“I refuse to be treated like trash !!”

Note : This narrative is inspired by real life incident(s). All characters appearing in this work are real. Any resemblance to real person(s), living or dead is purely intentional. The author takes full responsibility for consequences (if any).

~ x ~

He turned around and hit her one more time. This time with more force. Right across her belly.You could see where, because it left a mark. Almost like a scratch. She looked down at the red splotch on the vinyl of the kitchen floor and wondered if it was her’s or from the empty ketchup jar that she had been holding. This was not the first time. It was almost two years now !! And somewhere within all this time, the every day blows and kicks did not seem to hurt anymore.She had made peace with herself. She thought about her life and related to that of Chand’s. Their lives were so alike and yet so different, in a humane sort of way. They were both in Videsh (foreign land) and yet Chand’s was a performed tale while her’s was playing out, right in front of her own eyes. Every day !!

There was no love !! And, not one moment of rest. From the day they had brought her home, she had been put to work, right away. No one  had spoken to her or asked her how she felt. She had taught herself how to blend in, to a corner of the kitchen. No one seemed to care, which corner it was, so long as she was not in their way. It was winter, almost a year ago,when they moved to the new place. She liked it here. She liked how the kitchen was bigger and people were not bumping into her. And, she wished that some day they would treat her like a real person. Like one of their own. And she would no longer have to spend her nights alone !!

She was never allowed to be alone with him. The family was always there. Some days when he was in a lighter mood, he would rush into the kitchen. Almost like he was getting ready to say something. Maybe, to touch her. She looked forward to those moments, when he would be standing next to her.She liked how the little drops of sweat built up on his nose. He smelled good, almost all the time. And then like his shadow, the mother would be there, behind him. And he would quietly walk away.With a childlike smirk across his face !!

And like today, there were days, when he just lashed out at her.Without any mercy. Like he just did not care or know better. These were the days, when she yearned to cry out to the mother. Hoping she would pull him away. Some days she did. But it was always a few minutes too late. By then, he would have hit her, hard enough to make her puke out the little leftovers that get thrown at her, after every meal. As she lay there on the kitchen floor, the little bugs would feast on the sourness of her mouth.

And today, just like any other day, her aching reverie was sliced by the shrill warning -  “Pattu, kuppaithotiyi thodathey !! ”  (“Darling, stop playing with the trash can”) !! She looked up to see the mother kiss and carry him (the two year old) away from the kitchen. Her eyes found the father, copiously typing away on his computer. And she told herself – “I, refuse to be treated like trash !!”.

~ x ~

Foot note : This post is a mere attempt at humor and does not in any way condone the distress of domestic violence. My apologies, if as a reader, your sentiments have been hurt in any way.

This post is an entry to the ”Emotional Atyachaar” contest hosted by IndiBlogger. If you know any one of the judges,  please click here to vote…..for me !!

if you refuse to be treated like trash ….please  

and for this I apologize ….Sir V.S.Naipaul !!

Dear Sir Naipaul

You probably do not remember me. Correction. You definitely do not remember me. Unless I am mistaken, it would be truthful to say – you do not know me. Not in the least. But like so many readers of your literary genius, I am a huge fan. Which brings me to believe that I know you. I remember the very first time that I saw you. You were in a tweed jacket, strewn across the center page of Sunday(India), holding a glass of wine. Correction. It was not you, but your photograph in the stead. And clinging around it, was your interview. One which I cannot remember much about, except that it was not well received by the aam juntaa (the common man). As you will notice, being an aspiring writer myself, I have (rather discreetly if I may add) begun the use of colloquial words in otherwise routine sentences with no specific direction. And I digress !!

The reason I am sending you this note,  which really is a letter of apology is because of a collective feeling of guilt, emptiness and delight that I have experienced in the last few weeks. These emotions were dispersed over several sporadic instances. While some of these outbursts were set off  by a complete lack of control on my part, others were in fact well anticipated. As I write to you, I feel within myself an urge to bring out what has been inside, for days. I am ashamed for what I have pampered myself with and this is my confession !!

Forgive me, Sir Vidiadhar  for I have sinned ! I have spent several hours reading your books. One after the other. Most of them notable affiliates of your non-fiction empire. And during this time, (that is when I was soaking your words in), I was most comfortably situated in one corner of my humble abode. The corner that houses a white commode. Every day (and sometimes every night), as I commenced with the business of natural evolution, my eyes have devoured your writings with the speed of a high power evacuator. There was no stopping me, if you know what I mean !!

I know, that most your books have found their place in numerous academic syllabi. They have been provided with the highest form of ambience. And I wish to assure you, that it has been no different with this wonderful piece of masonry. The respect for your work is firm. For whatever it is worth, I do have an explanation. You see privacy has been a rarity since I immersed myself in matrimonial bliss and natural parenthood. Till the day, when I devised a way to transform my stay in the lavatory to what I like to call mini-vacation. True, it did induce some curiosity and a lot more concern from my spouse, who was used to my lightning speed visits for purposes of (for lack of better word) – Number 2. And for this I apologize !!

All fed said and done, I do wish to conclude this rather boorish correspondence. As far as my reading habits are concerned, I know it is not the best of the times. But believe me when I say, it is not also the worst of the times. Specially after a heavy dinner. I do believe that somewhere you will find in yourself the heart (and maybe the stomach) to forgive me. I would be relieved to know that you value my desire to experience gastronomical and intellectual ecstasy with equal density and spontaneity !!

Warm regards

Your ardent follower – (from the times when M.J.Akbar  changed the face of newspaper journalism)

if you felt sorry reading this … please

wordless wednesday…..my first one !!

if you found this post ….truly wordless…..please

the “FINAL” dip …. a “team meeting” !!

Almost every year, on a certain day, I have to put up an act. And, just like is expected of any actor, with practice – my pretence has improved in quality. My voice modulations are very controlled and my comic timing is perfect!!  And I have managed to keep my audience ignorant about my lack of subject matter expertise. That day, is the day of Super Bowl – the biggest day of football as they know it in America!!

I show up at someone’s place to watch the game, and it is really the food and the alcohol that my eyes are absorbed with – from entry till exit. And yet, yours truly does not forget to play his role – with kaizen. Once every few minutes, I erupt into a frenzy of “high fives” with my greasy hands (here is a tutorial for those interested). Some years, I am so involved that I shake hands during the half time show. Like that one year with Janet…totally “out of place”!!

And that is how, an evening of brilliant performance seals my invitation to next year’s party. Of course, it is nobody’s business that the next morning, I have to check the local news before I show up at work. (so who won again ?) And I apologize for that!! I should really try to remember things better.

But this post is not at all about that. It is about the game, I grew up knowing as football. And tomorrow is the end to a different kind of lying. I do not have to schedule fake conference calls anymore from 6:30 in the morning or attend meetings with really no one but the cafeteria television from 1:30 in the afternoons. My eyes shall not seek for sleep and I shall stop predicting incorrectly on Raja’s blog. There is one more match, one that will put my conscience to rest for the next four years. And for that I had to do something special. I called for a “team meeting” !!

I call it the “FINAL” Dip  – a team meeting of boiled edamame, red onions, jalapeno peppers, peppers in all kinds of colors, cutting board, really sharp knife, paper towel, sea salt, not so virgin olive oil, roasted garlic and a green bowl !! I know the picture is not super appealing, but then it is not like you are going to actually get to dig into it. So go ahead and start the ooh’s and aah’s  - as I get ready to watch a football match which I actually understand !! Till next time … Waka Waka !!

if you liked this “FINAL” dip … please