a little cockroach is lying on its back near the wall beneath the switchboard. It's not even a proper cockroach yet- it's still a whadyoucallit. It's little.

It moves one foreleg in a slow convulsion. Its long slender antennae stretch out on either side, far longer than its body- in a human, that would be long hair streaming out behind her....

It squiggles all its legs this time. Tries squirming, to get right-way-up again. But when a roach is flat on its back, it really is flat on its back.

I switch off the annoyingly bright light that's shining into it's face, and switch on a quieter one somewhere else in the room.

I don't know whether I wish it well or ill.

'Callouses- Or is it Calluses?- on my feet again. And now they're beginning to blossom all over my brain too. Sleep- I'll douse it for a bit, and smile a lot in the morning, and do things. And talk to people. Perhaps I should read some old kiddy books. And make plans to watch a movie tomorrow. Or two. And I really must get down to work. There's so much of it piled up. And Christmas presents for everyone. And I'll get some of that peppy, filmi music- it's a bit more cheerful. Liven things up. And... and- oh, there's so much to do anyway. I'll never get all of it done. I'd better not take any more things on my head. Not one moment to rest. Of course. I'm not complaining, but noone does these things if I'm not around. Half- a- dozen bulbs were fused in the house, and the blankets were filthy, and there was a mouse practising jumps into the waste-basket in the guest bedroom. I had to go out myself to get the bulbs, and get everything done, and I'm so tired now...

No, that isn't why I'm tired.
I'm sorry. I forgot it was you.'

A little girl sat on my lap the other day.
Pale and light with a Miss Universe smile and a thin, squeaky voice.
And unlike those pale little girls in poetry and fairy stories, she talked.
She talked a lot, and quite loudly.
Told me how she'd got 18 out of 24 stars that term, the highest in her class.
About how she took care of her baby brother the whole afternoon while everyone was out.
About how she'd got three books out of the Sunday School cupboard because they had been lying there for a long time.
Then she offered me- first the yellow one, then the brown one, and then the green one.
And when I told her it was alright, she should keep them, she said- No, you take.
And then, with great concentration, with her toes tucked around my ankle, she wrote in the yellow one and gave it to me.
I took it.

Presented to... Rhea didi
By... Moneta Minoy
Date... 23.11.2008

She looked up at them with baleful eyes.

They were looking at the little girl with muddy knees and defiant chin.

They didn't notice.

She went away.

She looked at the ivy-covered bungalow over the wall.

It asked what was wrong.

She didn't say it out loud, for they would think she was mad if they heard.

She mouthed the words and thought as loud as she could.

Attention.

It was so foolish to want it... So un-grown-up.

But she was hungry for it, and she wouldn't ask for it, and she wouldn't get it, and she wanted to cry.

The TV was loud, and her mind drifted off to it sometimes, forgetting what she was crying about.

"This programme presented by... Make your home the envy of the world ! Bring home..."

Then she felt the tears again, and felt angry. Only weak people pity themselves.

She cried some more.

Silly crybaby. Foolish girl. Stop it.

If someone came in ?

They would think she'd gone funny if she sat around howling for no reason.

For of course she couldn't tell them.

They had enough on their minds.

Everyone had enough problems of their own.

She wasn't going to shove hers onto them as well.

And they might laugh.

She didn't know why they should, but people were odd.

They might laugh. And that would hurt.

No.

She pushed it all away, and smiled a weak smile at the bungalow, which was quietly contemplating what she'd told it.

She told it not to bother.

It would all be alright.

From the bottom of the stairs, someone called her name.

Twice in five seconds.

A bitter half-smile.

Then she blanked her face, and went down.

How, then, of those who truly live ?

Who warm those around into life,
and leave dancing shadows behind them.

The rain fell with a clatter

On the roof.

Steeled, determined, piercing.

It drummed on the house,

Steadily beat the ground around.

Things glowed in the half-light,

Unreal.

Everything shone glassy, and glimmered.

Darkened sky-brow,

Concentrating

On hammering the earth into itself.

How painful.

How painful for the little child with the dark circles under her eyes, who peeps nervously at passers-by out of the car window.

How painful for the soft-faced man who drags his feet and sags his shoulders when yet another car-horn sounds alarmingly loud in his ear.

How painful for the small-eyed housewife who cringes when the child bawls and the steel plate with all the rice in it tips over and lands clanging, white-showering the floor.

How painful for the old, fat woman with hair grey and black who sits rocking in her chair to the mundane life-sounds from outside and has dreams of people who died this last month.

How painful for the blustery, balding bachelor when he finds himself alone.

How painful for the tired professional who turns the key into the dark, empty flat, and sets the alarm by the light of the microwave.

How painful for the pale, bespectacled boy, when all the rest win and he does not.

The question really, then, is- What happens to the Little Dull Girl who was Good, but not Great enough ?
We've seen the Adventurous Girl go out, have an adventure and then settle down with the nice (old?) man, for a safe- and- sound happily ever after.
Does that mean, then, that the soft, plain girl who likes safety gets the slapdash, unreliable black sheep ? As reward ?
Being good doesn't pay as well as it ought. I've always felt that. Noone says thatnk you for all the times you've been good. And if/ since opposites attract, it seems being good doesn't pay in the long run either.
Sad.
But the Bible says so too- in that bit that I've never quite agreed to. The part that says that there's more joy in heaven over the one sinner who repents than there is over a hundred men who've been good all along.
I mean, it isn't fair.
It's practically telling you to be bad all you're life, just say you're sorry on your deathbed, and it all works out ok.
As I said, unfair. To all those people who believe Being Good, rather than the Reward, is the point of the exercise. They actually deserve the rewards, and consequently, won't get them.
And so, my little girl, with the small imagination and the big mind and feeling, will be stuck with some horrible bastard whom she'll compensate for till Kingdom come, with no remuneration. Again, unfair.
But... that's the way it is, I guess.
Someone goes wrong, and someone makes amends.
someone cries and someone laughs.
Someone gives up his illusion so that others can keep theirs.
Some live so that others may dream.
Some dream so that others may live better.

It's always God's-light. But if it isn't cloudy, you don't notice.

The tubelights don’t work. One, at the end of the room does, but most of the room has settled into semi-darkness. Somewhere at the other end, the murmur of prayer. Eyes are shut, hands are clasped, the baby in question is sleeping in the other room.
For we are here for Baby’s birthday. To pray for the little one- year- old boy, and celebrate his one year of life with him. It isn’t his fault that his father is as annoying as he is.
So a birthday prayer- party for a little boy we know only by his parents, in the somewhat dingy parsonage above the church. We have come to partake in a snippet from the vicar’s life, as if he were our own.
But halfway down the room, a curtain-rod. A curtain-rod without a curtain, not making the division it’s supposed to, between drawing room and bedroom- passageway. And tied onto it, three bunches of small, multi-coloured balloons that bob up and down in the current from the fan.
Bobbing up and down- Happy Birthday Dear Mari-is,
Happy Birthday To You.

Child

"My child, my child, don't run so far.
And not so fast.
And not so happily-
Surely I'm not that awful?
Surely you're not so glad to be getting away?
Or maybe I'm just not so important.
Maybe the leaves, and the trees,
And the summer's day,
And the kids chattering away, dangling off the jungle gym,
Are more interesting, inviting, attractive.
Alright, I understand.
Go then.
Go on, have a good time.
I'll be sitting here, waiting for you.
I guess I should have remembered that you'd want to play.
That you wouldn't just want to take a walk.
I should have brought a book.
Never mind.
I'll sit and watch the day that so entrances you.
Then when you're done, and it's dark, and we're going home,
We can talk about it awhile.
Atleast it's a change from the house...
Well, go on, then.
I'll wait here for you.
Come, when you're done.
I'll enjoy the day till then.
And when, in an hour, Aunty goes this way, on her evening walk, I'll waylay her.
And then I can talk to her for a bit.
She won't mind, I'm sure.
That'll pass some time.
Enough, I'm thinking aloud.
And you, silly child, are standing here and listening to me.
Run along and play, before all the time is gone."
The child looked at her, her head cocked, her eyes wide.
And then she turned and went.

'Once upon a time there was a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch,

a sonuvabitch.

Dood ya, he was one helluva sonuvabitch.'

With a resounding click

the final full stop struck.

The chair screeched,

The curtains flung open,

the moon floodlit the room.

The wind drifted in through the half-open window,

lazily tinkled the chandelier crystals,

stole the page atop the pile,

and dashed out again.

Paperweight in place,

Now,

she said, ironic,

I must begin again.

writing

The pen paused, making a circular blot which grew and grew, until it was a story in itself. Then suddenly, the nib took off, scratching across the page, a furious scribble. There was ink on the fingers too. Then the girl stopped, lifted the pen off, and looked thoughtfully at the scrawl. When she touched it to the page again, her handwriting had changed, and neat blue marks appeared out of nowhere that followed the rules of lines, and margins and page-after-page. Only the thoughts were not orderly anymore- in her crawling hurry, they all came out higgledy-piggledy, too much of this and too little of that, and the wrong order to things.
She stopped after a laboured page, and looked at it. Beautiful, clean. Neat, clear marks in sapphire blue, all down the page. Then she read it. Then she tore it up.

I meant to write about it.
Describe all of it in painstaking detail, so I wouldn't forget.
But I don't want to anymore.
I couldn't share then, I don't want to now.
Because if I do, it'll talk it away.
And I'm selfish.
This is mine.

I will share it sometimes-
With people who already know, understand...
I'll look at them, and we'll both smile quietly, and share.
We are all that.
So.

It's lovely. full stop.

office

Buyers and sellers wangle and wean
A better price- Makes their sharp eyes gleam.
And you can hear coins jingle in their nebulous schemes;
Business as usual.

It is very tiring. I shall be driven to reclusivity. If that's a word. And even if it isn't. It sounds right. I wish people would not cry. I wish they would not say mean things, and would not be horrible, and would not cry. It is so tiring. And depressing, I suppose. And I wish something I wrote would turn out right. I guess it's just not the right season. Not hot enough to be languid, not wet enough to be puddly, not cold enough to be comfortable and blankety. Just dull, and too sunny, and depressingly dry. What God-awful weather. It's all because of global warning. And so, Doomsday Warnings OF Climate Change Have Not Been Greatly Exaggerated. Because I say so.

stuffed with stars

Horsehair, mahogany, talent and grace.

Long, tapering fingers strike ivory.

With a light touch pluck quivering strings.

Imperious arms stretch and swing taut, leading.

Burnished discs strike, clash and shiver.

Fingers dance, their masters bow, pose and play.

Symphony.

Beautiful day.
Cloud canopy hangs languidly low
Over still air that waits for rain.
For disturbance; for crashing drops,
Unheeding, wild, in frenzied millions
As though the sky itself, melting,
Fell.
The birds don’t understand- twitters
Force their way through quiet morning air:
Early risers don’t care about the sleep
Unbroken around them.
We lie
Lazily in bed, peek at the sky,
And murmur that it’s early yet,
And flop down, the Sandman’s dust
Catches the eyes, and we’re gone,
Rising later to find that we are late.

There was a man sleeping on the pavement today, all covered up in a dirty threadbare grey shawl. I don't even know if it was a man, nothing could be seen but a dirty tousled head and a big toe. But it probably was. And I don't know why I remember him, but I do. He was just sleeping there, peacefully, among the noisy theatre road, cars honking merrily into his ears, but he just went on being asleep. That tired, I suppose. I wonder how he went about it even. Whether he stopped on a walk right in the middle of the footpath and said, Enough, not one step further. Or maybe he scanned the footpath all along that road, and carefully picked out that spot for some merit that I failed to see. Perhaps, with his expert eye, he noticed that it was relatively cleaner than the other parts of pavement surrounding it. And then he'd squat on his spot, and then stretch out his legs, and stretch, and yawn. And then he unfolded his precious dirty grey -can't quite call it a blanket- covering, and then drape it over himself, and the end over his head, and then murmur his Do Not Disturb to the world- he could hardly expect them to stop honking their horns or yelling at jaywalkers- it wouldn't be fair. And then our determined sleeper would just lie down there and sleep. He made up his mind that he would, and he did. Amidst the din, which couldn't really have bothered him much, or he'd have chosen a quieter street. But he chose this one, and the middle of the right-hand side footpath before two o'clock on this street, as his bed. And you might still find him there, with everyone walking carefully around him, not minding him very much, going on with their lives. He doesn't have social workers breathing down his neck, or moralists telling him to get a job and a life. Not yet, anyway. And so the current down the footpath finds it's way around him, and goes on. As they always have, and always will.

'I shall lay me down in peace and sleep'.

Amen.

Republic Day.
Parade is off.
Umbrellas up.
Drainage down.
Moods off-centre.
It was going to have been fun.
Clouds got in the way.
Soft drops
Persistent,
Turned streets
Into a citywide canal.
Picnics off.
People glum.
Just sit at home and watch the parade on Doordarshan.
It isn't raining in Delhi, at least.
Jai hind.
Or something like that.
Can't be patriotic when it's raining and all grey.
Just sleepy.
And cat-lazy.

Delightful day.

There's something about that picture of leaves being blown away in the wind. It's there in almost every romantic or thoughtful film, at some scene change or the other. The leaves, dry now, break loose from the branches and float sideways and downwards till they come to rest some metres away. They never show the 'coming to rest' part.
I wonder what is so catching about this picture. Something poetic, perhaps, in the leaves coming free and floating away on a whim-wind ? An analogy to attract adolescence, perhaps ? Or maybe a childish confidence in each leaf that is airily carried and carefully set down by the breeze - all the world conspiring towards a happy ending ? Or a moment of respite between the branch and the ground ? One moment of glorious joy between the seemingly endless hanging and the lying on the ground, waiting to be crushed.
Or maybe noone thinks about it at all, they just use it as a 'space filler' because it looks nice and they have the clip in stock already.

prospectus

I like the word Prospectus. 'Prospect : Us' it says. I don't know where it comes from, the wordroot or anything, but it's more interesting to speculate. Maybe it comes from ' pro + inspect + us' : a way of saying, 'go ahead, take a look and see how you like us- go on..' (..looking through material picked from reality in isolated instances, bits and pieces, so as to ensure that you do like us).
And the books themselves are fascinating. All shiny- smooth paper and matte-finish artistic pictures of abandoned places on campus, or simulated 'everyday life' actions in not-even-real-looking environments. Page after page of literary work, detailing the institution's marvellous heritage (even if it only began last year- and sometimes even this year), its extraordinary, perfectly up-to-date facilities (last revamped in 1932), its amazingly qualified faculty ( who mysteriously disappear between one prospectus photo shoot and the next), and, of course, the wonderful atmosphere created there (no comment). There are pages dedicated to delicately, and sometimes not so delicately, bragging about the achievements of previous students, and unnecessarily detailed descriptions of coursework. All in order to impress the best and the richest. All fascinating and largely unnecessary, because the best already know where they're going, and the richest go where the best go. And so it gets pored over by mediocres with high and hapless hopes of, by some streak of luck, getting into the shiny-shiny institution with the shiny-shiny prospectus. Which will be me, in a year.