Category: long-lines

The wind caught the tip of her hat. The hat danced on her head for a mere second before flying off with the wind. The distance grew further and further between the hat and her outstretched arms. The look on her face was as if a part of her had died.

We are still not sure which part.

Dear Pavithri,

I hope all is good and well with you.

This letter is not to inform you that I love you. I do love you, but that is not what this letter is intended to inform you.

It has been a while since we last communicated and maybe you can blame my shyness or perhaps my utter laziness for that. After your last letter, a few years ago, I lay one night in bed thinking about you. I was wondering whether there was some chance that you also loved me. I mean, I never did tell you – excluding that sentence above – and I never did ask. It occurred to me to find a rose, or some type of flower that we find a lovelorn hero or heroine pluck petals off while sitting at a curb on some roadside. It sounds silly, but I wanted to count down “she loves me” and “she loves me not”s until there were no petals left. At least that is how I think it works.

Instead of a flower I used my pillow. It was full of feathers. I pulled out one feather, “she loves me”. And then another, “she loves me not”. So I went until there were no feathers left in the pillow cover. A feather mound had formed on the floor. The last feather was a “she loves me not”. There is still another pillow to go, I thought to myself at that moment. The feather mound grew and the last feather of the second pillow was also a “she loves me not”. Depressed, I went to the store to get more pillows. Oddly enough, it had never occurred to me that I could simply put the feathers back into the pillow cover.

I repeated the “she loves me” and “she loves me not”s with five more pillows. I thought the odds would be good enough with five pillows. It turned out that such was not the case. Each and every one of those pillows ended up with you not loving me. It was at that moment I realized that I could put the feathers back into the pillow covers. I found myself with seven pillows. Five pillows too many. You remember that ashram shala, the one Gupta-ji often volunteered at? I gave them the extra pillows. Every so often, very often, I still counted down “loves me” and “loves me not”s. You know, given the amount of feathers I counted, the odds of not ending up with you loving me is one in millions! And yet still, you loved me not.

I was fed up. I could barely sleep during the nights and it did not get any better during the days. I thought about seeing a psychiatrist but I figured it would be much cheaper to switch to foam pillows. I gave the remaining feather pillows to the ashram shala.

While I could no longer do any count downs, I still could not sleep well at night. So what to do, I thought one night – weeks after switching to the foam pillows. I started to tear out little bits of foam from within the pillow cover. With one bit “she loves me” and “she loves me not” with the other. And so bits of foam were now scattered over my floor. I tried to keep the bits all equally sized as possible, that was the best way of not cheating. Even with my honest attempts I always ended up with “she loves me not”. Depressed again, I put the bits back into the pillow covers and kept repeating the process. Einstein would say that I was insane, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. But mathematically the odds of you loving me were actually increasing. It was only a matter of time.

In the following days I started to realize that I was sleeping much better than before. I wondered and wondered what change could have caused this. All the last bits of foam were still “she loves me not”s. Then it struck me, it was the bits of foam in the pillow cover that gave me a good night’s sleep. As an entire piece the foam was not as comfortable. But once you turned the foam into bits sized like the ones I had, the pillow was extremely comfortable. So if nothing at least I had started to sleep well.

After a few months of resting very well during the nights I thought that perhaps I could start to sell pillows with foam bits. I had no previous experience in this business but I thought, “why not give it a shot?” What did I have to lose, no?

So I registered a business, got in touch with some factories and started to get these pillows made. Business was slow at first, but eventually it picked up. Most of the local bedding stores were ordering my pillows. I was making a good sum of money, so within a few months I left my day job. About a year or so into the whole thing I was considering branching out into different parts of the country. Business was good, but, you know, who talks about pillows?

I had started to talk to distributors across the country but the talks were very preliminary. Just over a cup of chai and some biscuits. Still, I was extremely excited. Knowing that other people were also sleeping well at night made my sleep even better. As I said earlier, what do I know about business? In all that rush and excitement, I had overlooked to actually own the rights to the “bits of foam pillow” idea. So what happened was that the largest bedding company in the country, the one with distribution channels all setup had started to make the foam bit pillows and already sell them! Imagine my shock when I saw these pillows in a store during a business trip.

Eventually even the local stores stopped ordering these pillows from me. I simply could not compete. So I had to close down the business. It broke my heart, but I can still sleep decently well on my pillow. Though some nights are harder than others. An idea is just an idea after all, much for the taking by anyone.

I am out of a job nowadays. I am reluctant to get into any type bedding business, of course. But also I have not been in practice with the skills of my previous day job for a while now. So I expect it will be a while until I secure something. That is how it goes, I suppose. It just happened to have happened. Though I cannot really complain, I made a tidy sum of money with just the pillows.

You had asked me in the last letter about what was going on with me. So this letter is actually to inform you of that.

Do tell me, what is going on with you?

Love,
Siddharth

I will wake up tomorrow in a room with a minimal setup: a bed, two baskets and an ironing board. The bed is great for sleeping at night, of course, but also doubles as a table or general sitting area during the waking hours. Of the baskets, one is for dirty clothes and the other for clean ones. The ironing board is for ironing clothes but will probably have small random items lying upon it from time to time. I will spend my time – hours, days and weeks, perhaps even months – learning a trade. Days and nights will be spent in practice. Have to make a living somehow.

I will learn to play the guitar, spending my day-night cycles practicing till my calluses build. I will then proceed to find a suitable location on the streets. I will set up shop – if you can call it that. A mat and a shawl will do the trick, along with the guitar, of course. Then I will strum away at the strings all my inner rhythms. The town’s people will pass by barely even noticing. I will be alert, noticing their footsteps, their patterns, their expressions and discussions. Eventually they will find a spot on the mat where their coins can rest. Odd at first, I will start to grow on them; they will learn to like me.

Weeks or months will pass by like this until one of the town’s people will start to listen closer. This person will come by repeatedly and observe me closely. One day this person will come with a crowd and yell, “You’re a fraud! You are nothing like the greats that have graced this art!” The crowd – many consisting of those that had started to like me – will chime in in agreement. Having been exposed, I will quickly pack my things into my bag and run as fast as I can. Back in my room, I will lock the door until the crowd (which may have followed me) disperses.

As soon as I can, I will buy a ticket to another town. I will wake up the next day in a room with a minimal setup. It will take me a few seconds before I realize that this is the same room that I went to sleep in the night before. But not the room I slept in the night before that. I will order a set of brass cups and balls along with a dark-brown wooden wand. I will spend hours practicing wand twirls and false transfers. I will buy a mirror so I can see myself perform. I will practice till I fool myself. Until even as I do the trick I am amazed at how it is done. Until I believe in the magic in my hands.

I will then proceed to find a suitable location on the streets. I will setup shop: a table to performs the cups and balls. I will call out to the children and show them some basic tricks. Seeing their joy, a greater crowd will develop. I will then begin the real show. I will perform to a rhythmic beat. Calculating each motion and action. The crowd will respond at all the right moments; they will laugh at all my jokes. Their gasps and claps will flow throughout my performance. When I reveal the lemons and oranges beneath the cups at the end of the show, a wave of silence will strike for a few seconds. Awe and applause will follow. I will send my hat into the crowd for collections. It will be filled to the rim.

Weeks and months will pass by like this. One day, one of the town’s people will scratch their head. “You are an imposter! You are nothing like the great magicians!” the crowd will yell. Having been exposed, I will quickly pack my things into my bag, pick up my table and run as fast as I can. Back in my room, I will lock the door until the crowd disperses. And as soon as I can, I will buy a ticket to another town.

The next morning in the shower, like most mornings, I will transfer into a mode of thought. Where motions and actions dissolve into nothingness and thought is all that remains. I will contemplate upon life: the purpose and the pretenses; the big bang origins and the moments after death; the nothingness of life and the everythingness of living. I will try and make sense of things and be left cold. Then it will hit me. Life is not a dream. Life is just an ongoing story, my story and your story; all our stories intertwined. I’m living mine a town and trade at a time. I will step out of the shower regaining my motions and actions and retaining my thought. I will seek out another trade. Theatre or plumbing, perhaps.

Truth is that I’m a hopeless romantic. I will do this until I have exhausted the combinations of towns and trades I desire. I will skip towns and switch trades until there is nothing left – until there is nothing. I can hear their footsteps. And I can see them now. The town’s people, they are tearing up my pamphlets and booklets as they walk towards me. Probably because I stressed the no-returns policy. They’re coming to tell me that I am not a real writer, and that I am nothing like the greats. I’m going to throw my laptop and portable printer in my bag and make a run for it.

I will wake up tomorrow in a room with a minimal setup, a room in another town.

bawra mann dekhne chala ek sapna

Dear Diary,

I am guilty as charged. As I flip through these pages I notice that I do not ever call you dear. Which raises the question: are you, in fact, dear to me? If so, then what is it that makes you so? Maybe it’s just something people say without thinking too much about it. Like the people who give you a nod in the hallways and say ‘How are you?’ or ‘How’s it going?’, but keep on walking. What they really mean to say is ‘hey’ or ‘yo’, something to quickly recognize your presence as they walk by. Had they really meant the questions they asked, they would slow down or stop and wait for a response. It’s just something people say, dear. They don’t really mean it. So with the thousands of diaries around the world, with thousands of entries in hundreds of languages, how many mean the dear they call out to?

Perhaps we are all swept by the motions around us, barely pausing to think twice. Some barely pausing to think even once. And yet I think, and I think again every time I come to write here. But I do not call you dear, at least not in the greeting. What does this say about our relationship? It is largely one-way, isn’t it? You are like a sounding board where I hear the echoes of my words. And where you listen to the ink. A shelter for these words – a safety that is, at times, not afforded to them elsewhere. My mood and musings are often with you, and yet I barely know you.

I continually change and evolve with the passage of time, and you… you remain a constant. The binding is the same and the paper is the same. You have, however, lost that new book smell you used to carry. Like perfume that wears off after a while. That is a good thing. I am allergic to perfume. But I am worried, you will not last forever. You, like others, are bound by limits. And when those limits approach, I will simply have to get another diary, another book. But another dear? Or, perhaps, you are a collective? Volumes of a saga? Really, tell me, what are you? What is it that you want?

I would have thought that I had the upper hand in this relationship. But time after time it is I who gives of myself to you. You know me. Which, then, makes me wonder: am I dear to you?

Yours,
Zackeria Zaheer

The start is always the hardest part. That is probably why they invented alarm clocks and coffee. The alarm clocks get me out of bed but I maintain a zombie-like posture until I’ve had that first cup. It’s a ritual, sparked by an electronic gadget that automatically conceives a cup of coffee every morning at the same time. Like clockwork.

The second part is finding your way around. This isn’t all that easy but it’s assisted by the TTC. It’s a powerfully liberating concept: the ability to get from any one corner of the city to another on a single ticket. Of course, this may require traversing multiple subway lines, rapid transit trains, street cars and buses, but it’s possible. And it’s a beautiful thing.

Riding through the system doesn’t come without its quirks. I have an entire list of pet peeves. People complain about the “stand left, walk right” rule that some people just can’t seem to follow, but my complaints are based on the unwritten rules that no one seems to know.

What do you do the moment you get off an escalator? The wrong answer is stand around thinking about what your next move should be. The correct answer is you get the hell out of the way. See, the thing is that there are other people behind you, and while an escalator might look like a normal staircase, it moves on its own. So people can’t just stop on an escalator while you take all the time to decide your next steps. The escalator will eventually push the people behind you right into you. This inconveniences them more than it inconveniences you. So get out of the way immediately.

Another thing that bothers me is that lack of dignity with which people manoeuvre around trains. People will complain about letting people out before you try and get inside the subway car. Yes, we should do that. But also, once we’ve gotten inside can we move around with just a little grace? Instead, people race towards seats as if there were nuggets of gold on them. Like a gold rush. Calm down and relax. It’s not the end of the world if you fail to capture a seat. If you’re of the few who’s not rushing to find an empty seat, you’re pin-balled around by all the other moving parts. So, little old ladies who push people out of the way to get to a seat, chill out a little. I wasn’t going to take the seat anyway.

I appreciate that you are in a hurry, I really do. So when the chimes that indicate that the subway car doors are about to close start to sound, I understand why you run towards the doors. You don’t want to miss this train and have to wait for the next one. I get it. But let’s revisit the escalator rule, if you’re running towards the doors it’s likely that there are other people behind you that are also in the same hurry that you’re in. So don’t just pause once you get into the train. Do your celebratory pause after you get out of the way.

Quirks aside, do you know what happens when you fall asleep standing up? Your body relaxes and you start to fall towards the ground. Similar to how an unconscious person would fall. Your knees give out and start to bend as your upper body weight pushes you down. Unless you’re really out of it you don’t actually fall all the way down. Somewhere in the middle you start to wake up and resist gravity’s pull. I wouldn’t happen to know this otherwise, but it’s just another lesson you learn while riding the rocket.

The coffee machine was broken that day and I hadn’t had my morning starter cup. I was in a hurry, so stopping at Timmy’s wasn’t an option. I was past the subway rush and the RT was practically empty. I dozed off for the 15 minute ride to Kennedy. On a seat, no less. Kennedy wasn’t exactly packed but I didn’t feel like sitting down anyway, and there was plenty room to stand. I stood on the side where the doors stay shut, this way you get to lean on something and you’re not blocking anyone’s path. But you have to be careful when you start off at Kennedy, because at Warden you have to switch sides. The doors start opening from the opposite side.

Warden came and I made my switch. A couple of doors away two ladies were standing near the doors as well, they didn’t make the switch. A man stood on the opposite doors of the ladies. All with coffee cups in hand.

At the next stop the doors opened where the ladies were standing and they were getting in the way of incoming and outgoing commuters. The ladies stood their ground and continued standing at the doors. The man on the opposite side suggested that they move elsewhere, but they ignored him and continued chatting. A few more stops and still the same thing, the ladies were still at the doors and people were having to manoeuvre themselves around them.

The man on the other side persisted with advising the ladies to stand in a different location, but the ladies would have none of it. I heard a brief “mind your own business” bit even from a few doors away. I’m not exactly sure what words were exchanged but at the next stop one of the ladies got right up in the man’s face. Everyone else in the subway car was trying to ignore the show and were indeed trying to “mind their own business”.

The lady got progressively louder, as did the man. She was still right up in his face and he kept telling her to back off. Now it was her that was persistent. The man pushed the lady back with both his hands, separating her from the space around his face. In that very moment, in what seemed like an instant gut reaction, the lady threw her coffee on the man’s face.

The man, in what seemed like an instant gut reaction, pushed the lady against the doors and started choking her. It all happened so very fast. From where I was standing I couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed like there was kicking involved as well, from both parties. A few other men around the incident quickly started pull the man off the lady. We had almost approached the next stop and someone pressed the emergency yellow strip.

The doors opened and TTC personnel got involved.

“I’m going to press charges!!!” screamed the lady.

“So am I!” replied the man, “Bitch threw hot coffee in my face!”

The three of them walked away with the people in uniform and the train was on its way.

All of a sudden I wasn’t missing that cup of coffee anymore, not so much.

I was out with a couple of friends the other day, and even though I live here, I had trouble finding my way around. I have reason to believe that I was born with a directional disability. I was advised that I look for and follow the signs around me. The advice was, of course, meant in the literal sense. There are boarded signs all around us; on the roads and in our paths. With arrows and numbers they tell us where and how far certain places are. If you miss a sign, no worries, just backtrack. This helps us determine the directions we must pursue.

Taking a step back, however, we can see signs in a whole new light. look for and follow the signs around me. The profundity of that statement is not lost on me. I can see the boarded signs, as they are embodied in a physical form. It is the unboarded signs that elude me. The signs and signals that continually manifest themselves in one form or another, but without clarity. Their subtlety is lost on me.

Furthermore, the trouble when dealing with signs from above. Those that come from God. I have enough trouble parsing the signs from people and plants. How can I deal with the signs from The Deity? This is troublesome because the other day I prayed to God for a sign. After waiting for a sign (and not seeing any), I prayed for the ability to see a sign. This is a complicated business.

So, dear God, I implore you, send me a sign I can see, send me a sign I can touch. If You think I’m asking for too much, send me a sign, and I won’t.

I was listening to the radio the other day and this song started to play. It was as if the song was speaking to me in such a way that it was about me. I wanted a chance to clarify/expand.

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?

I care, I really do. Really. I care, but not in that way I’m afraid.

It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

We had a noisy major lift at work. It was mainly used to transport large objects from the fourth to the fifth floor. I wouldn’t call it a musical composition.

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

In my defense, I just wanted some fresh air. Not like it lasted long. She was quick to leave once she noticed me. I was mainly interested at how she was able to get all that plumbing up there anyway. I did later tell her it might not be the best thing to be bathing outside in mid-January. It gets real cold.

She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Well, it didn’t happen in that order. Again, I want to set the record straight on this one. I had asked her to give me a hair cut. So that’s no big deal. But after that it got weird. IKEA never carried that kitchen chair again and that was my last bottle of hallelujah. I had been saving it for a while. It was one crazy night. If she had never asked me what I thought of the hair cut, I would have never told her.

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.

Nothing much changed after I knew you either. Still alone – but my furniture is a lot safer now.

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

More like a death march, or a parade. A parade that veers off the designated path. Even the people leading it don’t know where it’s headed. Like that. And oh, it’s broken alright. I will never get that kitchen chair back. There are some things that even super glue can’t bond.

There was a time you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?

Not after that bathing incident anyway.

And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

You know, I don’t even remember that. Were we drunk?

Maybe there’s a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

Yeah, so don’t even try. I’ve been making regular trips to the shooting range… ever since that tying up incident.

It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Yes, the hair cut was that bad.

Diary and diarrhea are not particularly comparable, not at least in any scientific sense. My father always used to say that if there is an elephant in the room, you should point it out. One time he said it while pointing at mother. He slept that night on the kitchen floor and spent the subsequent weeks making his own food. God bless his soul. He cried for days after mother died. I had never seen him cry before, or since. God bless both their souls.

I always wondered how the elephant got into the room. Surely the doors could not be large enough – were they destroyed then rebuilt for the mere purpose of getting an elephant inside? How big would this room need to be? None of the rooms I am in on a regular basis are capable of housing an elephant. The only way I can make sense of it is if the elephant was air-lifted into a room. But then the room would have no roof. Is it still a room if it has no roof? What if it has no doors? Are four walls enough to make a room? What about four lines? A room is still a room without doors, right? Like a rose is still a rose.

One should be careful around elephants. They’re said to never forget. Though if they did forget, would you rather have them forget your kindness or your cruelty? Wait – how do we know if elephants forget or not? Has there been a study? Do they never forget? Are they immune to amnesia or old age memory loss? So what if they never forget, of what use is that? Not that everything must be of use, but still. I use computers to store information, and sure they forget from time to time. But so what? At least they store information in English. What language would an elephant store? How would you ever get that information back? It’s just too complicated.

Diarrhea. The word made sure to find its way into every naggers brain. What is with people and rhymes? Why ever would I be sitting in a tree? Were all the couches and swings taken? And there are so many things that end in the letter g. At some point I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get back at these people. The school administration never did appreciate the stunt I pulled. No matter how much I tried to explain that the package was just play-doh, mud and a little bit of sulphur, they just would not listen. They were intent on punishing me. In the end they charged me with breaking and entering into the lockers. I told them I found them open, all four of them. They wouldn’t charge me for breaking into the lockers if I was to, for instance, leave a thank you note or some candy. Sometimes you end up getting the same end of the same stick.

But it worked. They didn’t nag me for years after that. I think it was the sulphur.

“I don’t know”, I said in response to his question.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”, he asked.

What does he mean about what I mean? Did I not know the meaning of what I said? Was I not clear? What more clarity could I shed beyond the words that I just said? What does he think it means when someone says ‘I don’t know’? Maybe he is not listening, maybe it is him who is not following the conversation.

“What?”, I replied with the only word I could muster up.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”, he repeated himself, though this time a bit slower.

“I didn’t ask you to repeat yourself. I heard what you said. What do you mean when you ask me what I meant? Do you think I didn’t know the meaning of what I said? Was I not clear? What more clarity could I shed beyond the words that I just said? What do you think it means when someone says ‘I don’t know’? Maybe you are not listening, maybe it is you who is not following the conversation. Maybe you are afraid of not knowing. I am not. And thus, I do not know.”

What should I tell you about him? I could tell you how he’s aged, or maybe I could tell you about the time he broke two of his fingers? I could tell you about all the books he never read to the end, or (hah) I could tell you about the books that he did finish. In either case, there’s nothing I could tell you that you wouldn’t be able to see for yourself.

It’s 6AM and the alarm clock just started to ring. He’s a bit confused, unsure of whether this is the right time to get up. His first priority, however, is to stop the annoying sounds of the time telling machine. He reaches out with his hand, starts to feel his way to the clock and in doing so he knocks over his glasses. He looks in the clock’s direction now and all the numbers are blurry. Every morning starts off blurry. This morning is particularly dark.

He manages to find the button that silences the clock but is unable to find his glasses. It is too dark and blurry. Maybe they fell between some secret cracks? He just can’t seem to find them. He remembers that he has a spare pair in the washroom drawer. It is dark and it does not occur to him that he could switch the lights on. Instead he feels his way into the hall way and stumbles into the washroom.

He turns on the lights. This was not a conscious decision. Though the situation had warranted light, he did so purely out of instinct. It was simply a matter of fact: you enter the washroom and you turn on the lights. Everything in that moment turned brighter yet remained blurry. He catches his reflection in the washroom mirror and it causes him to pause. The blurry reflection took him to a moment some 30 years ago. For a split instant he saw a clear reflection of himself as he was some 30 years ago. He quickly recollects himself. He makes a frowning facial expression and shrugs off the moment. This is no time for musings of past. The world is blurry and that must be undone.

There are three drawers. Is it in the first? the second? or the third? I should open all of them, but not all at once. That would defeat the purpose. This is no time for thought. Thinking slows down the process. Just act. He finds the glasses in the second drawer without needing to open the third. As he puts the glasses on he forgets that he couldn’t find his other pair, as if this was his only one, as if he had never lost anything. He does remember that he needs to pick up groceries and other items. He proceeds to get dressed with a better grasp of the world than he had when he woke up.

He stands on the subway platform as the train approaches. Everyone on the platform takes a step forward in anticipation. He picks up his grocery bags from the floor and enters the train. This is his daily mode of transport, the subway lines are life lines that connect him to the city. The bags he’s carrying make his movement slow. The rushing crowd occupy all the seats, like it were a gold rush. He finds a place to stand as comfortably as he can.

He feels a tug on his jacket. A young boy (a teenager perhaps?), feeling a little sheepish, stands up and offers his seat. He looks the boy in the eyes with a smile that spells a blessing. He accepts the offer. He places one bag on his lap and the rest on the subway car floor.

In what almost seems like a ritual, he starts to take out items he’s purchased one by one and spend time with them. He takes out the apple juice carton and runs his hand across it, as if he were searching for a memory or hoping that one would be created. He replaces the juice carton and repeats the procedure with toothpaste.

He then reaches down and takes out a bag of oranges. He removes a single orange from the bag of oranges. He spins the orange on his palm and then grips it tight to stop the spin, still holding the bag of oranges in his other hand. The train comes to a screeching halt. His grip protects the singular orange, but the bag of oranges falls to the floor. One after another the oranges leave the bag and start to roll out in a line. Not a perfect line, but there’s enough of a pattern.

All the heads in the subway car follow the oranges the length of the distance.