Dearest Ketaki,
The sea is the vast back of a glistening, glutinous, giant slug, and we are gashing its back with our little razor scooter. White, foamy spray hits us, warm and salty, an alien’s blood. My body is taut, my mind is blank, completely empty. On my temples, where there are two day old burn marks, the salt water stings cruelly. But that is the only sensation that reminds me that I am alive. The rest is blank, eyes unfocussed, mind mercifully silent.
Silenced, I think by the mightiness of the water. Just so will it be in space, among stars. Awe-inspiring and all of that, yes, but more than that, mind-killing. It is not merely because the space and the sea remind me of my insignificance, it is more than that. It is the ceaseless activity that has always been and always will be, the persevering tides, the eternally burning suns, the life, the birth and the death, forever, beyond time, beyond concept of time, life, consciousness. Beyond mind.
It is a blinding realization when it comes, a result more of the senses than of thought; all along, everyone has been wrong. It is not from the body that one must escape, but from the mind. The mind has limits, just like the body. The mind does not have access to certain places. And these places I have seen, Ketaki. Glimpsed from the edges of insanity, peeked through the membrane of the womb where we live. I have slid down the sides of the universe, tried my hand at the infinite, plumbed the depths of the unfathomable, and every time, every time Ketaki, I’ve been brought short against the slippery rock of the wall of a mind that I cannot scale. I am stuck in my womb, and who knows to what end, or for how long.
Or whether I will be born at all. Who knows at what altar this mother prays? Maybe it is a God of Wrath. Maybe her womb will never bear fruit.
The thing to do is to keep clawing at the fabric of the mind, to find a crack, or a doorknob, or a keyhole.
The insane have the key to the doorway of her womb.
I will pay more visits to the sea.
(Hush. That is where insanity lives, Ketaki, among the shells and the smooth rocks under the green water. Hush.)
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so-called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash the moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering God of contentment and would rather feel the devil burn in me than this warmth of a well heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensation seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to commit outrages, to pull off the wigs of a few revered idols, to provide a few rebellious schoolboys with the longed-for ticket to Hamburg, or to stand one or two representatives of the established order on their heads. For what I always hated and detested and cursed above all things was this contentment, this healthiness and comfort, this carefully preserved optimism of the middle-classes, this fat and prosperous brood of mediocrity.
-Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse
-Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse
Monday, July 03, 2006
I'm sorry Ketaki,
Please come back. I miss you very very much.
You ache in my mind and itch on my hands. You flitter incessantly in my thoughts with razor memories. Your loss is always blossoming, always fresh, always a wound, always an unwritten song, always the hint of spring, always what might have been.
You are always the kiss I forgot to give, always the forehead I did not wipe clear of doubt, always the hand that slipped away in chaos, always the pain I did not assuage, always the beginning of wonder, always arrested youth, always missed opportunity, always Ketaki, always what might have been. Please come back. I miss what might have been.
Love always,
Arnab
Please come back. I miss you very very much.
You ache in my mind and itch on my hands. You flitter incessantly in my thoughts with razor memories. Your loss is always blossoming, always fresh, always a wound, always an unwritten song, always the hint of spring, always what might have been.
You are always the kiss I forgot to give, always the forehead I did not wipe clear of doubt, always the hand that slipped away in chaos, always the pain I did not assuage, always the beginning of wonder, always arrested youth, always missed opportunity, always Ketaki, always what might have been. Please come back. I miss what might have been.
Love always,
Arnab
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Angels and Demons
Tell me all your thoughts on God
'Cause I would really like to meet her.
And ask her why we're who we are.
Tell me all your thoughts on God?
'Cause I am on my way to see her.
So tell me am I very far?
-Counting Blue cars, Dishwalla
It begins when your head feels like a badly tuned radio. You try and figure out some coherent thought in all the static, but you can’t. You fill up your ears with music, but that just makes the noise worse. In this state, part anger, part panic, and part real fear, you escape from the cage that is your home and you run down the streets. With your steps comes a semblance of order; with your marching, your music is disciplined, and in this method you discover your loneliness. Deep within. So deep it is part of you. So deep that if you gouged it out now, you would hemorrhage and die. And then you’re about to give up, lean against the nearest wall and slide down in defeat; but there is a part, a very very small part compounded of courage and hope. And that part makes you call a number. Like fucking once before dying of cancer.
It is a property of sodium vapour lamps and of great cities, I think; in the night one can walk streets tirelessly. So we made that our property. Seamlessly we walked, not hand in hand, but with a camaraderie that seemed born of the yellow night. What else was born of the night, I do not know; I know only this- there was laughter in it, a little forced, a little tired, but real nevertheless; there was a relief tantamount coming home for a while, laying down a tired head on a sympathetic shoulder; there was some wonder at secrets spilled easy, guessed easy. Like making love for the first time, like undressing your lover, gently, every revelation a miracle. Like finding birthmarks in unexpected places and home in the crook of an elbow and the curve of a waist.
It was thing of pretty lights and riversides. It was a string of stories around our necks, and we compared their colours. We gasped when they were the same, even though we knew there are only so many beads and only so many colours. It was a thing of desperation, because you see, we had stood at so many street corners, asking so many people the same questions, and we had almost stopped believing that we would ever get the right answers. Or finding people who understood the survey in the first place. It was a thing of intellectual snobbery, and a shot of hormones in the veins. But mainly, it was a thing of the night- an illicit secret, a decadent flavour, a bastard child.
It was a picnic in exile. Yesterday, we didn’t kill our demons. We bribed them into temporary silence with tequila shots.
We wish them the worst hangover. Ever.
'Cause I would really like to meet her.
And ask her why we're who we are.
Tell me all your thoughts on God?
'Cause I am on my way to see her.
So tell me am I very far?
-Counting Blue cars, Dishwalla
It begins when your head feels like a badly tuned radio. You try and figure out some coherent thought in all the static, but you can’t. You fill up your ears with music, but that just makes the noise worse. In this state, part anger, part panic, and part real fear, you escape from the cage that is your home and you run down the streets. With your steps comes a semblance of order; with your marching, your music is disciplined, and in this method you discover your loneliness. Deep within. So deep it is part of you. So deep that if you gouged it out now, you would hemorrhage and die. And then you’re about to give up, lean against the nearest wall and slide down in defeat; but there is a part, a very very small part compounded of courage and hope. And that part makes you call a number. Like fucking once before dying of cancer.
It is a property of sodium vapour lamps and of great cities, I think; in the night one can walk streets tirelessly. So we made that our property. Seamlessly we walked, not hand in hand, but with a camaraderie that seemed born of the yellow night. What else was born of the night, I do not know; I know only this- there was laughter in it, a little forced, a little tired, but real nevertheless; there was a relief tantamount coming home for a while, laying down a tired head on a sympathetic shoulder; there was some wonder at secrets spilled easy, guessed easy. Like making love for the first time, like undressing your lover, gently, every revelation a miracle. Like finding birthmarks in unexpected places and home in the crook of an elbow and the curve of a waist.
It was thing of pretty lights and riversides. It was a string of stories around our necks, and we compared their colours. We gasped when they were the same, even though we knew there are only so many beads and only so many colours. It was a thing of desperation, because you see, we had stood at so many street corners, asking so many people the same questions, and we had almost stopped believing that we would ever get the right answers. Or finding people who understood the survey in the first place. It was a thing of intellectual snobbery, and a shot of hormones in the veins. But mainly, it was a thing of the night- an illicit secret, a decadent flavour, a bastard child.
It was a picnic in exile. Yesterday, we didn’t kill our demons. We bribed them into temporary silence with tequila shots.
We wish them the worst hangover. Ever.
Everything is white neon.
Dearest Arnab,
As it becomes night, this light metamorphoses every colour into some shade of its own, there are no reds and pinks and yellows and blues; only sterilised remnants, washed out leftovers.
I am tired, Arnab. In all that I feel, this is all I can say with certainty. That I feel tired, exhausted, drained with this interminable, irresolute mind of mine, that will not, will not decide. Will not leave, will not love. Will not rise above the desires of my body, and why must it, if it thinks that they are right and valid. So what is not? What is not right? What is not valid? And who can say this with certainty? Who will be a rock beside me, Arnab, and say, you must not, you must not; when they are scared that I will spit in their well meaning eyes.
I hate that, above all. Well meaning eyes. Because they have the temerity to know. To know. Do you know what a terrible thing that is, Arnab? To know right from wrong. Or to think you know, which is almost the same. The cheek. And then to flaunt it in my face, my face. I, who have never known what it is to know. I have stared into the darkness after I have come and he has come. I have stared into the benevolent blackness, and wondered until my head was ready to split, wondered unto heartache, and unto pain, and unto this exhaustion of today, what that split second pleasure is worth. And why it is worth so much with him.
And why it matters whether it is worth the same to him. Because you see, Arnab, I have read and I know the moral code, and the rectitude of the moral code that is behind an exchange (a free and voluntary exchange of sexual favours, if you like). I have thought I knew. But I am not sure any more.
And so I will hate people who do. And I will have tired eyes, and a mind that refuses to sleep, and a conscience that refuses to be. And these words, like ashes, unto ashes. Dust, unto dust.
Holy words and blasphemy make for boring reading; but you see, Arnab, that is not why I write. Or fuck.
Ketaki.
As it becomes night, this light metamorphoses every colour into some shade of its own, there are no reds and pinks and yellows and blues; only sterilised remnants, washed out leftovers.
I am tired, Arnab. In all that I feel, this is all I can say with certainty. That I feel tired, exhausted, drained with this interminable, irresolute mind of mine, that will not, will not decide. Will not leave, will not love. Will not rise above the desires of my body, and why must it, if it thinks that they are right and valid. So what is not? What is not right? What is not valid? And who can say this with certainty? Who will be a rock beside me, Arnab, and say, you must not, you must not; when they are scared that I will spit in their well meaning eyes.
I hate that, above all. Well meaning eyes. Because they have the temerity to know. To know. Do you know what a terrible thing that is, Arnab? To know right from wrong. Or to think you know, which is almost the same. The cheek. And then to flaunt it in my face, my face. I, who have never known what it is to know. I have stared into the darkness after I have come and he has come. I have stared into the benevolent blackness, and wondered until my head was ready to split, wondered unto heartache, and unto pain, and unto this exhaustion of today, what that split second pleasure is worth. And why it is worth so much with him.
And why it matters whether it is worth the same to him. Because you see, Arnab, I have read and I know the moral code, and the rectitude of the moral code that is behind an exchange (a free and voluntary exchange of sexual favours, if you like). I have thought I knew. But I am not sure any more.
And so I will hate people who do. And I will have tired eyes, and a mind that refuses to sleep, and a conscience that refuses to be. And these words, like ashes, unto ashes. Dust, unto dust.
Holy words and blasphemy make for boring reading; but you see, Arnab, that is not why I write. Or fuck.
Ketaki.
Love, Ketaki
Dearest Arnab,
I notice that it is mostly night when this restlessness comes upon me. It is mostly night when I cannot tolerate being told to brush my teeth or to go to sleep. It is mostly night when I remember that I have not written like this in a long time. It is mostly night when the hurt of humanity hurts me, and the horrors visited upon it visit me too.
It starts on the journey back home, on the yellow tinted road as the trucks go past and every truck has a little cylinder with 'AIR' painted on it, and a little pail, always empty, hanging near it. The immediate future is a shimmering snake, red spotted from brake lights. The night air is cool but not innocent like morning air. The insides of a dead dog lie spilled on the road. A principle has been violated this day and the guilty night is a helpless murderess with an implacable facade.
The night is heavy, full of dreamt, unsought things. And so the wind laughs quietly against my face, at all that I had planned but did not do. But the night is not accusing, it conspires in my restlessness and it soothes me into inactivity. Inactivity is not a sin now, it is the sin of the day, and it is the day that takes the blame, as is right and valid. Sometimes it rains. The roof of the bus is an irregular melody, a disharmonious drum.
Sometimes I listen to music in the bus. Then my mind is a descriptive essay. Then the window is a video. The man at the corner shop lights a rhythmic cigarette, a woman holding up her sari makes a melodious crossing, the girl on the bike moves forward to talk to the boy riding it; and the whole is a pulsing note, a beating chord, a vibrant song. With a video.
Every night is a note to your loss. It is signed
“Love,
Ketaki”.
I notice that it is mostly night when this restlessness comes upon me. It is mostly night when I cannot tolerate being told to brush my teeth or to go to sleep. It is mostly night when I remember that I have not written like this in a long time. It is mostly night when the hurt of humanity hurts me, and the horrors visited upon it visit me too.
It starts on the journey back home, on the yellow tinted road as the trucks go past and every truck has a little cylinder with 'AIR' painted on it, and a little pail, always empty, hanging near it. The immediate future is a shimmering snake, red spotted from brake lights. The night air is cool but not innocent like morning air. The insides of a dead dog lie spilled on the road. A principle has been violated this day and the guilty night is a helpless murderess with an implacable facade.
The night is heavy, full of dreamt, unsought things. And so the wind laughs quietly against my face, at all that I had planned but did not do. But the night is not accusing, it conspires in my restlessness and it soothes me into inactivity. Inactivity is not a sin now, it is the sin of the day, and it is the day that takes the blame, as is right and valid. Sometimes it rains. The roof of the bus is an irregular melody, a disharmonious drum.
Sometimes I listen to music in the bus. Then my mind is a descriptive essay. Then the window is a video. The man at the corner shop lights a rhythmic cigarette, a woman holding up her sari makes a melodious crossing, the girl on the bike moves forward to talk to the boy riding it; and the whole is a pulsing note, a beating chord, a vibrant song. With a video.
Every night is a note to your loss. It is signed
“Love,
Ketaki”.
When he pretends or ends.
Dearest Arnab,
Have you ever thought that maybe this is the only way to live in the 21st century. A little shrill, a little loud, a little hurt, all the time, all the way. No wonder our mouths have become pouts of discontent, no wonder they look like gashes of gaiety.
So maybe, that's why I see him every morning, this boy who touches a picture of ganesha every morning, a computerised image on the lcd screen of his computer, and then his forehead. Elephant God and Hewlett Packard monitor. Brrrr. It is cold. I think it always will be. I think it will get colder as the sun loses its heat, slowly. And I think we know that now, and are frightened of it. That is why we rush as we do, that is why our eyes look hunted, and our hands are hungry. That is why we cut down the trees that we love, poison the land we cherish. That is why we run away from the trees and the land, to not see their empty eyes and accusing broken-ness.
Maybe that is why I have run away from words, finding in their honesty a judge far more solemn, far more just, than the covenient crevices of my mind. The little nooks that I hide myself in, hoping not to see, never to see, what is so eternally, simply, blightingly, bitingly self-evident. That as surely as we are born, we must die; that as fast as I may run, cower in the nooks of my mind, whimper at the invisible lashes that lash out at me, within and without; that I must write, well or ill; that I must write, of inanities if I must; that I must write, and capture some lost glory, some absent faith, some non existent radiance; that most important, I must write, because I must write.
I must write, so that I may not hurt. So that I may not hurt when he scoffs or walks off. So that I may not hurt when he pretends or ends. So that I may always have the courage to love and to live.
In the world as I know it, I must write.
Love,
Ketaki
Have you ever thought that maybe this is the only way to live in the 21st century. A little shrill, a little loud, a little hurt, all the time, all the way. No wonder our mouths have become pouts of discontent, no wonder they look like gashes of gaiety.
So maybe, that's why I see him every morning, this boy who touches a picture of ganesha every morning, a computerised image on the lcd screen of his computer, and then his forehead. Elephant God and Hewlett Packard monitor. Brrrr. It is cold. I think it always will be. I think it will get colder as the sun loses its heat, slowly. And I think we know that now, and are frightened of it. That is why we rush as we do, that is why our eyes look hunted, and our hands are hungry. That is why we cut down the trees that we love, poison the land we cherish. That is why we run away from the trees and the land, to not see their empty eyes and accusing broken-ness.
Maybe that is why I have run away from words, finding in their honesty a judge far more solemn, far more just, than the covenient crevices of my mind. The little nooks that I hide myself in, hoping not to see, never to see, what is so eternally, simply, blightingly, bitingly self-evident. That as surely as we are born, we must die; that as fast as I may run, cower in the nooks of my mind, whimper at the invisible lashes that lash out at me, within and without; that I must write, well or ill; that I must write, of inanities if I must; that I must write, and capture some lost glory, some absent faith, some non existent radiance; that most important, I must write, because I must write.
I must write, so that I may not hurt. So that I may not hurt when he scoffs or walks off. So that I may not hurt when he pretends or ends. So that I may always have the courage to love and to live.
In the world as I know it, I must write.
Love,
Ketaki
Flint
Dearest Ketaki,
All my life I have watched my parents, and their love for each other, and for me. And I know this now.
That there is another, more dangerous love, smoking pot and sharing dirty stories around a campfire. This love does not cherish and protect. It does not nurture. It does not dream of comfortable years ahead, in unsearing, hurtless constancy. It is here, it is now, it does not care for tomorrow.
There is another, more dangerous love, bursting into beauty in the centre of the sky. It is the coruscating brilliance of fireworks, their blazing triumph. It is the upward gaze of the children who watch the fireworks, it is the length and the breadth and the scope of their dreams. And in the incandescence that lights up their excited faces and pointing fingers, in all its flaming beauty, it self destructs.
There is another, more dangerous love, that combusts spontaneously in the collision of two bodies. It laughs as the world implodes into orgasm, impaled on a thousand shards of heart break, it appeases with smoke and assuages with drink, and all the time, it laughs on a slight note of hysteria, on the simmering edge of insanity.
There is another, more dangerous love, Ketaki. It rises slowly up my limbs and wraps its tentacles around my heart. When I hold you in my arms and feel your teeth on my skin, it spreads malignantly through my brain. It will be the death of me, Ketaki. There is another, more dangerous love. I see it in the bruises you leave on my throat. Blue and purple and dangerous.
Arnab.
All my life I have watched my parents, and their love for each other, and for me. And I know this now.
That there is another, more dangerous love, smoking pot and sharing dirty stories around a campfire. This love does not cherish and protect. It does not nurture. It does not dream of comfortable years ahead, in unsearing, hurtless constancy. It is here, it is now, it does not care for tomorrow.
There is another, more dangerous love, bursting into beauty in the centre of the sky. It is the coruscating brilliance of fireworks, their blazing triumph. It is the upward gaze of the children who watch the fireworks, it is the length and the breadth and the scope of their dreams. And in the incandescence that lights up their excited faces and pointing fingers, in all its flaming beauty, it self destructs.
There is another, more dangerous love, that combusts spontaneously in the collision of two bodies. It laughs as the world implodes into orgasm, impaled on a thousand shards of heart break, it appeases with smoke and assuages with drink, and all the time, it laughs on a slight note of hysteria, on the simmering edge of insanity.
There is another, more dangerous love, Ketaki. It rises slowly up my limbs and wraps its tentacles around my heart. When I hold you in my arms and feel your teeth on my skin, it spreads malignantly through my brain. It will be the death of me, Ketaki. There is another, more dangerous love. I see it in the bruises you leave on my throat. Blue and purple and dangerous.
Arnab.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
An Old Story
Dearest Ketaki,
I am writing you the oldest story of all. It has everything- love, passion, sorrow, envy. It stinks of every greasy, sweaty, proprietary palm that has touched it; it has the stale smell of cliché and the potency of bromide. The permanence of the plot sickens me; I find it strange that the actors do not object to wearing the same worm eaten, moth-ridden costumes thousands of actors have worn before. After all, there is such a thing as hygiene. But I digress.
There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki. Does that seem like an old story to you? It sounds hollow to me, even now, as I say it. False and insincere. Maybe it is this falsity that is crucial to my story.
See, I already call it my story. I am caressing the rented costumes and the jaded dialogue and the desperate melodrama. And in the completeness of my tragedy, I am screaming. Every night the curtain goes up on my act, night as backdrop, this is my role, these are my lines, and I am screaming, “There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki.”
One was all the stars of the night, Ketaki. She was champagne bubbles. And you could spend the rest of your life counting the stars and the bubbles. But you wouldn’t, because you were so busy getting high on her. You know? She was the infinite universe, and the point from which the universe began, and the big bang, all rolled into one. She was cause and effect. She was like an axiom. No, that isn’t what I mean. She was like an element. She was elementary and unalterable and you couldn’t really do anything with her, you know, except drink her in and get high on her. You do know what I’m saying, Ketaki, don’t you? Her words were razor sharp, and she used her mind like a whetting stone, and she literally cut her way through life with them. She was frightening, Ketaki, sometimes, like a warrior.
And the other one, Ketaki? She was peace itself. She was clarity and simplicity. Like a glass full of cold, clean water. Just looking at her would sort everything out in your head. Then everything would be easy and simple and just so right. You could sit with her and watch her do some work, like cutting oranges, and her every movement was beautiful and economical and peaceful. She would sit and read a book, and she would let me rest my head on her lap, and run her fingers absent-mindedly through my hair. And her touch was a lullaby. She was white, Ketaki, to the core of her soul, she was the foundation of my dreams. I would have died for her, or killed for her, just to keep her serenity untouched. Just to not break the glass jar of cold clear water.
Does this seem like an old story to you?
Will you write me a line? I miss you so.
Love,
Arnab
I am writing you the oldest story of all. It has everything- love, passion, sorrow, envy. It stinks of every greasy, sweaty, proprietary palm that has touched it; it has the stale smell of cliché and the potency of bromide. The permanence of the plot sickens me; I find it strange that the actors do not object to wearing the same worm eaten, moth-ridden costumes thousands of actors have worn before. After all, there is such a thing as hygiene. But I digress.
There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki. Does that seem like an old story to you? It sounds hollow to me, even now, as I say it. False and insincere. Maybe it is this falsity that is crucial to my story.
See, I already call it my story. I am caressing the rented costumes and the jaded dialogue and the desperate melodrama. And in the completeness of my tragedy, I am screaming. Every night the curtain goes up on my act, night as backdrop, this is my role, these are my lines, and I am screaming, “There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki.”
One was all the stars of the night, Ketaki. She was champagne bubbles. And you could spend the rest of your life counting the stars and the bubbles. But you wouldn’t, because you were so busy getting high on her. You know? She was the infinite universe, and the point from which the universe began, and the big bang, all rolled into one. She was cause and effect. She was like an axiom. No, that isn’t what I mean. She was like an element. She was elementary and unalterable and you couldn’t really do anything with her, you know, except drink her in and get high on her. You do know what I’m saying, Ketaki, don’t you? Her words were razor sharp, and she used her mind like a whetting stone, and she literally cut her way through life with them. She was frightening, Ketaki, sometimes, like a warrior.
And the other one, Ketaki? She was peace itself. She was clarity and simplicity. Like a glass full of cold, clean water. Just looking at her would sort everything out in your head. Then everything would be easy and simple and just so right. You could sit with her and watch her do some work, like cutting oranges, and her every movement was beautiful and economical and peaceful. She would sit and read a book, and she would let me rest my head on her lap, and run her fingers absent-mindedly through my hair. And her touch was a lullaby. She was white, Ketaki, to the core of her soul, she was the foundation of my dreams. I would have died for her, or killed for her, just to keep her serenity untouched. Just to not break the glass jar of cold clear water.
Does this seem like an old story to you?
Will you write me a line? I miss you so.
Love,
Arnab
Monday, June 12, 2006
Orientation
Dearest Ketaki,
How are you today? I miss home ferociously today. Tooth and nail and claw. Like stubborn root and grasping tendril. I work intensely these days. You remember that autobiography of Charlie Chaplin that we read? He said, "In work lies orientation. All else is chimerical." I believed that for a long time, Ketaki. I believed that if I could just find some work that interested me, I would be stuck in it, body and mind and soul. And that's true, Ketaki, sometimes. But not always. Not always.
It is one thing to do whatever work I'm given, with honesty and sincerity and all the intelligence I possess; it is another thing to do it thousands of miles from home. Then the work is just the name of the flight all of us take to pretend that the flight passengers are old friends. And that we have found meaning, because we have found fellow travellers who have the same destination. But only till the terminal, Ketaki. And from the airport we go our different ways.
I enjoy my work, Ketaki, don't get me wrong. I like losing myself in day to day problems. I like knowing a little more each day, becoming slowly more critical, more significant in the scheme of this little world. But it's such a cold, cocooned little world, it's almost a grave. And today, I miss those who would come in love, to lay flowers on my grave, if only they knew the location. So I'm telling you today. Come find me today, bring chrysanthemums, whisper a prayer into the cold, rest me in peace.
Write me a line, Ketaki, mail me your fragrance, because I miss you so.
Love,
Arnab
How are you today? I miss home ferociously today. Tooth and nail and claw. Like stubborn root and grasping tendril. I work intensely these days. You remember that autobiography of Charlie Chaplin that we read? He said, "In work lies orientation. All else is chimerical." I believed that for a long time, Ketaki. I believed that if I could just find some work that interested me, I would be stuck in it, body and mind and soul. And that's true, Ketaki, sometimes. But not always. Not always.
It is one thing to do whatever work I'm given, with honesty and sincerity and all the intelligence I possess; it is another thing to do it thousands of miles from home. Then the work is just the name of the flight all of us take to pretend that the flight passengers are old friends. And that we have found meaning, because we have found fellow travellers who have the same destination. But only till the terminal, Ketaki. And from the airport we go our different ways.
I enjoy my work, Ketaki, don't get me wrong. I like losing myself in day to day problems. I like knowing a little more each day, becoming slowly more critical, more significant in the scheme of this little world. But it's such a cold, cocooned little world, it's almost a grave. And today, I miss those who would come in love, to lay flowers on my grave, if only they knew the location. So I'm telling you today. Come find me today, bring chrysanthemums, whisper a prayer into the cold, rest me in peace.
Write me a line, Ketaki, mail me your fragrance, because I miss you so.
Love,
Arnab
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