to neglect his sickly eldest. He recalled every wound that he had, even when he was five, from Atopic eczema. He remembered his father callous attempts at placating his sickly child. The only thing that would calm him at nights, as he itched, was his mother soothing songs, all taken from the latest Tamil mega hits, shown at the local theaters.
And now, he sits in that dark dingy tavern some where in the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky waiting for his foster brother to pick him up for the countless time. As he stares in to that scotch on the rocks, he can see the reflection of his barely open eyes. The bartender is keeping a close eye on that sandnigger he heard him say, he was known for his short temper and his rowdy cloured friends. He can barely look up and see the row of glasses in front of him; the wine glasses, the pint glasses and the plastic shot glasses.
As he drinks himself to death, he remembered, the day he got on that fucking plane, that changed his life and wished that things were different. He wished that he was not so fortunate to have witnessed the dead carcass of his child or rather the fetus. He just wishes that he would have never won that scholarship.
Monday, 17 March 2008
The domestic, the alcoholic, the whore and the homo- ‘in no particular order’
Confessions; Day 1
Confessions are the fallacies that we hide; they are the wrinkles that we disappear; they are the little wounds that we remember; they are the little rocks that we accumulate and we store in our deepest closets; confessions are the image that we see when we look in the mirror. But for some, it needs to be exposed so that we can move on with our lives. So today, I have had an epiphany and I have decided to disclose my secret in a confessional that I may one day regret.
Before I start sounding like an usher melody, I am confident in saying that I am in the truest sense, ready. Ready for all that is there for me and for all that is not. I am not sure what I am doing at the moment; but I know that someday this will be what I leave behind, for those that may care to pursue the complexities that have been my so-called life.
This for you my sister and I am telling this story for your son. So that he may get to know who his relative was and why he was the way he was. There is no secret, everyone has a story and every story is worth telling, but it depends on the way it was told.
Tomorrow is another day, filed with the elixir that I deny myself, deny because its not
something I want to be controlled by in the future.
Confessions; Day 2
The future is what I am looking forward to but this future is the Holy Grail that I cannot find. I am sure one day I will make it there, but that day at this juncture is not within the mists that have been conjured by the Delphic oracle that has cast the story of my present. So what is the story and what is the catch? Why I am running, why am I more interested in Friends and Fraiser than what I have to say?
Confessions are those things that I have been hiding from myself. Like the moment when she told me that she was raped. While we sat on the bed in that lonely apartment, overlooking the largest concentration of people in North America, she dropped the bombshell that has shaped my ethos and my life to this point. It has made me make certain decisions, out of fear of becoming like them, out of sheer determination not to end up like them. I have sought for so long to make my own name and I have chosen the path none amogst us has ever attempted, because of the lie that began that day. At the moment it was told, I was never really sure of its veracity nor its validity, but because of my upbringing and what had been ingrained, I accepted it as the holy truth told from the chosen one- one that can never lie, the one that never falters, the one that can never be wrong. Based on those falsities, my hatred began and now it has brought me to a point where I am at a crossroads, one path leading to my future and another leading to hidden denials and a life filed with confined shackles that will hold me forever.
Confessions are all that I have, are all that I want for and all that I am able to give at this point.
I want to tell you something, I am tired…I am really tired of lying and pretending to be something that I am not. I just want you to understand where I am at this point- I really want you to understand. As the person who knew me for me, who the person who I am about to become. You are the only one that understands, perhaps because of your fallings and your attempted history. Mine is just taking root and I want to share it with you and yours.
The crossroads that I spoke of before has another path, a path that I am about to choose, at the expense of you and your kin, my kin and all that has made me. Please understand that I must take this road, this is the trail for me; revealed through the my senses and my intuition that is my guides. I am afraid and I do not know whether you will understand or ever speak to me. For that matter, I am not sure if anyone will ever speak to me after this is over.
Confessions take you through the unforgiven path, it is never redeeming but self-assuring. Confessions are the token coloured that need to be brought into the fold to give legitimacy to the whole endeavor. They are the unspoken truths that no one ever wants to know about, but without which the whole farcical event would have never taken place. I want legitimacy for me, for my life and my future.
Confessions are those nasty little things that you have to put aside abruptly and try not think about them when they appear. They are the things that cause disgust and the things that taboos are made of. As Kinsey noted in his study of the human male, sexuality is nothing but a continuum and this continuum starts with your father.
Confessions are the fallacies that we hide; they are the wrinkles that we disappear; they are the little wounds that we remember; they are the little rocks that we accumulate and we store in our deepest closets; confessions are the image that we see when we look in the mirror. But for some, it needs to be exposed so that we can move on with our lives. So today, I have had an epiphany and I have decided to disclose my secret in a confessional that I may one day regret.
Before I start sounding like an usher melody, I am confident in saying that I am in the truest sense, ready. Ready for all that is there for me and for all that is not. I am not sure what I am doing at the moment; but I know that someday this will be what I leave behind, for those that may care to pursue the complexities that have been my so-called life.
This for you my sister and I am telling this story for your son. So that he may get to know who his relative was and why he was the way he was. There is no secret, everyone has a story and every story is worth telling, but it depends on the way it was told.
Tomorrow is another day, filed with the elixir that I deny myself, deny because its not
something I want to be controlled by in the future.
Confessions; Day 2
The future is what I am looking forward to but this future is the Holy Grail that I cannot find. I am sure one day I will make it there, but that day at this juncture is not within the mists that have been conjured by the Delphic oracle that has cast the story of my present. So what is the story and what is the catch? Why I am running, why am I more interested in Friends and Fraiser than what I have to say?
Confessions are those things that I have been hiding from myself. Like the moment when she told me that she was raped. While we sat on the bed in that lonely apartment, overlooking the largest concentration of people in North America, she dropped the bombshell that has shaped my ethos and my life to this point. It has made me make certain decisions, out of fear of becoming like them, out of sheer determination not to end up like them. I have sought for so long to make my own name and I have chosen the path none amogst us has ever attempted, because of the lie that began that day. At the moment it was told, I was never really sure of its veracity nor its validity, but because of my upbringing and what had been ingrained, I accepted it as the holy truth told from the chosen one- one that can never lie, the one that never falters, the one that can never be wrong. Based on those falsities, my hatred began and now it has brought me to a point where I am at a crossroads, one path leading to my future and another leading to hidden denials and a life filed with confined shackles that will hold me forever.
Confessions are all that I have, are all that I want for and all that I am able to give at this point.
I want to tell you something, I am tired…I am really tired of lying and pretending to be something that I am not. I just want you to understand where I am at this point- I really want you to understand. As the person who knew me for me, who the person who I am about to become. You are the only one that understands, perhaps because of your fallings and your attempted history. Mine is just taking root and I want to share it with you and yours.
The crossroads that I spoke of before has another path, a path that I am about to choose, at the expense of you and your kin, my kin and all that has made me. Please understand that I must take this road, this is the trail for me; revealed through the my senses and my intuition that is my guides. I am afraid and I do not know whether you will understand or ever speak to me. For that matter, I am not sure if anyone will ever speak to me after this is over.
Confessions take you through the unforgiven path, it is never redeeming but self-assuring. Confessions are the token coloured that need to be brought into the fold to give legitimacy to the whole endeavor. They are the unspoken truths that no one ever wants to know about, but without which the whole farcical event would have never taken place. I want legitimacy for me, for my life and my future.
Confessions are those nasty little things that you have to put aside abruptly and try not think about them when they appear. They are the things that cause disgust and the things that taboos are made of. As Kinsey noted in his study of the human male, sexuality is nothing but a continuum and this continuum starts with your father.
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