Table of Contents
Automatic Coffee Machines
The automatic coffee machine dispenses
a predetermined shot of water
each time you push the button.
You think about it when
the coffee shows its true colors
dark brown and pale white splitting
three-quarters into the cup.
The first surreptitious sip was furtive
because you did not want
the man who made it
to feel judged right as he was wiping the steaming wand.
You sit wondering
how an automated espresso machine
could dispense an incorrect volume of water
and cocoon your attention
towards the cup.
While there are black ceilings, copper-colored lampshades, an air curtain affixed to a wooden plank, smoothly shaved legs and scrubbed feet, the silhouette of a white vest beneath a thin blue shirt, and the sauce from the mushroom filling vying for your attention.
Do Not Forget Anything; poem, Kalpatta Narayanan Mash
Unauthorised translation, as always. From Mathrubhumi. April, 2014.
Is it a big deal to forget
a cake of washing soap
a matchbox
or a bit of cumin?
Can't I get them tomorrow?
I'll go back and buy them
if you must have them
right now.
What is without solution?
(Except for your quarrels?)
She, however, hasn't had enough.
Thought it was just a pinch of cumin that you forgot?
Was I with you at least
when I was not there?
Have you ever come home
without forgetting
at least one of the things I asked you for?
Even as you remembered everything else
you forgot one thing.
A thing I needed the most.
You had forgotten me.
A four-year old girl
stood alone
in the open road from high-noon
to dark
five long hours
waiting for the father
who told her he'll be back in a minute.
I would have waited there, even now,
if not for the neighbor
who took my hand, saying
I will get you home
your father is lost in a game of cards.
Why do all of you
do this
to me?
The Three-Legged Dog
These days I've taken to staying inside during the day; it is April in Mumbai and the sun beats down mercilessly on everything. I venture outside only after the sun sets. With the draft sent to my supervisor, I decided that I would stay away from it for a few days and spend time reading other stuff. I read Osamu Dazai's No Longer Human and tried getting back to watching movies on Mubi; Dazai reminded me of Mishima and sunk me into melancholy for a few days, and I could not bring myself to watching movies.
After sunset, around 7pm, I get out of bed and head to the showers. I run water through my hair and let it permeate the coarse strands and smoothen it with conditioner. It takes forever to dry, so I forego the headphones while cycling to the lab. This is the first time I see quite a number of people in the day; people walking and cycling and talking and running and petting. I while away time in the lab, reading and writing and deleting and thinking. On my way back, in the stretch that goes downhill, I see a dog with a black and white coat running uphill on three legs; one of the forelegs is missing. I have been seeing it for the past two days.
This is a sight that takes the joy out of the downhill stretch. That is not really true. It does not take the joy out of the downhill stretch. It makes me slow down, and I promise myself that I will forget this by the time I reach my hostel. It is not a sight to lose sleep over—at least whatever those seven hours of tossing and turning are called. But on the day of my therapy, the dog invariably comes up. I tell my therapist that it is a saddening sight. I lack enough words to truly tell her what it makes me feel, so I just tell her that it is a saddening sight.
I must stop and think. Think really hard. What does the three-legged dog mean to me? Fundamentally, it is an odd sight—pun not intended. A dog with three legs stands out like a crooked chair, like a bottle without a lid. Perhaps it is the slight variation in its gait that gives this oddness away. But then you realise that the gait isn't really odd. It is the missing leg, the empty space that has cut in that makes it an odd sight. Despite the missing leg, the dog trots away much like any other dog. Functionally, it is still very much a dog.
Maybe, you think, it reminds you of the invalidity of your existence. Like the dog, the city has chopped off your feelers. It does not affect your executive functions that people stare at you as an oddity. It only give away your oddness when you try to move the stumps of the feelers and realise that they are missing. Despite the missing feelers, you have learned to mask the absence well. Maybe what you feel when you see the three-legged dog is not pity or sadness, but subliminal fraternity. Perhaps that is why you slow down; you are seeing yourself after a long time.
Thrownness
As I approach my late twenties, I find myself gaining new awareness about my body. Since the time I started reflecting about myself, my body had been pushed into the background, a mere mass in which my ideas resided. Now, almost as if performing its revenge, my body has begun pushing through the narrow film which separated itself from the foreground. These days I notice when my gut feels distended, back feels stiff, neck feels sweaty, and the fan beats wind into my skin.
I feel bloated when I eat potatoes. I get bad acid reflux from eating spicy food. I cannot drink cold liquids and not wake up with an irritated throat the next day. Sometimes the tee shirt sticks to my skin and I get the crawlies. When my feet sweats and the dust from the city mix with it to form a sticky layer that glues my feet to my sandals, I blame myself for not having the patience to moisturize my feet and put on socks and shoes. I know not to have two coffees in a day and not to skip any of the eight hours of sleep. I wash my bed sheets and blankets every now and then. I carry a tube of moisturizer when I am out to salve my dry palms. I do not miss breakfast.