Fugazi

 

It was a lukewarm summer afternoon, the news channels were going on about the Israeli and Palestinian conflicts in a different side of the world. “The next time we see a world war, it will be of religious nature mark my words”, said my grandpa on the sofa, while I sat on the floor beside with a pile of cassette tapes in a box. I still can’t recall the exact line of profession Uncle Prabir used to belong to, but all I vaguely remember was that he used to live abroad and come by once in forever. He was a connoisseur of western music, rock and its rebellious subculture in general. Dressing in all black and leather trying to pull off that John Lydon but miserably failing cause that look really don’t work well for brown people, or so I used to think. Grandfather used to hate entertaining whatever was going on with him, most people would call it a phase. But he was out there in his thirties still trying to look like he was going to be in a photo with the Sex Pistols some day. People would think I was hating on him like most of the family but it’s the exact opposite, I fucked with that, I loved his style. He never found out about my admiration for him though.

                          The cassettes Uncle left behind were all mostly duds and about to be thrown away. “I want to safe keep some of them”, I declared to my aunt and father who were busy searching and throwing away a roomful of messy belongings of my uncle. I saw a frown from in my dad’s face as he side eyed me for few seconds and said “Yeah sure, but don’t think of trying to play those back at home.” He declared. “Don’t want you listening to that kind of music in our household”, he added. I took a minute and nodded, eyes still down hands at work trying to select cassettes to carry back, my brain telling me to look for the one that has the sickest looking box art or the most vile words in English dictionary put together as the album name. Hands and eyes shifting, sweat running down my cheeks. “that one… no wait this one sounds cooler… what about that one.” Like a dumb six year old visiting the toy store for the first time in his life, I got my second taste of indecisiveness at the age of thirteen.

                         “Getting late, let’s go.” Said my father grabbing me by the arm and forcing me up. Still indecisive I quickly stuff my pockets with three cassettes that I didn’t even decide on let alone look at, as I was being dragged along now by my dad’s iron grip. “Could’ve stayed back a day you don’t come to see him much, Mohan cooks really nice”, unassertive yet hopefully asked my grandfather. “Lots of work left, you wont understand but we have some weight to pull.” Said my aunt fixing her belongings before putting on her sandals without even looking back at grandfather. My father gave him a pat on the arm “Asbo amra abar if we need something, but for now we are taking these documents, the lawyer asked for these.” Grandfather turned slowly, his eyes following as we all went out the door. I turned back to take a last look at the room, still being dragged along by the iron grip, and all I could catch was the displeased expression on my grandfather’s face.

                           On the way back home, at the back seat of the ambassador, I got the chance to put my hands inside the pocket and shuffle around the cassettes, taking each of them out and occasionally flipping them over, reading the texts all over. Also keeping an eye out for the rear mirror of the car to see if father or aunt were watching me amuse myself with my new found treasures, wouldn’t want to draw their attention towards my liking for foreign music again. They would definitely take the cassettes away, especially baba. But thankfully they were busy bickering about something else, something I was too young to even bother about until way later in life. For the time being I could just faintly remember some of the words in their heated conversation in the car that day. Something about “fortune”, “dhore mara uchit”, and more funny slangs that I pretty much guessed were being hurdled towards Uncle Prabir. At that moment my younger self was having a great time, I just got some new music to listen to, got to meet my grandfather, we were on a car with aunt, I thought of the whole thing as a fun light-hearted family gathering, but little did I know what cruelty was store in future for this so called family gathering.

                  

 

Bohemian Rhapsody

I woke up to what might have been the chirping of sparrows that perched by the window to my right. Hungover with nausea i tried recalling the events of last night, still incomprehensive of the berth and the unfamiliar room. I made an effort to sit up and felt the muscles ache all over my bag of bones, it was a dry pain that made me squint hard in order to squeeze out the strength in my forearms for support. The sparrow was still there chirping away occasionally shifting around, it's snappy movements hard for the normal eye to follow and even more for someone in a hangover. I raised my hand towards it playfully twirling my fingers with an effort, and did something awkward yet personal that i had an habit of since i could ever remember, clasping my fingers at the bird as if to hide it from my vision and then slowly loosening them to reveal the little creature, as if i was playing peekaboo with it. Also occasionally forming a ring out of them and looking through at the bird, when suddenly I heard two soft knocks from my left and became aware of the door in the room. The bird took flight immediately and i put my hand down as swiftly as possible at the same time, completely dismissing the lingering pain because of the sudden found awkwardness that i had to give the priority to. It was x, wearing a piercing grin with arms crossed and his back leaned against the adjacent door.
"Good Morning asshole.", He sounded accusing. "Wa-what ?", I said wearing a frown, not because i felt offended from the way he addressed me but that I was still overwhelmed with the awkwardness that weighed on me since my event with the bird, which made it even harder for me to perceive whatever x was referring to. "You owe me a new table, i suppose", He demanded, and my eyes widened, slowly raising my head to look up, my mind rewinding, it was all coming back.
    Last night we were destined to experience the wildest party ever, or so we imagined. A flash of beverages and i'm r
aving with the other guys, y was shirtless with his groovy long hair clogged with dripping sweat that often brushed and whipped us, a reason why no one went near him in the mosh pits. Z had passed out and was lying face flat on the floor, he was wearing nothing except his navy blue underwear, people were often tripping around him, even trampling him. I faintly remember x sitting by the bean bags at one corner. There were few other guys, friends of x, faces that i didn't recognize but probably had been introduced to earlier. It was x's stereo that was blasting The Stooges' second album 'fun house' on full volume. Iggy pop's raspy and hypnotic vocals were manipulating us into transcending the ethereal frenzy, it blew me away, it was so powerful that i felt my muscular tendons getting ripped with the bassline. I felt as if i was becoming some kind of a monster. I broke out of the rave and screaming harshly, rushed to pick up my electric yameha guitar that i had brought and started strumming it unplugged furiously, raving around with it, trying to mimic Ron Asheton's guitar. I jumped on the dining table, no one seemed to care, x got up and paced towards me with fast steps. " fuck, stop that A or someone might get hurt", I was too occupied even to notice that he had come up to me. "A, That is not your goddamn table". I kept raving away, "Abey bhosdike, can't you hear, your nuts won't be in the same place if i get up there". I was busy riffing to the solo. He climed up and proceeded to grab hold of my guitar.
"Give that to me !"
"Fuck off, this is the best part", i started fidgeting as soon as he grabbed the fret board.
He was wrestling with me,"My brother is.. going to clobber me.... aarggh... if you don't stop..", and we slipped, we felt the wood under our feet go down along with us, as if time had slowed down, i saw the ceiling above moving away and Iggy's lyrics still ringing in my ears. "Callin' from the fun house with my song/We been separated baby far too long./Callin' all you whoop-de pretty things./Shinin' in your freedom come and be my rings." A bang, and then everything turned to black.

The table now looked more suited for rafting down the river, the legs in pieces and cracks were all over the woodwork. I had paused scratching my head, and was staring at the pile fixedly. "Why do you seem so concerned ? Your guitar is perfectly fine after all.", x said sarcastically from behind as he brought me a glass of coffee, i turned around to find my guitar placed against the wall, hands exchanged the glass, "I fucked up",  i mumbled while staring at the blotch of white that revolved around the brown in my coffee,
"Atleast i'm glad that you realized it , finally", he said.

The Electric Mistress

Sun tanned lady under tangling maze of wires

her tiptoeing heels they talk with the lurking cat

jangling bangles they beacon the lost magpie

sketchy lanes now left with her fragrant history

towering poles are watchful of the thoroughfare

inky shadow of hers painting streets black

the peeking sun through maple branches asunder

a glum hound brooding over reeking umber

rusty street lamps used by perching ravens

Dreaming lady she just looked at me

Electric Mistress she is turning her back on me

Nature's Enchantress she is twirling the world around me.

Anatomy of Joblessness

Sudden vison of a dorm room 
and I find myself lying flat by the berth,
Staring at the ceiling above
as if in a constant haze of pain,
lifting up my bag of bones
I hummed few lines of my favorite songs,
and down came the abrupt rainpour
as if a reminescence to those past days,
myself struck by this sudden gust of nostalgia
could feel the yesterday all over again,
but was the moment worth it ?
for what's down the memory lane are lustful yet absurd,
to say how naive am I
and Gluttony be my alias
so joblessness be on my side,
Tipper tapper fell the few last drops of rain
While i asked myself,"How low am i ?"

Saturday Nights

Winking traffic lights reflecting on blind man's shades,
Gloomy street lamps placing halo over heads,
Steaming kebabs hanging in unison,
Homeless children tugging ironed shirts,
Prowling cats blending with dark alleys,
Sleek cars playing peek-a-boo,
Packed buses playing argue,
Curious fingers shifting the lights,
Traffic police warning those eyes,
Lone wolves sipping beer cans,
Drunken hyenas tripping face flat,
The Night has left now but the habit remains

A Shower

That time of the day when you are beat and reek of skunk, as the sweat drops roll down your forehead and rest of the torso. The uncomfortable feeling of lukewarm, as if your feets aren't attached ! 
Then you gently turn the shower knob and the first gush of water sprinkles spat over your face, the force increased as you keep rotating the knob and eventually cold water breaks with reinforced vigor all over your bag of bones and you realize the state of utter bliss, as your mind transcends into deep senseuality. As if to orgasm, but then time turns up as the supreme antagonist and realizing it makes you break up with your spiritual transcendence, to mourne for this blissful moment and wish if it could last for eternity. 
You turn the shower knob off tight as the last few drops of water fell tipper-tapper over your head...

A tryst with the fish market

5 years and a half i was, with small arms held tall by my father's warm hands, gripping my tiny fingers. Clean combed in neat half pants i toddled along, all set for a first ever visit to the fish market. I remember it as clear as the muddy pit waters on the way, which reflected the dazzling exhalation in my eyes, expecting an amusement park and there i was, stuck in awe by the panorama of clustering stalls, with tarpaulin ceilings waving in the gleaming sunlight. A sweltering heat stench duped by the air that reeked of a distinct smell, a discomforting smell, which could trigger an odd nostalgia drive brushed my nostrils. It was the distinct stench of a fish market, a marker of sorts, painted in red by the butchering sellers filling up plastic bags, as the jolly catla lunged in a basket of live prawns, while the lobster that leaped out into exile scrambled around in terror just to get squashed amidst the hruly burly of a crowd. The reflection was contorted now by the speeding bicycle that ran over the muddy pit waters on our way back. Father gripped my tiny fingers while carrying a plastic bag of fresh catla in the other hand, but the warmth in his palm was gone.