In Memoriam.

Luvly George is dead.
And I, ridiculously enough, am feeling bereaved.
I don't know her.
It's almost an insult to her family's loss to say it, but I am feeling loss.

She- I know very little about her. I know she's somewhat religious and has a tendency to send religious forwards to people on Orkut. In fact, she sends all sorts of forwards. A regular forwarder.
And I know she never put her picture up on her profile, only greeting-card pictures of children and flowers. So for a very long time I didn't know who- which of the girls in church- she was. I only found out when she was getting married.
I played for her wedding- a month or so ago. I messed it up rather badly. Then I relieved my guilt for weeks afterwards by imagining myself profusely apologising to her. I never shall, now.

She married a Maharashtrian boy- a 'love marriage'. He got baptised in order to marry her. They've come to church regularly every sunday since then. She, who understands the service in Malayalam, alongside he, who doesn't.
She died today. Coming back from church on a motorbike with her husband. A truck came and hit them from behind.
So their family will have had a baptism, a wedding, and a funeral, all in the space of a month.
A fair, rounded girl with a bit of a belly in a cream-coloured sari.
It is nothing if not unfair.

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.