Pugnacious Puttuswamy

There was once a loner

Strutting through the streets with a chip on his shoulder

He would pick a fight with anyone even if he was older

People thought he was a stoner

He was Pugnacious Puttuswamy

It didn’t matter if the weather was barmy

He was always ready to get all swarmy

But as it always is

People are rarely associated with the cola not the fizz

Pugnacious was not how he was born

He was merely lovelorn

On occasion he would change

Stop in the middle of his rage

When she would walk or drive past at a distance

He would tearfully look at her askance

Oh the pugnacity 

Was merely a veil

That embalmed a heart that broke without fail

The Romanticism of The Past

 

Why do they call it “the burden of the past”? 

Our pasts define us just as much as they defile us, 

we are both shaped and destroyed by the past. 

The past is an anchor point, to measure where we are 

and how far we have come. 

The past is a mirror to the otherness of ourselves that we

cannot otherwise perceive

The past is the crown on our head, it is the albatross around our neck

The past is the image, the mirage

The past is the voice inside the head, the monkey on the shoulder

The past is the downer to every upper

The past is the trap, the birdcage

The invisible wall, the visible delineation between

What we are and what we could be

Calling it a burden would be an affront

Call it anything but

Sister Act

I write this under strange circumstances, lying here on this cold floor, unable to remove the knife thrust into my abdomen. It happened so fast. I did not realize that someone had broken into the apartment until I saw him. He could have warned me and left. Why should this happen to me! Somehow, it seemed as though he intentionally…oh this hurts so much. I need to keep myself from passing out. Guess writing helps, yes, that’s what the paramedic said on the phone. They are going to be here soon. I haven’t been able to call my sister. Wonder where she is and how she will feel once she finds out. She’s had it difficult in life, but then, some of us do and we need to accept it.

I’ve not seen her in a while. We’ve never had much of a relationship. If I don’t make it, maybe this can help her understand me better.

My earliest memories of her were about her sulking and crying in a corner of our modest middle class house. She had heard someone praise my cuteness. She hated that. But, I don’t know why, because she wasn’t a good looker! As we were growing up, I could see my parents clearly doting on me more than her, taking my side during a lot of our sisterly fights and praising me to high heavens while criticizing her. I never protected her. Maybe I didn’t see the need to since I had things going my way and felt that we all need to fend for ourselves. My parents worked hard to give us a good life. If one amongst us survives, and if it is me instead of her, so be it. That’s the game.

She was strange though. She never hit back, never showed her anger, never screamed or shouted. I could get away with anything with her. She had a quiet way about her that everyone noticed but no one understood. My mother did. To her, she was a cauldron of anger, with fire inside and burning emotions. But, she could never convince anyone of that because my sister gave no one, any indication. My mother did warn me to go easy on her, for her anger may take over. Quiet people who don’t react immediately have that tendency, they say. But, I didn’t really care. Shape up little sister, else put up with it.

As we grew older, my time for her grew lesser and lesser. I had my tuitions, boyfriends, sports and cultural activities to take care of. She of course struggled to finish her studies and had no noticeable skills, no friends and certainly no boyfriends. Maybe I should have looked out for her in her budding years. But then, who looked out for me, but me. I got married and went abroad. She struggled to find a husband. My life was good and she was far away. Anyway it’s good that my parents had some company.

But then, things started to go topsy-turvy. My husband died in an accident. Post-mortem revealed that he was on drugs that eventually made him pass out on the wheel. I could never have imagined that he was on drugs. They found needles on him they said. I was so devastated. How could this happen? I called home and found out that my parents had committed suicide the same night. I mean, how? ‘They took an overdose of sleeping pills’; the staid voice of my sister came across on the phone before she hung up. I haven’t heard from her since.

I moved back and rented this apartment. The investigation into my parent’s suicide proved inconclusive. Somehow everything seems so hopeless. My whole world has collapsed around me. I have no one. My mental state won’t allow me to find a decent job. My parents had, in their will, left everything to me. Momentarily, I thought about why they did not leave her anything. I guess they trusted me more than her. Anyway she never inspired trust.

I hear a noise outside. It must be the paramedics. I want to say this to my sister...oh who’s that... It’s...it’s her…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

All it took was a little push on that kitchen knife. I have killed her. I killed our parents and I got her husband killed………She should have listened to mom, a long time ago.

Putter Punch Ali

It was a hot and humid day, something typical to Calcutta. You can’t get from one point to another, however short without breaking into sweat. Sweat is something that I have to live with, in my profession which takes me outdoors and to buildings where ventilation is a poor cousin of light and sound. So encountering sweat was not my idea of a Sunday as well. But I wanted to get out. I was facing tough times, my mind wasn’t working as well as it should and I needed some inspiration.

So, one early Sunday morning, I came to this splendid 18-holer in the city. Sweat be damned! Must thank the Scots for creating this one and the colonials for bringing it here. The previous night was one of revelry and festival in this part of the world and as expected, the course wore a deserted look.

As I walked to the opening tee, all geared up with my golf-styled t-shirt, pants, gloves, shoes and my caddy toeing my bunch of clubs, I noticed a gentleman who was not as weighed down by the paraphernalia as I was. He had no caddy. All he had was a putter. But you need a driver, I mean, you need other clubs too. And you definitely need a caddy. Else it is sweat multiplied! He had none. Just the putter.

The golf course was such that the first hole tee off and 18^th hole were alongside each other. As I was getting to tee off, I saw him put the final ball in the hole and head off to the 19^th to get him a cold one. His demeanor was one of nonchalance, as though he was oblivious to the goings on around him. And nobody seemed to notice him as he moved about. I couldn’t resist the temptation, paid my caddy his fee and headed in the direction of the 19^th.

He sat by himself in the corner of the lounge, nursing a good looking drink, one with many colors in it. Perhaps he was a regular here and people left him alone. I walked up to him gingerly, deliberately getting in his line of sight, so that I could get noticed. He did, smiled and asked me to join him. I called the waiter and asked him to bring me what the gentleman was drinking. The waiter looked at me puzzled. I asked the gentleman what he was drinking, and he said “Punch. I always drink punch”. I asked the waiter to get me some punch and he nodded, with the puzzle intact.

“I like concoctions”, he continued, “punch blends in different fruits, mixes them with milk and water and creates a rich taste. Perhaps these fruits would not co-exist otherwise”. I had not heard punch drinkers dissect the drink so. I looked at his putter and he seemed to guess my next question. He said, “putting is the more refined and complex aspect of golf. Putting is something that needs you to read the smooth and rough patches and undulations of the land and calculate your ball speed and placement so much more precisely as compared to driving or chipping. It is the end-game of golf. It is to golf, what imperfections, ups, downs, shades of grey, blend and balance is to life. It is quite sublime”.

I was quite flummoxed with this explanation, for it seemed to go beyond the putter and punch. I asked him his name and he replied “Ali”. “Ali?” I gestured to know his full name. He smiled and said, “Putter Punch Ali”. Before I could react in my bewilderment, “What do you do?” he asked. “I make..”, as I was saying this, I was momentarily distracted by a group of golfers entering the bar. It was sunrise and people were getting into the course. I turned back to face the gentleman. He was gone.

“I make films”, I said to myself, wondering where he went. I never saw Putter Punch Ali again.

To the Senses

I stare at the wall in front of me

I can look but not see

The wall is just an mirror

A doorway to an unseen reflection

Sounds fall on my ears

Some make me smile some make me laugh

Some open a stream of tears

Seem like waves lashing on a shore

Only to head back as they had done before

I touch life

The madness the mirth the mire

Life touches me within

The madness the mirth the mire

The senses try to connect

Me to vastness around me

In the end they

Connect me to me

Circle

“500 rupees”, said the traffic cop after having stopped me for running a red light. There he was, smartly turned out, a rather portly man in his whites and khakis, stylishly placing one leg on the footrest of his bike and using the seat as a makeshift table. It was a busy time of the day for him. He had a lot of captives to extract fines from. He made no eye contact, made his mental calculation and looking elsewhere, blurted out the fine. I tried to say something, but couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t deserve to.

It was a normal morning. It was bright and sunny, a climate that encouraged me to get to work early. I had an early meeting to attend, something important, something that would determine my fate in the company going forward. I was worked up to say the least and it showed as I fumbled through my morning routine and got into the car. I turned on the CD player and something blared out to take my focus away from the thoughts in my mind. A sense of déjà vu enveloped me and I couldn’t figure out why. I had been here before.

Nevertheless, I started the car and proceeded towards my office. The one way system was such that I had to circle around a large building to get to the right road. There was one right turn that was governed by a red light that had to be taken to complete the circle. As I approached it, I was sweating. The fragrance of the deodorant was all washed out; my cooling glasses were beginning to slip on my nose. I was driving, but it was trancelike. I was getting late for my meeting. As I approached the red light, I began to slow down, but something inside me wouldn’t want me to stop. I slowed almost to halt at the red and suddenly, pressed the accelerator and turned right, without realizing that it was still red. I was stopped by the cop. “500 rupees”, he said. He made no eye contact, made his mental calculation and blurted out the fine.

I didn’t have a penny on me. Time was running out for my meeting and I had to start immediately. I pleaded with him to let me go, to not punish me this once. My angst turned into anger, my anger turned into sadness, my eyes started watering, and my voice started shaking. He took my papers and my car keys and asked me to pay the fine or go to court to get the car released. I had to do something. The nearest ATM was a five minute walk. The sun was intense and my clothes dripping with sweat. I had on, not the most comfortable of shoes. My boss called me on my cell phone and gave me a piece of his mind for starting late saying, ‘You should have been halfway by now”. I was late, angry and tired. I cursed my fate and walked. As I approached the ATM, I saw that it was temporarily closed for the previous day’s cash to be collected. I begged the collector to let me in, to use the machine for 5 minutes. He did not agree.

I was livid. I cursed him openly and loudly and threatened to speak to his supervisors if he did not let me use the ATM. He cursed me back. Verbal turned physical. We fought. It was a release, a wild, animal like fight. I knocked him down. I waited a few seconds to see if he was breathing but I was too disoriented to notice it. I had to get to my meeting. I wasn’t going to be left out of that. I withdrew the money, walked around him and walked back to the cop. I was bleeding, my shirt was in a mess and I had a limp from a blow to my knee. As I neared, I saw that the cop had stepped away from his bike to speak to a few offenders. My papers and keys were on his bike seat. I glared at him, took the papers and keys and bolted towards my car, got in and started it. I didn’t look back. Maybe he did not notice, maybe he had not written down my number.

As I sped down the road, I thought about the guy I had knocked down in the ATM. I wondered whether he was alive or dead. My own pain and dishevelment distracted me. Suddenly, a white car overtook me from the left and cut in front of me. He was fast. I had never seen that make before. It was a regal looking car, milk white and huge. As he cut across, his window lowered and he showed me his middle finger. That was the last thing I needed. I was enraged. I had to give it back to him. I kept close to him. As he turned, I turned. I had to get next to him. He turned again, I turned again. I was gaining on him. I noticed nothing but that regal white car. He turned one more time and I turned behind him. He suddenly disappeared in a cloud of smoke and I braked suddenly, wondering what had happened.

I had run the same red light again. “500 rupees”, said the traffic cop…