Why I shot the alien who said, "Hello, how do you do."

The alien could say “Hello, how do you do” in seven languages and a total of thirty five dialects, none known to me. So I shot him in the head before picking up a box that seemed like a bomb but was indeed his method of tongues. With the alien dead I have gained thirty five separate dialects comprised in a seven suite language pack. Heavy!



PS: word count= 66.

Feet

TWENTY FEET

I am sitting on a ledge, about twenty feet from the ground. I have not measured the fall with a tape measure. And I do not intend to jump. Twenty feet will not work. Such less heights never work. At most they break bones. But I do not want a broken bone. I want myself broken, and that is not merely bones.

The wind is cool. The sun has set. The park is filled with people. I can see those people. Have they ever sat on ledges? Does sitting on a ledge and contemplating mix well. Can I think here? I guess I can. Therefore I am writing these on a ruled piece of paper in a spiral bound notebook. The binding is metal. It hurts the skin. Yes, it does hurt. The sharp end pierced into my skin once. That is why I choose to write in this book, not any book, but this one, which has tasted my blood. I am kin.

A bird sits on a higher ledge. The bird is a better thinker at its height. It does not fear a fall for it can pick up a flight midair. I cannot fly. I do not have wings. Yet, the ledge does not scare me. I might go higher up, to begin fearing.


FORTY FEET

The window ledge was stuck. I struggled with its rusty edges. But metal gave in. The iron bolts were red. They have colored the jeans I am wearing. My shirt is white. I have been careful not to mar it with odd stains. I am now sitting forty feet above the ground. The bird that was over me is now below. It did not choose to fly away when my ground touched the ledge beneath the window on which I sit staring at it staring at me. We have understood this height together, although the bird got here before I. Would I let it stay in my place of reign if I had come here first? Maybe the bird is a better creature. Maybe the bird is wiser as it has rested on higher rises.

The people that were in the park have left its lamps shining on empty space. There are still a few dogs running around. The dogs have soft tennis balls clutched in their mouths. I know they hold tennis balls as their fluorescent glaze is bright beneath the electric lamps. I can smell the oncoming rain. It is a peculiar scent when earth begs for water from the clouds above. They have a amicable relation. It is a relation of giving and taking that remains dynamic all year round. The relation is never unfair to either.

My ledge- mate has sought higher altitude. I see it fly away. Its black feathers blend into the black sky above me. There is always something higher than my height. I do not fear the forty feet drop beneath me. The ground does not invite me yet. I am different from rain. Rain is many. Rain is particulate. I am one. I am whole. But I need to be broken. I desire shattering and this height will not do.

EIGHTY FEET

The roof is home to pigeons. An old lady on the first floor who uses a cane to hobble about in the apartment leaves a dish of cooked rice on the roof. The cook white rice is left in an open plastic plate. The birds eat from it. They enjoy her rice. I have not known persons before who cook rice for birds. She is the first of this thoughtful lot. Maybe she learned her truthful method the hard way. Maybe she had given uncooked rice to the pigeons in her childhood and watched the pigeons pop as the grains bloated in their belly and eventually burst their digestion red on the ground. I watch the pigeons pecking away gaily at the rice behind me. That dish is not for me. I am nobody’s responsibility.

My legs dangle over the rooftop ledge. I can feel the low density of air here. I can feel the heat from rising smoke here. I can hear the television blaring a floor below. Someone’s watching a comedy. Or maybe the television has been turned on high to cover up whatever that someone is up to.

A jet plane flies over me. It has a tail. Monkeys have tails. But monkeys do not fly as cousins to clouds and children to stars. Monkeys fly tree to tree but their flight is short lived for they, like me, do not have wings as the birds behind me. A crow is eyeing the pigeons’ gathering from atop a water tank. The crow is alone. It is black. It is dark. My jeans are black. The white cement powder has stained them again. The red of the rust has been overcome by white.

Sitting eighty feet above ground is a giddy act. Remember Hitchcock’s Vertigo?


GROUND FEET

I have tasted the giddiness of heights. It feels safer on ground. The park is now exceptionally empty. The odd couples still linger. There are no dogs anymore catching fluorescent green tennis balls. Animals must eat. Animal food comes packed in all sizes of packets. I do not like dogs. For that matter I do not like pets.

A hoard of mosquitoes have gathered around a muddy puddle. I watch them. They watch me with their mosquito eyes. They do not come to me. I am bloodless. My blood belongs to my book that I have tucked beneath my arm pits.

Zero feet above ground. My feet touching the ground. This reality is most fearing. Higher heights did not scare me. This reality shivers. The cold wind blows. The distant scream. The television soap blaring in the background of a sobbing woman. The drunken walk of a penniless beggar. My walk. My thoughts. My height. My feet. My steps. I fear them all. This is the realm that I fear most…just as the birds who fear the skies most and therefore come to a ledge, twenty, forty, eighty feet from the ground to rest.

Insomnia

A blue crane flies past my window. There are no cranes in Calcutta. But a blue crane races the air. A blue crane. I walk to my window. The bird is gone. A woman is sitting upright on my bed. She is naked. Her skin is light, burnt sunshine shade. Her hair is black. She has thin lips. Her eyes are calling me. I step towards her.

I touch her lips. They are lifeless. She disappears.

The bed is empty.

White sheets, and a green chador. A second hand wooden bed. It is clean. But I know its filth. I understand its filth. Men and women have slept on it. It is to be dirty. It has to be unclean. The sheets are dirty; haven’t been washed in a fortnight. I know it. I hide myself in the darkness beneath the chador. Darkness is strange. You do not see much. There is no future. There is no past. And present is lacking. There is no present. Time is lost in darkness. This is not science. It is my mind. My mind is not physics. My mind has more than atoms. My mind has more than gravity. My mind is…a being.

The blue crane is perched on my window. It is pecks the paint chips hanging from the drying walls. Paint dries. It is wet when applied, but loses moisture. It sticks to the wall. In time, the walls reject paint. They begin wearing. The blue crane eats the yellow paint chips from my windowsill. The bird stays.

I watch the bird. It flaps its wing twice and then stops.

Where is my chador? I want my chador.

Often we do not get what we want.

Gandhi wanted peace. He got a bullet. It must have hurt. He died. They said he died peacefully. But he found bullets in his abdomen. Bullets are metal. They kill pain. The pain we call life. He longed for peace. And Death smirked. A bullet. Godse.

My chador is on the floor.

How did it get there?

A body is beneath the chador.

I know it is a woman. Her hair is flowing out. She stirs.

Bare legs defy confines of the linen cover. Her legs are beautiful. I could make love to them. I could make love to her. She stirs. Her arms prop out. Her hands are simple. They are kind. Her hands have blood in them. They have life. She stirs. She turns towards me. She stares at me from behind the cover. The thick cloth covers her face like a veil does. Her eyes are inviting. She is inviting.

I look into the mirror. I see myself. The mirror is not helpful. Glass lies. It distorts. The reflection is not I. Throw a stone, the mirror shatters. Reflections scatter. It does not die.

The woman takes my side. Her lips move. She whispers. Her kiss is warm. I want warmth. She provides warmth. I turn towards her. We come closer. She is bare. I am hidden. She hides. I am open. She is love. I love. She sits on her knees. I follow suite. She lies down. I lie beside. Her body rubbing the floor. Her body moving towards me. I move towards her. Whisper. My mouth catches her breath. Our sighs mingle. It is a marriage.

I am nude.

We are in arms.

A comforting touch.

I cannot sleep. There is no rest.

She writes on my back. Her fingers on my body. Nails scratching skin. She has written her name. She has a name. I did not know. There is much I do not know. There is much we do not know.

Jyotsna.

Rain drums on my window. There is a crack at the bottom right. Water trickles through it. Wind pushes a way. Wind, water make a damp breeze. The breeze caresses my arms. My arms are limp. They have not blood. A heavy head was on them.

Seven. Alarm.

I bought the clock at a decorated shop.

It was meant to be a present. The red-green-blue wrapper stayed on. I threw away the card with the little laurels on the side yesterday. My relic of Japan. An alarm clock. Three hands for the hour, minute and alarm. The seconds are missing. A blue crane painted on its face. The video cassette is stuck. A man is lying on a woman. There is no confluence of colors. White sex. Her eyes are closed. She looks satisfied. I am not.

* * *

Cold soup.

The microwave counter ticking, its ping. Warm soup. A layer of cream on top. The solidified grease coagulated as one overlying mass. A camouflage for the yellow corn. I remove the thick fat with a steel spoon. Indian Airlines. I picked it up. I pick them up. Airline silver ware for personal use only.

Still cold.

Microwave humming, ticking, consuming, heating, and cooking.

The soup’s too warm. I blow on it. A thinner yellow grease layer dances to the little wind. Dance. I watch it shimmer. Stirring in the grease, I drink it spoon by spoon. A bunch of baby corn and chicken pieces are left in the end. I tilt the bowl, and collect the bottom nourishment with a spoon.

No kabuki.

Taxi cab. Meter down. Rough ride. On- time. Fare paid.

The telephone rings.

Talk. Smile while speaking. Smile at nobody. Just the grey walls frowning back. Keep smiling. It is necessary. Tone comes with facial twitches. Happy customer representative. An Indian on the line. He has time. He is fooling around. He will not fetch you a raise. But you cannot be discourteous.

Yes sir.

Yes sir.

No sir.

Talk.

You are Amanda. You have an American accent. You work at a call center. Call centers are central to economic growth. Ten thousand a month. You are independent. The money is enough. Sufficient. You have worked for six months. The average work period is fourteen. You have lesser patience. You have read the papers. The taxi driver murder. The increased protection. It is claustrophobic.

Talk.

Your father is alive. Your mother is alive. They reside together. They’ve never been apart. Your father is five years older than your mother. They love one another. They do not have sex. You know. You just know. Times are changing. Movies altering. No more rose garden dances. It’s the age of striptease. The fad hit America two thousand years ago. Its finally arrived now. News channels have quarrelsome shows. Feminists in crew cuts. Men with mascara. Straight men. Straight women. It’s a cauldron. There are no witches. The witch hunt ended two centuries ago. Salem is a sleepy town today. You don’t know where Salem is. You have Salem’s lot. Night interests you.

You undo the first two buttons of your shirt. The air conditioner is running. But the air in you is hot.

Thank you. Goodbye.

My blue crane is back. It is hopping on my table, looking at everything but me. I do not exist. I am invisible. I am air. The bird’s feet are wet. A black residue is imprinted on an office paper. The crane does not take note. A fish tries to violently catch its last few gulps of life. Thick beak inquests the fish. Sweet meat. Violence ends. Violence begins in the crane’s mouth. Violence is swallowed. The bird’s eyes twitch. She begins crafting a hole in the cubicle board that separates me from my working neighbors. I do not know her name. She does not know mine. The wound in the cheap separation might bring us closer. Blue crane logic. Human logic. Logic never was to creation.

The hole is made.

It is crude.

I bring myself to look into it.

The air is pleasant. A sweet fragrance tickles my sense. Orange sky has cupped her hands around the sunflower bed. She sways the flower heads. Suns collide. Petals fall to the ground. Brown soil turns yellow. Earth will influence solar bits into soil. Earth has always got its way in the present. There is light here therefore a present.

The blue crane graces the flowers. The occasional green stalk confides in her. She keeps their secret and does not share it with me.

In the heart of the field I want the sky to shroud around me.

Mould me floral.









Evolution is intense.

I am flora.

Jyotsna and I lie parallel on the grave of tradition. The blue crane blows air. Geometry is broken. Bird becomes one with sky. Deep orange sky sings us a lullaby…

* * *

I am in the arms of my lover. Satisfied. Asleep.

The Soothsayer's green parrot

A parrot picks a future.

He’ll have money, a beautiful wife, two children, a Maruti, and a flat in Salt-lake.

Indranil walks home.

He’ll have it all.

A parrot said so.

A wallet he stole in Shealdah lies on the table.

Plywood.

Cash.

Wonders.

Have it...but honor.

Parrots never lie.