Bats

Home, I said, is a grey in the morning,
a cup of tea to hold;
A door, at will, to close or not to close.
A story told
in fights and makings-up, and fights some more -
an elixir of life
it seems, when we begin to forget the
others' ways.

Home, I said, is where we begin to fly,
even if it's like bats,
In the nighttime, stealthily, when no one
is watching us.
The first cigarette, the first swig of beer
would never taste so sweet
if home said, Ok, Do What You Will, Just
Find Your Self Soon.

Home, I said, is where you are, my spectre,
who often still at night
wake me up from memory, to place me
in another.

THE BURDEN.

She cried for joy,

my mother.
I was no burden, a bundle of joy,
perched on her shoulder.


He cried in ecstasy,
my love,
I was a burden, but a bundle of joy,
leaning on his shoulder.


They cried in sorrow,
my kith and kin.
I was but a burden, no bundle of joy,
sleeping on their shoulders.



(Sushila Subramanyam.)

Conversations

When they finally meet again, she says Why didn't you ever say so?
To which he says, Didn't you ask me not to?
And she says, Don't you know me at all?
And then in a pause filled with the vacuum of things forgotten, leftover things, she looks at him. He looks at her.
She says, Anyhow, this is my daughter.
Which one? he says.
This one. In pink. She's moving a little, so it's a bit blurred.
Oh, that's ok. What are the odds of my ever needing to recognise her, right? and he smiles.
Her throat closes up a fraction, she feels strangely conscious of her undone top button and felt like the French perfume she was wearing today after many years was rising up all around her in a thick cloud. Why did I wear this goddamm perfume, she thinks idly, But I wonder if he remembers it.
So what now? she says aloud. And then Frank leans over and kisses her on that exact spot where she had a few hours ago (just early enough, so the late-blooming subtle note would come out ever so slightly) dabbed her perfume. He looks at her hungrily and says out of an imperative courtesy, You still want to do this?


It's not happening, Frank, She says in the morning.
Are you kidding. I thought this was what you wanted.
It's just not happening...
Oh for God's sake, Amy, what the hell is wrong with you!
Look, Frank, don't take this so personally. We both know it was over a long time ago. This was fun, but come on!
I don't get it. Is this part of the plan? Am I missing something here?
I can't believe you just said that! You just ruined it! How is anything supposed to work if you don't give a shit!
This is crazy! Who does this?! Running away from things isn't getting us anywhere! Why can't you just fight like everybody else?!
This is all just a joke to you! I can't believe you still feel that way! Goddamm it Frank! All I ask you to do is use your imagination a little and stop seeing your goddamm wife when you look at me!


While they fume, Amy thinks, Now THIS book is going to SELL. Alright Frank, she says. See you tomorrow? Frank...? Frank!

The hotel room suddenly looks emptier to her than it looked a while ago.

The Last Standing House

Green baize under the cover, so it wouldn't go THUD. So it was a standing after all. Not a grand. And so out of tune that she was forced to open the lid and peer inside, trying to put her fix-all skills to use. But there were just too many knobs. Too many.
The middle octave said C to B and then an un-note that made her mouth taste sour and the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up and try to run away. She took to playing suspended chords around the middle C, daring not to venture into black-key territory, god only knew how her neck or her mouth would react to crooked semitones.

She remembered her first experiments with sound, the hum of the car engine, the table fan.
Why do they call it the Mozart effect, she thought, and Fur Elise began to play in her head, getting stuck as usual on the first bars - where does it start? She looked around the new house, the house left to her, as if a grand piano would suddenly materialise, as if the inquest had been euphemistic.

The liquor in the cabinet was dusty; spoiled by the Indian heat, not aged by temperate weather. She fiddled with her nose. It felt irritated, like her, at being in this alien place. What colour will your skin be, now, hmm? she said to the baby.

The baby did not seem interested in its impending skin colour, any more than it kicked when its father appeared. She felt cheated. she had always thought her baby would know its father, and pummel away joyously at her insides whenever she saw him. As it happened, Lewis came along, pipe in hand, and puffed in her face, as he always did. She sneezed, loudly, the irritation having reached breaking point, as it were, what with his Highland rubbish and this lowlife dust.

She fiddled with her nose, most unladylike. Sell the bloody place, she declared, with more finality than the poor dead uncle could ever summon in life, let alone in death.

And then she kicked. For suddenly Anna knew, like she had never even known if she loved Lewis, that it was a girl.

[Work in progress - III; intersection]

Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie

She combed her hair gingerly; she had never really believed it to be her own. Even her children seemed unreal. Anything of her seemed so unlikely even now. Her daughter walked past, her reflection passing behind her own in the mirror. Her naked midriff made Julia cringe. The sight of bare skin still made her stomach turn. Arthur did not share her revulsion, she knew. She also knew that it had always been only a matter of time. No man could bare his wife’s aversion for long, she knew. He had had a string of affairs – if one could call them that – or what they called in America one night stands. Of course, after he turned sixty-five and officially became a senior citizen, he lost his drive somewhat. Not that there was any dearth, she knew, of young and willing females, students of him, interested in righting the wrongs he had undergone, reversing the Survivor’s tale. His dark hair, now grey, and his sparse frame made sparser by time and fate, drew them to Christian Guilt; but then, guilt alone was not attractive enough to draw Arthur.
Their guilt did not darken their fair hair or white skins, or indeed lengthen their noses. Arthur had been carrying out his revenge, coupled with an atonement of his own. For when Julia had been in the camps, he had roamed free. Being Jewish in the forties did not, for someone like Arthur, guarantee hardship, it seemed.