The (Eleventh) Finger

So the Doctor told me this story the other day and since he deems it too irrelevant an anecdote to write about, I shall swoop in and take this one:

It is a regular day in the Emergency Ward at St. John's in Bangalore and the Doctor is tending to an motorcycle accident victim who has just come in. Suddenly he notices some rolled up bloody gauze lying on a table. He goes over and opens it up and finds a finger in it! Panic. He dashes back to the motorcylcle accident victim and checks all his fingers. All there. He runs over to the next bed. 'Show me your hands, show me your hands!' he asks frantically. Hands appear and he counts the fingers... One Two Three Four... Five. One Two Three Four and Five. He rushes to all seven beds. All fingers attached and intact. 'Where did this finger come from?' he asks the doctors, nurses and interns. No one knows.

Later, over the phone, 'What?! Wait... So that means someone was and still is missing a finger somewhere!' I said, shocked. 'Yes, somewhere.. someone.. is missing a pinkie as we speak.' said the Doctor ominously.

Do this. Now!

Go to http://www.yahoo.com and click on the exclamation mark after the Yahoo logo.

Jail

"Jail is the government's way of sending you to your room."

- J. Seinfeld

The Final Justice

Murakami Boys

There are some boys who think they've walked right out of a Murakami universe. They are a standard lot (if you've read any Murakami), though they do come cloaked in some variety. If you look close enough, you'll find your very own local Toru Okada.

Mine sports a head of curly hair and a scowl. With hands in his pockets, he strolls into the neighbourhood Hello Cafe nonchalantly every day and mulls over an expresso. On weekends I see him tapping his feet to the jazz band that plays in town. It appears that the Girl from Ipanema isn't on the scene yet. And it is unlikely that my Toru thinks What A Wonderful World it is.

He is, predictably, one of two siblings (the older sister being happily married with a child on the way) and not on talking terms with the parents against whom this aging rebellion is waged. I reckon they're suitably unimpressed. He works in advertising and thinks all the world's a sham. His evening meals are often eggs on toast and his shirts are never ironed.

Now, the Toru Okada of Murakamiland is an aspirational figure for many a male facing an internal identity crisis it seems. He is a bit of Holden Caulfield and Meursault and Agastya Sen all at once, of your local hybrid culture. Toru behaves as if there is a seamless link between what he wants to be and what he is. This nihilist alien lives in a transformed magical land where every day happenings tread the line between the known and the unknown. It would, after all, be tragic to be ordinary.

His interest in you is questionable. His curiosity is not always fresh and he claims to have a tendency to get embroiled in absurd situations. What you see is not what you get. The impersonators of Murakami's Toru Okada often add a twist to these basic features. So you might have a flamboyant Okada or one with a poetic lisp. Mine, like I said, has curly hair, wears a scowl and has a dimple I have never seen. I know I will soon have to leave him but I know just as well that another Toru will walk down my corridor or sit next to me in class. And Murakamiland will be here again.

At Hello today Toru gave me a mysterious smile. What I didn't realise is that I crushed him with mine. Because he told me every man is an island.

Eggs

Carrying eggs is a tricky business. Though if you are about to be hit by a bus, don't think too much about them.

Paresh Maity (2002)

B.80. I went in search of myself. - Heraclitus

B.95. The waking have one common world, but the sleeping turn aside each into a world of his own.

B.73. A man, when drunk, is led by a beardless lad, tripping, knowing not where he steps, having his soul moist.

B.69. The way up and the way down is one and the same.

B.67. Mortals are immortals and immortals are mortals, the one. Living the others' death and dying the others' life.

Wild Horses

I was there this week because it often feels like the only glimse of the outside world.

Beside me sat a forlorn woman, seemingly spurned. She looked, my friend commented, like a typical Bengali film star of yesteryears. I wondered how many women I know could sit alone like that in a room of curious wandering eyes. When her phone rang, though elated, she picked it up in a composed and dignified fashion but put it down, disappointed. It wasn't Uttam Kumar, I gathered.

Some time ago someone said to someone else, "Wild horses couldn't drag me away..." And the reply, in the spontaneous tone of a lover underestimated came, "I wouldn't let wild horses comes near you!".

The Seeker

She sauntered into the room. Her sly eyes did a survey of the scene. The Who's The Seeker served as the musical backdrop this time.

I've looked under chairs

I've looked under tables

I've tried to find the key

To fifty million fables

The Creature grinned. It was the seed of a mango. She watched it with the precision of an entire pedicure tool set. It sat on a plain white plate, its fibres holding in place delectable pulp, un-smushed. Her plan was one slick maneouvre called Gulp.

Focusing on nowhere

Investigating miles

I'm a seeker

I'm a really desperate man

***

Three days later. The seed lay on the floor, tragically. The Creature looked at it condescendingly.

I won't get to get what I'm after

Till the day I die.

Mortals Immortal

The Creature lies curled up on the regal burnt orange leather armchair and sighs at the trivial world around. Her eye lashes flutter ever so slightly as her eyes shut magnetically. A mild quiver as she transits. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise. And. Fall. Rise.. And.. Fall.. Her arm falls over the side the chair, limp.

A clumsy shuffle elsewhere. Papers fly around as the elctricity returns.

One eyelash flutters. A live marble appears. Glint.

Carry That Weight

Listen:

The Beatles don't always sing about Right Now. But on some rare occasions, you will feel your small world quiver and crack and from within a small crevice, you will hear the Beatles walking down Abbey Road, telling you that you're going to 'carry that weight, carry that weight a long time...'

And so it goes.