How long does it take to realize that something is missing from your life? When is that you realize that something in your life is not right? When do you realize that even if something is not right in your life you cannot fix it?
The general outline, say the blueprint, of a Normal life is 1.be born 2.grow up 3. Go to school 4. Upon right age, get married 5. Rear some children 6.get old 7. Roll over and die.
Being a rational and conscientious human being I beg to differ. Life doesn’t have to be that rigid, that pre-defined, it shouldn’t be. What is laid in front of us by the Society or whatever it is that writes the conventions of a regular human life may be just about right for those who don’t have the desire or the courage or the moral strength to challenge them. In our search for convenience, our search for a path traced in black white, our desire to tag along- just like our parents and their parents before them did- we follow blindly. We are aware that we have eyes through which we can see. We are aware that we have a logical and rational faculty by which to think and reason. But all of these and more, we give up, surrender-to the unexisting god of societal conventions. And thus we sacrifice our souls- the real we- to the grind-house of day-to-day life. We don’t give a thought to why we are happy at the birth of a child or sad at the death of a man, we just know we should be happy or sad because that’s what our parents have been doing and that’s what their parents before them did.
They say every human life has a purpose. I say they don’t know what they are talking about. When you say every human life has a purpose what exactly do you mean? Do you mean that every human life Is made to go to schools and take exams, or do you mean that every human life has the purpose of marriage, or do you mean that every human life has the purpose to bring another human life on earth- a life that in the first place didn’t ask to come through and which if it is born in this world has a 99% probability of being every bit a zombie as you.
What really is the purpose of life then? I think the real purpose of human life, the real destiny of human life, the real culmination of a thousand years of sequential evolution, is to realize what you are, who you are, where you come from and where you will go after your time is come. With all the conspiracy that’s going on within and without you in the name of living, with all that you are made to do in the name of living, with all the chains of social, moral and spiritual obligations that are imposed upon you by people who don’t know the first thing about the real society, the real morality, the real spirituality- you are bound to loose the big picture, the real picture, the ONLY picture.
The question then is not whether you have to challenge the superficial implications of the society but whether you are game enough to challenge them. To know the answer to this question you just have to look around you, look at the people around you, look at the plantation of falsity, look at all the piss and shit around you, look at what has been made of the nature around you, look at what you are made to do, look at what they make you give.
Now that you have read all the way through this not so subtle work you are thinking
This is probably the work of some over crazed frustrated communist
This is shocking.
This is probably on of those feel-good bullshits.
But this is true
Every human being has a thing called self respect in them. Self respect is the father of cynicism and cynicism is the father of skepticism which in turn is the father of self realization. Cynicism, Skepticism is what makes human being special. It is what makes you search for that short-cut alternative to your teacher’s boring and complex solution of a mathematical problem. Skepticism is what makes you doubt when your wife tells you that she went out to have tea with an old college friend when in fact she had been lying in bed all the afternoon with your local club manager.
Man is by nature a skeptic inquirer. But as is the trend of our society, our schools we hate everything natural. We like nature as long as it produces huge pumpkins for us to eat, as long as it produces beautiful roses or us to smell and as long as it keeps the snow in the mountains intact for us to take photographs of. We forget that skepticism, inquisitiveness e.t.c. are the qualities that have been selectively perfected in the human gene by the continuous effort of nature. And thus, whenever and in whomever we notice these qualities we tend to crush them with clinical precision, as did Hitler in systematically killing all the Jews on his sight.
This is why our societies and their norms, their values and most important of all -their mechanisms, are dysfunctional. I know I am not the first to make this discovery but then- I can say with a hundred percent certainty that I am the first to make this discovery and suggest that we don’t change them.
To change the way people live, to change the way they behave, to change the way they think would require nothing less than the return of Stone Age. Because then we will at least have our priorities straight. Because then we will know that we don’t need a hundred and one storied buildings to live in, we don’t need two storied Airbus jumbo jets to transport ourselves from one place to the other and that we don’t need nuclear bombs to defend ourselves. We don’t need to judge others or ourselves be judged by others, that we don’t need money crunching educational institutions to educate us, that we don’t need hypocrites as our teachers in those institutions who don’t know the first thing about Knowledge.
What I suggest is that we don’t commit the folly of judging other people because that is the point from where all the wrongs originate. Every human spirit is independently individual and has the right to move along its own path on the pace decided by itself and only itself.
What I suggest is that we will once in a while notice skeptic, inquisitive, eager and sometimes anxious people as we toil along in the journey of our lives. I suggest that we don’t display the Hitler syndrome and let them live their distinct lives. If you will not positively help them in having their own ways at least don’t commit the sin of creating a two storied Mount Everest on their ways.
What I suggest is that we our self think what we are living for.
Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, straight into your eyes and not recognized yourself? Have you ever felt that strange voice inside your head saying "who am I?" You bet your ass that the answer to both these questions is a univocal yes in my case. And I can tell you that if someone else asks me the same questions that I have just asked you I will tell him to sob off, that he is what 45,50? That something is not right inside his head and that he better go and see a shrink. That I am still too young to give a damn about all these freaking questions. That the world is too damn full of problems, too full of questions without you posing a couple of them at me. I bet not just me, it’s what we would all do. What with all our parents being out there to worry about us or we ourselves being parents with a couple of kids to look after, it is but natural for us to ignore these questions.
What I suggest is ignore them. Ignore them damn questions, for what are they but mere questions. But then, before ignoring them once, at least once, just for the sake of curiosity or maybe for the sake of good old skepticism make a conscious effort to answer them, honestly. And then ignore them all you want.
And then maybe listen to the song by Justin Timberlake that goes
What goes around goes around goes around comes all the way back around.
What goes around goes around goes around comes all the way back around.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
SOLDIER
The darkness is so viscous, so profound that I am scared. I have a fully loaded AK-47, I have 4 grenades strapped two each to my right and left chest pockets, I have my service knife strapped to my left thigh and I am wearing a Kevlar vest but I am still scared. Scared to death! To death!
There is nothing particularly terrible about the house except that it has no roof, that it has one big gap in the place where there used to be a door in the not so remote past and that the house has, according to my last reconnaissance report, a total of four seriously pissed and seriously armed insurgents.
My mission as the captain of my four men squad is simple, comb the house and neutralize the enemy. Two of my men have already taken their positions along the doorway; they will remain their in case any unforeseen contingency arrives. I along with the remaining two men will conduct a floor to floor sweep and neutralize the enemy. Ain’t it simple?
I have to move.
It is the first thing they teach you in training school. Keep moving. Keep running. A stationary target is the easiest target. I can hear the voice of my staff sergeant loud and clear in my ears, "Move your asses you dumbo. MOVE it gents. Dance for me. Come on show me your moves!" My ears are ringing. Like Sarge is right behind me and poking my back. Like Sarge is right behind me and shouting right into my ears. I don’t like the idea of Sarge creepin’ behind me.
Fuck off Sarge. Fuck off and shut up! Shut UP!
I know I have to move.
But here is the problem. I have frozen! Somehow I have managed to dissolve my legs. My tongue seems to have met the same fate and my voice is muted. And most strange of all my gut! My friggin’ gut seems to have turned liquid. Melted maybe.
The thing about combat is that you never get used to it.
Where are they? Where? To my right? Behind me? Above me? Where? Where? Are they going to come out of the pot hole? What is that sound? Is that the sound of someone quietly trying to open a door?
I am moving. Through the door-gap. I can see some strange kinda graffiti along the wall. Something between a child’s innocent and scrawly handwriting and a man’s rage filled kick. Strange mix.
As I move in, the first thing I notice is that I am going to puke. The air is saturated with a mix of an arsenal of disgusting smells which shout in unison "DECAY". It’s like someone pissed in a one of those one-liter bottle of coca-cola, shut the cap, shook the bottle vigorously, stored it for about one month in some dark corner, shook it vigorously again and then spilled it all over the floor. It’s like someone killed a dog, packed it in a sack for a coupla weeks and pushed it through the central air conditioning system. Maybe the Devil’s lair smells like this. I don’t know.
In the dark I can make out a flight of stairs to my right. That’s where I am headed to right now.
As I close in on the stairs and attempt to climb I can feel its fragility. It is made of wood and looks centuries old. It can break any moment now. I hasten.
Wait!
Someone is running. I can hear this. I can hear this despite the racquet the frigging stair is making.
Here is a thing about combat. It is not so much the weapons that kill a man in combat as the uncertainty. I can feel the sudden rush of adrenaline down my abdomen. I can feel the fight or flight instinct creeping somewhere inside the corners of my head, somewhere along the tip of my tense fingers, somewhere along the dimensions of my alert toes. When I was a boy, eight maybe, I pushed my fingers into the holes of a power socket. I don’t know what happened exactly afterwards but I still remember the heavy tingle of 240 volts of live current passing through my body. That’s exactly what is happening to me right now.
I am running. I am past climbing the stairs and am running along a damp and dark corridor. Running feet. Short burst of breath. A vaguely whitish garment. That is as much as I can make of my man. A few paces ahead of me I hear a door being locked hastily. Slow down. I slow down. I can see the door. It is not locked. Through the slight gap between the door frame and the door itself I can hear my man. I can feel his fear.
Pounce. Suddenly I am inside and face to face with my Man.
The first thing I figure out, my Man is not a man. He is a boy. A kid of seventeen, eighteen at most.
Forgive me god for I am about to sin.
The boy is reaching for something in his trouser pocket. Shit! That’s a grenade. This is not happening. I can’t let this happen. If all these years of combat have done me any good, it’s that it has quickened my senses. As the boy is reaching for his grenade I curl my fingers into a fist, summon my strength, banish all my convictions of right and wrong and bang the boy in his head. I see what happens next as in a suspended animation state. As my fist makes contact with the boy’s skull the I hear a sick crunching sound, like that of glass breaking five blocks away. The boy’s eyes close. The boy is knocked out of breath. The boy has a bleeding nose. But. But the boy is still standing. In movies a man is knocked out cold with one bang on the head. This is not a movie. And the boy is not knocked out cold. BANG! I punch him in his abdomen. That does it. He is on the floor and unconscious but still breathing.
Thank you god.
WHAM!
Out of the corner of my eye I can see a huge man coming out of the closet, running towards me and banging me on my head. But I can not do anything. I have frozen once again and this time frozen for good.
It is black. A peculiar type of black. A black with a thousand and one bright spots embedded to it all over the place.
Is it time? Has my time come? Is this how I die? Is this where it all ends?
No it’s not.
As consciousness seeps into my being I can feel my ears ringing from the concussion. My head is a little heavy but everything else is all right. No everything is not all right. I can feel something heavy against my body. As I look out I see my Mate. I realize that in making haste to box me on my head he knocked himself off-balance and fell on me.
All of this culminates into a strange kind of rage.
All the time I was there boxing his comrade-in-arms; the boy, the man was there hiding in the closet. My prayers, my monologues and all the time he was there. While I kissed my family good-bye he was there waiting. While I was ready to kiss life goodbye he was there watching. Watching and waiting. Bidding his time.
I collect my self and stand up to face my Mate. I have my hands around his neck. He has his hands around mine. Our applied forces are in equilibrium. I can feel his grip tightening around my neck. It is a strange experience. He is pushing my Adam’s apple inside. I feel like I am swallowing something massive, something I shouldn’t have put in my mouth in the first place leave alone swallowed. I am weakening. But I can not give in. Not now.
I summon all my demons, all my courage and barely manage to tackle my Mate down to the floor.
It is only time and I know he will gain advantage. I have to act fast. His eyes. It is one of the standard techniques they teach you in hand to hand combat training. The theory is to straighten your index and middle finger and make them into a two-pronged fork and gauge the enemy’s eyes out of the socket. I do exactly this. The thing that blows me away, the thing that makes my head go into a three hundred and sixty degree somersault is that an eye ball is not actually a ball.
This is the first time I have ever gauged anybody’s eyes out of the socket. The eye ball is actually a jelly. As I somehow manage to spoon out the jelly from the man’s eye socket I feel sick. Real sick. The eye balls are suspended from a fiber like suspension tissue. I am going to puke. My Mate’s eye balls are hanging out of his socket and resting on his cheeks. I can feel my Mate’s fear. I can hear my Mate’s pain in his screams. He is screaming. He is crying. He is calling me names. He is calling his god to intervene. But there is no god, only me and all I can do now or maybe not do now is to hold my breakfast inside. I can’t help it. I vomit all over my jacket. I can’t help it.
My Mate is a fighter.
Despite all the pain, despite all the fear, despite a pair of eye balls hanging on his cheek my Mate doesn’t give up. He is a foot and a half taller than me and has an added advantage of about twenty five kilos over me. My Mate is pushing my. He is biting at my knuckles. His hands are tightening around my neck and his feet are aching to kick my balls.
It is only time and I know he will gain the upper hand.
My combat knife. That’s what I remember in this hour of despair.
In close combat all your automated weapons become meaningless. You can not use your AK-47, it is too long. You can’t use your side arm. Plainly, it takes too damn long to reach lock and load and in a situation like this it is the precious seconds that count. You can’t use your grenade, not unless you want to die holding hands with your enemy. So your only available weapon of choice is your combat knife.
Not ever having to use a knife in anything other than to open the bottle of beer I take out my knife and lunge blindly. The pain is extreme. My Mate has just managed to kick my balls. When a man’s balls are kicked it is not the balls that feel the pain, it is the part of his abdomen immediately below his belly button that feels the pain. And the pain. The pain is like nothing else. It simply can’t be described.
I think this is the end. I think I am about to die.
Not yet.
I finally find the opening that I am searching for. The spot under his neck bone.
I have no time for prayers this time around. If there is a god I know he will understand.
I do it. I thrust the knife under my Mate’s neck bone.
It is sick. What I am doing is sick, I know. I understand. I am aware. I am fully conscious of the choice I have just made.
Here’s a thing about life. Life is a matter of choices. It is as much about the choices you make as it is about the choices you don’t make. Maybe sometimes the right choice and the difficult choice are the same and sometimes it is only if you make the right choice, however difficult it maybe, that you will live another day to make another right choice.
My Mate is covered in blood. It is gushing in a steady stream from his chest.
I can feel his life quietly creeping away.
His hands are through my hair and as he is dying slowly they seem to be caressing me.
Quiet, indistinct words of prayer.
Here’s a thing about war. Bombs, bullets and everything else they throw at you, you can survive that all right. What about when your enemy cries for his life, what about when he desperately bites you for his survival and then scratches you begging for one more minute of life? What about that? Are you strong enough to survive that?
In war you loose your humanity and that will haunt you for the rest of your life.
There is nothing particularly terrible about the house except that it has no roof, that it has one big gap in the place where there used to be a door in the not so remote past and that the house has, according to my last reconnaissance report, a total of four seriously pissed and seriously armed insurgents.
My mission as the captain of my four men squad is simple, comb the house and neutralize the enemy. Two of my men have already taken their positions along the doorway; they will remain their in case any unforeseen contingency arrives. I along with the remaining two men will conduct a floor to floor sweep and neutralize the enemy. Ain’t it simple?
I have to move.
It is the first thing they teach you in training school. Keep moving. Keep running. A stationary target is the easiest target. I can hear the voice of my staff sergeant loud and clear in my ears, "Move your asses you dumbo. MOVE it gents. Dance for me. Come on show me your moves!" My ears are ringing. Like Sarge is right behind me and poking my back. Like Sarge is right behind me and shouting right into my ears. I don’t like the idea of Sarge creepin’ behind me.
Fuck off Sarge. Fuck off and shut up! Shut UP!
I know I have to move.
But here is the problem. I have frozen! Somehow I have managed to dissolve my legs. My tongue seems to have met the same fate and my voice is muted. And most strange of all my gut! My friggin’ gut seems to have turned liquid. Melted maybe.
The thing about combat is that you never get used to it.
Where are they? Where? To my right? Behind me? Above me? Where? Where? Are they going to come out of the pot hole? What is that sound? Is that the sound of someone quietly trying to open a door?
I am moving. Through the door-gap. I can see some strange kinda graffiti along the wall. Something between a child’s innocent and scrawly handwriting and a man’s rage filled kick. Strange mix.
As I move in, the first thing I notice is that I am going to puke. The air is saturated with a mix of an arsenal of disgusting smells which shout in unison "DECAY". It’s like someone pissed in a one of those one-liter bottle of coca-cola, shut the cap, shook the bottle vigorously, stored it for about one month in some dark corner, shook it vigorously again and then spilled it all over the floor. It’s like someone killed a dog, packed it in a sack for a coupla weeks and pushed it through the central air conditioning system. Maybe the Devil’s lair smells like this. I don’t know.
In the dark I can make out a flight of stairs to my right. That’s where I am headed to right now.
As I close in on the stairs and attempt to climb I can feel its fragility. It is made of wood and looks centuries old. It can break any moment now. I hasten.
Wait!
Someone is running. I can hear this. I can hear this despite the racquet the frigging stair is making.
Here is a thing about combat. It is not so much the weapons that kill a man in combat as the uncertainty. I can feel the sudden rush of adrenaline down my abdomen. I can feel the fight or flight instinct creeping somewhere inside the corners of my head, somewhere along the tip of my tense fingers, somewhere along the dimensions of my alert toes. When I was a boy, eight maybe, I pushed my fingers into the holes of a power socket. I don’t know what happened exactly afterwards but I still remember the heavy tingle of 240 volts of live current passing through my body. That’s exactly what is happening to me right now.
I am running. I am past climbing the stairs and am running along a damp and dark corridor. Running feet. Short burst of breath. A vaguely whitish garment. That is as much as I can make of my man. A few paces ahead of me I hear a door being locked hastily. Slow down. I slow down. I can see the door. It is not locked. Through the slight gap between the door frame and the door itself I can hear my man. I can feel his fear.
Pounce. Suddenly I am inside and face to face with my Man.
The first thing I figure out, my Man is not a man. He is a boy. A kid of seventeen, eighteen at most.
Forgive me god for I am about to sin.
The boy is reaching for something in his trouser pocket. Shit! That’s a grenade. This is not happening. I can’t let this happen. If all these years of combat have done me any good, it’s that it has quickened my senses. As the boy is reaching for his grenade I curl my fingers into a fist, summon my strength, banish all my convictions of right and wrong and bang the boy in his head. I see what happens next as in a suspended animation state. As my fist makes contact with the boy’s skull the I hear a sick crunching sound, like that of glass breaking five blocks away. The boy’s eyes close. The boy is knocked out of breath. The boy has a bleeding nose. But. But the boy is still standing. In movies a man is knocked out cold with one bang on the head. This is not a movie. And the boy is not knocked out cold. BANG! I punch him in his abdomen. That does it. He is on the floor and unconscious but still breathing.
Thank you god.
WHAM!
Out of the corner of my eye I can see a huge man coming out of the closet, running towards me and banging me on my head. But I can not do anything. I have frozen once again and this time frozen for good.
It is black. A peculiar type of black. A black with a thousand and one bright spots embedded to it all over the place.
Is it time? Has my time come? Is this how I die? Is this where it all ends?
No it’s not.
As consciousness seeps into my being I can feel my ears ringing from the concussion. My head is a little heavy but everything else is all right. No everything is not all right. I can feel something heavy against my body. As I look out I see my Mate. I realize that in making haste to box me on my head he knocked himself off-balance and fell on me.
All of this culminates into a strange kind of rage.
All the time I was there boxing his comrade-in-arms; the boy, the man was there hiding in the closet. My prayers, my monologues and all the time he was there. While I kissed my family good-bye he was there waiting. While I was ready to kiss life goodbye he was there watching. Watching and waiting. Bidding his time.
I collect my self and stand up to face my Mate. I have my hands around his neck. He has his hands around mine. Our applied forces are in equilibrium. I can feel his grip tightening around my neck. It is a strange experience. He is pushing my Adam’s apple inside. I feel like I am swallowing something massive, something I shouldn’t have put in my mouth in the first place leave alone swallowed. I am weakening. But I can not give in. Not now.
I summon all my demons, all my courage and barely manage to tackle my Mate down to the floor.
It is only time and I know he will gain advantage. I have to act fast. His eyes. It is one of the standard techniques they teach you in hand to hand combat training. The theory is to straighten your index and middle finger and make them into a two-pronged fork and gauge the enemy’s eyes out of the socket. I do exactly this. The thing that blows me away, the thing that makes my head go into a three hundred and sixty degree somersault is that an eye ball is not actually a ball.
This is the first time I have ever gauged anybody’s eyes out of the socket. The eye ball is actually a jelly. As I somehow manage to spoon out the jelly from the man’s eye socket I feel sick. Real sick. The eye balls are suspended from a fiber like suspension tissue. I am going to puke. My Mate’s eye balls are hanging out of his socket and resting on his cheeks. I can feel my Mate’s fear. I can hear my Mate’s pain in his screams. He is screaming. He is crying. He is calling me names. He is calling his god to intervene. But there is no god, only me and all I can do now or maybe not do now is to hold my breakfast inside. I can’t help it. I vomit all over my jacket. I can’t help it.
My Mate is a fighter.
Despite all the pain, despite all the fear, despite a pair of eye balls hanging on his cheek my Mate doesn’t give up. He is a foot and a half taller than me and has an added advantage of about twenty five kilos over me. My Mate is pushing my. He is biting at my knuckles. His hands are tightening around my neck and his feet are aching to kick my balls.
It is only time and I know he will gain the upper hand.
My combat knife. That’s what I remember in this hour of despair.
In close combat all your automated weapons become meaningless. You can not use your AK-47, it is too long. You can’t use your side arm. Plainly, it takes too damn long to reach lock and load and in a situation like this it is the precious seconds that count. You can’t use your grenade, not unless you want to die holding hands with your enemy. So your only available weapon of choice is your combat knife.
Not ever having to use a knife in anything other than to open the bottle of beer I take out my knife and lunge blindly. The pain is extreme. My Mate has just managed to kick my balls. When a man’s balls are kicked it is not the balls that feel the pain, it is the part of his abdomen immediately below his belly button that feels the pain. And the pain. The pain is like nothing else. It simply can’t be described.
I think this is the end. I think I am about to die.
Not yet.
I finally find the opening that I am searching for. The spot under his neck bone.
I have no time for prayers this time around. If there is a god I know he will understand.
I do it. I thrust the knife under my Mate’s neck bone.
It is sick. What I am doing is sick, I know. I understand. I am aware. I am fully conscious of the choice I have just made.
Here’s a thing about life. Life is a matter of choices. It is as much about the choices you make as it is about the choices you don’t make. Maybe sometimes the right choice and the difficult choice are the same and sometimes it is only if you make the right choice, however difficult it maybe, that you will live another day to make another right choice.
My Mate is covered in blood. It is gushing in a steady stream from his chest.
I can feel his life quietly creeping away.
His hands are through my hair and as he is dying slowly they seem to be caressing me.
Quiet, indistinct words of prayer.
Here’s a thing about war. Bombs, bullets and everything else they throw at you, you can survive that all right. What about when your enemy cries for his life, what about when he desperately bites you for his survival and then scratches you begging for one more minute of life? What about that? Are you strong enough to survive that?
In war you loose your humanity and that will haunt you for the rest of your life.
THERE HE GOES
He is superman.
Somehow the notion of wearing His underpants over His pants doesn’t appeal to his not so subtle fashion ethics but that’s all right; He is superman after all, THE superman! It’s already eight and He’s being late for the reception at Whitehouse, someone called Bush (for god’s sake Bush! That a name?) is waiting for Him.
One Two Go! And He’s flying! No big deal for superman.
But what’s that noise? What IS that bloody NOISE? And why does He seem to be falling? Something is not right. Something is seriously not right! He can’t be falling! He shan’t be falling! No, no stop! STOP!
06:00 The blinking display of the digital clock reads.
06:10 Get out of the bloody bed.
06:15 Brush teeth etc, etc.
06:30 Bath...
6:40, 06: … 06... 06: … You kinda get the idea don’t you?
Ready get set go! GO GO GO!
Run! Run for dear life! Run for not so dear school!
07:01 The hideous big blue gate. The grey and painfully plain building. That’s school all right. No mistake there.
Take a long, deep breath and take in the clean, fresh air as much as you can. The air of freedom. Take as much as you can because there’s an acute shortage of the stuff inside the boundaries of the school premises.
Stairs, stairs and bloody stairs. There are so many of them that He always looses count after the first 696, not that He doesn’t know His numbers, mind you.
That same dark hallway which always smells and feels like somebody freshly painted the walls with rat piss. Classroom a dingy, gloomy, hideous (His adjectives aren’t too abundant to go on so etc will do for now) room.
"May I come in teacher?"
The teacher is apparently engaged. No. Seriously engaged! In some private joke with the girl at the front row. The one whose upper front and middle back dimensions seem a little too, well , exotic (for lack of a better more sophisticated word). And of which the teacher seems to be a little too fond of. But of course that’s all right. He is the teacher. THE teacher, like in THE man.
Repeat "May I COME in TEACHer?!"
Only now does the teacher seem to be aware of His existence and with a swift move of hand ;the discussion with the dimensional-chic being of a serious nature can’t be disrupted, ushers him inside the classroom.
The last bench, that’s the destination, that’s where he goes. Rambo is already in position, at the free end of the bench. Alpha one and Delta two are also in position at the second last bench. The manners of courtesy, of ethics notwithstanding, he walks the walk, grunts the grunt, eyes the eye and with the kind of hand shake known only to boys of his elite unit, occupies his position at the corner of the last bench. That’s the vantage point. That’s where the projectiles of paper balls originate from, that’s from where live rounds of erasers are fired and that’s also where the most explosions originate-explosions of teacher’s slaps, apparently.
Silence.
Apparently the teacher has finished with his usual round of class-DISCUSSIONS and is in the mood to blurb out some gibberish and distribute some slaps on the way. But that’s all right with Him. After all there can be only a little that’s not right when one serenely occupies the corner seat of the last bench and is surrounded by a battalion of loyal lieutenants expertly trained in the subject of classroom warfare.
The teacher with his usual arrays of "am I understood?" and "all right!" tells the class about some absurd species of plant that closes on being touched. It has a funny name too, something that rhymes with ‘mademoiselle pudding". Every time the Teach pronounces the name he wants to laugh.
"Students the thing with Mademoiselle is that if you touch it, it closes its leaves!" the teacher says. But his eyes, they tell different. They tell that he wants to touch the dimensional –chic and well, see if she closes her leaves on his touch or yields to him.
"Mademoiselle is an extremely shy plant." Eyes on the dimensional-chic.
"Blah, blah and bah"
Ha, ha, ha!
Silence! Somewhere a pin drops. One can hear it.
Somewhere, maybe in China, a rat pisses on a piece of cotton. One can hear it too. Oh yes! That’s the kinda silence we are talkin about, here.
Suddenly it seems like the classroom arrangement has changed. Like, somehow He has been able to cross the barriers of space-time and managed to position himself on the first bench. This observation He makes not so much by the rounded eye-balls and stretched mouths of His apparently frozen classmates but by His proximity with the Teach. My god! The Teach is standing in front of him. Right in front of Him. THE TEACH! His face is all worked up and red, his ears twitching and his eyes! Goodness gracious they are about to pop off the socket!
One two go! SLAP!
SLAP, SLAP SLAP and SLAP!
Wow! Five slaps in three seconds. The teach has obviously broken some record here. Let’s see. Previously his personal best had been four slaps in three seconds. Now five in three. Wow! Some record, that!
Others of a little more sophisticated taste would call it "good morning" or "bonjour" or maybe "Buenos dias"
Don’t understand? Silly! The Teach has just wished Him good morning in his usual customary way. That’s the way it happens. That’s the way it has always happened. Teach teaches, He haw haws, Teach slaps, His day starts.
English.
One thing He can’t help noticing. She teaches like shit!
Another thing He can’t help noticing. She’s got one of them damn big boobs.
"The world is charged with god’s grandeur" The eyes are complete.
"People are being materialistic (GULP)" The nose and mouth are complete. No the mouth is a little outta proportion. Erase. Draw. That’s a mouth all right. Not perfect but a mouth all the same.
"People are being hedonist um... hednostic COUGH hedonistic blah blah." In spite of His aesthetic undertaking he doesn’t fail to notice the slip.
But of course, she teaches like shit. But of course!
Hair complete, body complete, legs complete. Finito! Not exactly a Picasso look alike but a drawing all the same.
TRRRRrrring. Time up!
Nepali Trring! Mathematics Trring! Trring… Trring… Trring!
Ready get set go! Go go!
Dark hallways, half a million stairs, hideous blue gate, classmates (Adios fuckers!)
Run! Run!
Home sweet home. Deep, long breath. Oh how clean, how pure, how sweet the air smells. Sweet? Wait, what’s that sweet smell? Is that the smell of freedom? NO fuck freedom! (When did freedom start Smelling any way?) That’s the smell of freshly baked cookies. And umm what is that other smell? Is that the smell of THE ROCK cookin’?
WWF!
Cookies compounded with the proverbial ROCK COOKIN’, that’s the stuff fit for a king! Well our mate is no king, just a home boy. But all the same, as they say "What’s in a name?"
Wait! WAM! Bam… BAM BAM... Bam! WAM!
Obviously there’s gonna be some serious bone breaking today!
Somehow the notion of wearing His underpants over His pants doesn’t appeal to his not so subtle fashion ethics but that’s all right; He is superman after all, THE superman! It’s already eight and He’s being late for the reception at Whitehouse, someone called Bush (for god’s sake Bush! That a name?) is waiting for Him.
One Two Go! And He’s flying! No big deal for superman.
But what’s that noise? What IS that bloody NOISE? And why does He seem to be falling? Something is not right. Something is seriously not right! He can’t be falling! He shan’t be falling! No, no stop! STOP!
06:00 The blinking display of the digital clock reads.
06:10 Get out of the bloody bed.
06:15 Brush teeth etc, etc.
06:30 Bath...
6:40, 06: … 06... 06: … You kinda get the idea don’t you?
Ready get set go! GO GO GO!
Run! Run for dear life! Run for not so dear school!
07:01 The hideous big blue gate. The grey and painfully plain building. That’s school all right. No mistake there.
Take a long, deep breath and take in the clean, fresh air as much as you can. The air of freedom. Take as much as you can because there’s an acute shortage of the stuff inside the boundaries of the school premises.
Stairs, stairs and bloody stairs. There are so many of them that He always looses count after the first 696, not that He doesn’t know His numbers, mind you.
That same dark hallway which always smells and feels like somebody freshly painted the walls with rat piss. Classroom a dingy, gloomy, hideous (His adjectives aren’t too abundant to go on so etc will do for now) room.
"May I come in teacher?"
The teacher is apparently engaged. No. Seriously engaged! In some private joke with the girl at the front row. The one whose upper front and middle back dimensions seem a little too, well , exotic (for lack of a better more sophisticated word). And of which the teacher seems to be a little too fond of. But of course that’s all right. He is the teacher. THE teacher, like in THE man.
Repeat "May I COME in TEACHer?!"
Only now does the teacher seem to be aware of His existence and with a swift move of hand ;the discussion with the dimensional-chic being of a serious nature can’t be disrupted, ushers him inside the classroom.
The last bench, that’s the destination, that’s where he goes. Rambo is already in position, at the free end of the bench. Alpha one and Delta two are also in position at the second last bench. The manners of courtesy, of ethics notwithstanding, he walks the walk, grunts the grunt, eyes the eye and with the kind of hand shake known only to boys of his elite unit, occupies his position at the corner of the last bench. That’s the vantage point. That’s where the projectiles of paper balls originate from, that’s from where live rounds of erasers are fired and that’s also where the most explosions originate-explosions of teacher’s slaps, apparently.
Silence.
Apparently the teacher has finished with his usual round of class-DISCUSSIONS and is in the mood to blurb out some gibberish and distribute some slaps on the way. But that’s all right with Him. After all there can be only a little that’s not right when one serenely occupies the corner seat of the last bench and is surrounded by a battalion of loyal lieutenants expertly trained in the subject of classroom warfare.
The teacher with his usual arrays of "am I understood?" and "all right!" tells the class about some absurd species of plant that closes on being touched. It has a funny name too, something that rhymes with ‘mademoiselle pudding". Every time the Teach pronounces the name he wants to laugh.
"Students the thing with Mademoiselle is that if you touch it, it closes its leaves!" the teacher says. But his eyes, they tell different. They tell that he wants to touch the dimensional –chic and well, see if she closes her leaves on his touch or yields to him.
"Mademoiselle is an extremely shy plant." Eyes on the dimensional-chic.
"Blah, blah and bah"
Ha, ha, ha!
Silence! Somewhere a pin drops. One can hear it.
Somewhere, maybe in China, a rat pisses on a piece of cotton. One can hear it too. Oh yes! That’s the kinda silence we are talkin about, here.
Suddenly it seems like the classroom arrangement has changed. Like, somehow He has been able to cross the barriers of space-time and managed to position himself on the first bench. This observation He makes not so much by the rounded eye-balls and stretched mouths of His apparently frozen classmates but by His proximity with the Teach. My god! The Teach is standing in front of him. Right in front of Him. THE TEACH! His face is all worked up and red, his ears twitching and his eyes! Goodness gracious they are about to pop off the socket!
One two go! SLAP!
SLAP, SLAP SLAP and SLAP!
Wow! Five slaps in three seconds. The teach has obviously broken some record here. Let’s see. Previously his personal best had been four slaps in three seconds. Now five in three. Wow! Some record, that!
Others of a little more sophisticated taste would call it "good morning" or "bonjour" or maybe "Buenos dias"
Don’t understand? Silly! The Teach has just wished Him good morning in his usual customary way. That’s the way it happens. That’s the way it has always happened. Teach teaches, He haw haws, Teach slaps, His day starts.
English.
One thing He can’t help noticing. She teaches like shit!
Another thing He can’t help noticing. She’s got one of them damn big boobs.
"The world is charged with god’s grandeur" The eyes are complete.
"People are being materialistic (GULP)" The nose and mouth are complete. No the mouth is a little outta proportion. Erase. Draw. That’s a mouth all right. Not perfect but a mouth all the same.
"People are being hedonist um... hednostic COUGH hedonistic blah blah." In spite of His aesthetic undertaking he doesn’t fail to notice the slip.
But of course, she teaches like shit. But of course!
Hair complete, body complete, legs complete. Finito! Not exactly a Picasso look alike but a drawing all the same.
TRRRRrrring. Time up!
Nepali Trring! Mathematics Trring! Trring… Trring… Trring!
Ready get set go! Go go!
Dark hallways, half a million stairs, hideous blue gate, classmates (Adios fuckers!)
Run! Run!
Home sweet home. Deep, long breath. Oh how clean, how pure, how sweet the air smells. Sweet? Wait, what’s that sweet smell? Is that the smell of freedom? NO fuck freedom! (When did freedom start Smelling any way?) That’s the smell of freshly baked cookies. And umm what is that other smell? Is that the smell of THE ROCK cookin’?
WWF!
Cookies compounded with the proverbial ROCK COOKIN’, that’s the stuff fit for a king! Well our mate is no king, just a home boy. But all the same, as they say "What’s in a name?"
Wait! WAM! Bam… BAM BAM... Bam! WAM!
Obviously there’s gonna be some serious bone breaking today!
DYSFUNCTIONAL
When do you say enough is enough and roll over and die?
********* **********
My bed sheets smell. My breath smells. My clothes smell. I haven’t changed my underclothes for a week now. I haven’t taken a bath for umm… three maybe four weeks, I guess you sorta loose count after a coupla weeks.
Here’s the thing you hafta to understand, the thing you hafta know. I don’t care! I don’t give a shit!
Somewhere the door is creakin’, somewhere the clock is tickin’, somewhere someone is being born, somewhere someone is getting the shit beat outta him, and somewhere a bitch is whining. On second thought, that’s not a bitch, that’s my whore uva moder releasing her coital outburst. I don’t know who is giving her all that high but I bet it’s not that lousy son-of-a-bitch Daniel O’ Connor, or so he calls hisself. But I know damn sure it is time for me to get outta my shithole of a bedroom and get going. My moder’s early morning coital outburst has been sorta alarm clock for me since I was a kid. The players, well at least one half of the players, change but the game is the same. Ain’t no mistake there.
I put on my favo baggy pants and haul my ‘suck me’ t-shirt upon on me back. They don’t allow this t-shirt at school but that’s all right for me coz I ain’t too crazy to go to school at da momen’. N anyway I don’t give a shit!
I hafta make haste coz my bitchy moder is gonna pop outta her room wrapped in one of her shawls and wish me good morning anytime now. With two of her extra-yellow teeth stickin’ outta her mouth and her balding head-which she makes an extra effort to hide under a wig- and her varicose veined legs which look almost like a pair of green bamboo sticks supporting a scare crow, my mother doesn’t exactly strike the image of the Virgin Mary. And right now I don’t have an appetite for anything less than the Virgin Mary herself. Man, I hate that bitch. I really do.
Down the stairs, through the hallway and out of the door.
Outside, the first thing that strikes me is the intense and disgusting smell of rotten shit and piss. It don’t take me long to spot the source of the smell, there’s a nice lump of yellow shit right in front of the doorway.
Fuck me Dawg! When will these people learn civiliseten?
*************************
Maybe this is where I say enough is enough and roll over and die. On second thought maybe it don’t exactly tickle my fancy to kill my self by rollin on a pile o’ shit.
I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday and my stomach is with all its might reminding me of this. My mother, she don’t need no food coz she takes all her nutrient in liquid form, in booze form! And she thinks all the booze she drinks is enough to meet the metabolic needs of both of us.
With all the roaring and grumbling that’s goin on inside my stomach I can barely walk, but I have to.
Maybe the sloppy market at the end of the alley has something to offer. It always has.
**********************
The thing with markets is that they have people. And the thing with people is that they are lousy, greedy. It causes them a lot of pain in their asses even to depart with a stale piece of bread that has been sitiin in their showcase for a coupla weeks, or a stick of sausage that has been rottin in their shop for the same time -half of it already feasted upon by assertive maggots and their pops and moms.
It’s next to impossible to get something by simply asking.
So I just borrow. Borrow is what ye gentlemen up there call stealin.
I scan the market and what I see doesn’t look exactly promisin. There are people everywhere. It seems like all the homeys of the town have gathered up in the market place to disrupt my search for food. A man is standin in front of me. He is wrapped up in an old and spotty jacket and a pair of pants that extend to a little more than his knees. He gives off a pungent smell of booze. After years of experience if I know one thing it is that men like the Boozy Bob here, standin in front of me, are trouble. I part ways with Boozy Bob and carry on my search.
Look right, look left. Look into the stall right under your face. Look. That’s the buzzword. In fact that’s the only word for now at least.
At last I find what I am searching for. The stall in front of me looks deserted. I quietly creep in and grab a packet of sausage a loaf of bread and (on my way out) a packet of Marlboro. They say good things always come in pair. And that’s what is happening. As I walk out, trying to be careful not to disturb anything I manage to knock off a can of milk. Out of nowhere, or so it seems to me, a pair of sturdy hands fall on my head.
How come the world around me is spinning so fast? And how come I feel only air in the place where previously my head used to be? How come the world is suddenly upside down? How come I see nothing?
***********************************
When do you say enough is enough and roll over and die?
The first thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I feel cold. The second thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I have a strong headache. The third thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I seriously smell of piss. The fourth and the last thing I notice is that the piss is not mine, coz if it was mine the wetness in my clothes have to start from my dick upwards, whereas I am wet from my head and downwards i.e. my pants are not wet. Fuck me! No, fuck that bastard! That lousy son-of-a-bitch, it wasn’t enough for him that he knock me out cold; he had to piss on me! Fuck him! Fuck ‘im!
********************
Looks like I am seriously pissed, don’t it?
Is this when I say enough is enough and roll over and die?
*****************
By the looks of it the time is already crossed 12. This means I am safe to go to the place that I call ‘crib’ and change into something else that smells a little less pissy than the clothes that I am wearing right now. But I don’t want to. I want to go to the river, that’s by the end of the market, and take a swim. I want to feel pure again. I want to be free of all the smells that relate me to the rest of the world and its people. I want to be free of all the bonds that bind me to the rest of the people. I want to wash away all the sins that bind me to the rest of the world.
The river. Just look at it. So pristine yet so turbulent. So steady yet so pure.
I shed all my clothes. They are what bind me to this hell. I shed all my needs and desires. They are the ones that make me steal sausages, loafs of breads and packets of Marlboros every day at the cost of loosing myself. I shed my all my loathing for my mother and remember her as she was once; pure and loving.
I am at the edge of the river. It’s not long now.
A One. A Two. A three. And a Go! Jump!
Fuck me!
I am six feet and the river is just about four feet. That means the water reaches just up to my waist. And that in turn means I can’t drown myself. The only part of me that’s getting any drowning action today is my fren Mr. dick and he too ain’t getting enough of the action or so it seems.
Fuck me!
*************************
When do you say enough is enough and roll over and die?
You really wanna know? I mean, really?
Ok here you go….
RIGHT NOW!
********* **********
My bed sheets smell. My breath smells. My clothes smell. I haven’t changed my underclothes for a week now. I haven’t taken a bath for umm… three maybe four weeks, I guess you sorta loose count after a coupla weeks.
Here’s the thing you hafta to understand, the thing you hafta know. I don’t care! I don’t give a shit!
Somewhere the door is creakin’, somewhere the clock is tickin’, somewhere someone is being born, somewhere someone is getting the shit beat outta him, and somewhere a bitch is whining. On second thought, that’s not a bitch, that’s my whore uva moder releasing her coital outburst. I don’t know who is giving her all that high but I bet it’s not that lousy son-of-a-bitch Daniel O’ Connor, or so he calls hisself. But I know damn sure it is time for me to get outta my shithole of a bedroom and get going. My moder’s early morning coital outburst has been sorta alarm clock for me since I was a kid. The players, well at least one half of the players, change but the game is the same. Ain’t no mistake there.
I put on my favo baggy pants and haul my ‘suck me’ t-shirt upon on me back. They don’t allow this t-shirt at school but that’s all right for me coz I ain’t too crazy to go to school at da momen’. N anyway I don’t give a shit!
I hafta make haste coz my bitchy moder is gonna pop outta her room wrapped in one of her shawls and wish me good morning anytime now. With two of her extra-yellow teeth stickin’ outta her mouth and her balding head-which she makes an extra effort to hide under a wig- and her varicose veined legs which look almost like a pair of green bamboo sticks supporting a scare crow, my mother doesn’t exactly strike the image of the Virgin Mary. And right now I don’t have an appetite for anything less than the Virgin Mary herself. Man, I hate that bitch. I really do.
Down the stairs, through the hallway and out of the door.
Outside, the first thing that strikes me is the intense and disgusting smell of rotten shit and piss. It don’t take me long to spot the source of the smell, there’s a nice lump of yellow shit right in front of the doorway.
Fuck me Dawg! When will these people learn civiliseten?
*************************
Maybe this is where I say enough is enough and roll over and die. On second thought maybe it don’t exactly tickle my fancy to kill my self by rollin on a pile o’ shit.
I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday and my stomach is with all its might reminding me of this. My mother, she don’t need no food coz she takes all her nutrient in liquid form, in booze form! And she thinks all the booze she drinks is enough to meet the metabolic needs of both of us.
With all the roaring and grumbling that’s goin on inside my stomach I can barely walk, but I have to.
Maybe the sloppy market at the end of the alley has something to offer. It always has.
**********************
The thing with markets is that they have people. And the thing with people is that they are lousy, greedy. It causes them a lot of pain in their asses even to depart with a stale piece of bread that has been sitiin in their showcase for a coupla weeks, or a stick of sausage that has been rottin in their shop for the same time -half of it already feasted upon by assertive maggots and their pops and moms.
It’s next to impossible to get something by simply asking.
So I just borrow. Borrow is what ye gentlemen up there call stealin.
I scan the market and what I see doesn’t look exactly promisin. There are people everywhere. It seems like all the homeys of the town have gathered up in the market place to disrupt my search for food. A man is standin in front of me. He is wrapped up in an old and spotty jacket and a pair of pants that extend to a little more than his knees. He gives off a pungent smell of booze. After years of experience if I know one thing it is that men like the Boozy Bob here, standin in front of me, are trouble. I part ways with Boozy Bob and carry on my search.
Look right, look left. Look into the stall right under your face. Look. That’s the buzzword. In fact that’s the only word for now at least.
At last I find what I am searching for. The stall in front of me looks deserted. I quietly creep in and grab a packet of sausage a loaf of bread and (on my way out) a packet of Marlboro. They say good things always come in pair. And that’s what is happening. As I walk out, trying to be careful not to disturb anything I manage to knock off a can of milk. Out of nowhere, or so it seems to me, a pair of sturdy hands fall on my head.
How come the world around me is spinning so fast? And how come I feel only air in the place where previously my head used to be? How come the world is suddenly upside down? How come I see nothing?
***********************************
When do you say enough is enough and roll over and die?
The first thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I feel cold. The second thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I have a strong headache. The third thing I notice as I regain consciousness is that I seriously smell of piss. The fourth and the last thing I notice is that the piss is not mine, coz if it was mine the wetness in my clothes have to start from my dick upwards, whereas I am wet from my head and downwards i.e. my pants are not wet. Fuck me! No, fuck that bastard! That lousy son-of-a-bitch, it wasn’t enough for him that he knock me out cold; he had to piss on me! Fuck him! Fuck ‘im!
********************
Looks like I am seriously pissed, don’t it?
Is this when I say enough is enough and roll over and die?
*****************
By the looks of it the time is already crossed 12. This means I am safe to go to the place that I call ‘crib’ and change into something else that smells a little less pissy than the clothes that I am wearing right now. But I don’t want to. I want to go to the river, that’s by the end of the market, and take a swim. I want to feel pure again. I want to be free of all the smells that relate me to the rest of the world and its people. I want to be free of all the bonds that bind me to the rest of the people. I want to wash away all the sins that bind me to the rest of the world.
The river. Just look at it. So pristine yet so turbulent. So steady yet so pure.
I shed all my clothes. They are what bind me to this hell. I shed all my needs and desires. They are the ones that make me steal sausages, loafs of breads and packets of Marlboros every day at the cost of loosing myself. I shed my all my loathing for my mother and remember her as she was once; pure and loving.
I am at the edge of the river. It’s not long now.
A One. A Two. A three. And a Go! Jump!
Fuck me!
I am six feet and the river is just about four feet. That means the water reaches just up to my waist. And that in turn means I can’t drown myself. The only part of me that’s getting any drowning action today is my fren Mr. dick and he too ain’t getting enough of the action or so it seems.
Fuck me!
*************************
When do you say enough is enough and roll over and die?
You really wanna know? I mean, really?
Ok here you go….
RIGHT NOW!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
i better wait
I better wait
“She doesn’t look umm… too umm… interesting”, I can hear her. Her name is Fat Lady.
“What’s her name again?” Oh, now she wants to know my name.
“Daisy” That’s Mother. She usually answers questions in one word that way when she is nervous or irritated maybe, I don’t know.
“And how old did you say she is?” Fat Lady has started to sweat. She looks like a witch, like the witch that imprisoned princess Rapunzel. I don’t like her. I think she will imprison me the same way if I go with her. I don’t like her! I don’t like her at all.
“She is ummm… four” You are lying Mother! You are lying I am not four! I am five and a half years old. I am bigger than dolly and even she is not four, she is five.
Silence!
Mother is looking at me. She looks like she is I don’t know umm… sad? Pained? Sad, I guess.
Fat lady is looking at me. She looks like she has just been pinched by Kale. Kale says he is the greatest pincher of all time. He pinches even better than Mother.
Oh fish! (I learnt to say that just the day before yesterday, it is nice isn’t it?) Oh fish! Looks like I just did something very wrong. Mother usually looks at me like that when I break a window pane or flush a bar of soap into the toilet. Ah! Now I remember what I did wrong. Holy Fish! I just said that I am not four but five and a half years old. That too in front of Fat Lady! And I thought I was thinking! Oh fish! Oh OH fish!
I can see the big black mole above Fat Lady’s fat lips sweating. I can see that she is not comfortable. I can see that Fat Lady has become fatter (or am I imagining it?)
I can see that she is not going to adopt me.
I will have to wait.
Again.
Mother says it is not good for nice little princessesess like me to be waiting. Mother says I have to find a home soon or else I will be waiting for the rest of my life. Mother says if I grow too old nobody will adopt me. Mother says that since I am a good child, I have to get good education, good culture and a good husband (when the time comes, of course}. Mother says I can not get all these if I stay here with her.
Mother says a lot of things. And honestly, I don’t understand very much. But from what I understand mother wants me to leave her and go away to some other stranger’s house. Some stranger who looks like Fat Lady. Some stranger who doesn’t even know how old I am. Some stranger who doesn’t know that I like boiled potatoes more than vanilla flavored ice-cream. Some stranger who doesn’t know that I have a mole below my belly-button. Some stranger who doesn’t know that I pee on my bed at night!
Last week they came for Dolly. A kind looking old man and an old woman. They asked her all sort of questions like if she peed on her bed at night (She said no. she is the only kid I know that doesn’t pee on her bed at night. She is cool!) And that if she knew abcd (She couldn’t get it all right. She got stuck at G and I had a hard time whispering to her that H comes after G from behind her sofa.) The old man even asked her if she liked soccer. She answered no of course, she didn’t like suckers in fact she was afraid of them. She also said a big black sucker had sucked her blood last summer and that she had to lie in bed all the week before she could get up and not see four Kales. The old man laughed HAW HAW HAW! And then he was joined by the old woman and Mother. Dolly was almost in tears. I didn’t know what to do either.
Yesterday mother told me that the old man and woman were going to adopt Dolly and that they would come to take her next month. I told this to Dolly and we cried together all the day. Dolly said she didn’t want to go away from me. I listened. Dolly said she was afraid. I listened. Dolly said she liked the old man all right, it was the old woman she was afraid of her. Would she beat her? Would she starve her like one of the evil step mothers that she reads in her story books? I listened. Dolly said she couldn’t leave mother and me and all the other kids and even Kale. Dolly said that she would die. Dolly cried. I cried. We both cried all the day and didn’t know when we fell asleep. It was only at eight o’ clock that mother woke us up to have our supper and brush our teeth and go to bed. I woke up first and then Dolly woke up. We looked at each other and then started to cry all over again. The boys teased us for being such cry- babies and we cried even louder.
Before Dolly five of my best friends have already left me. They all cried like Dolly when they had to leave and said that they would die. I was vey afraid and thought that they would really die but it has already been eight months before Guddu, the last one, left and we haven’t heard of anyone dying. Thank god! They keep on writing once in a while. They write about all sort of things like their summer vacations with their Step-parents in Thailand, like the new puppy they got as presents on their birthdays, like the boy next door who is so cute and who can count one two three four up to two thousand and thirty six.
I think of all the things they write and wonder. Weren’t they the ones that told me that they would die if they left me? Were all the things they wrote, true? Was it really wonderful to have a vacation in Thailand? Could the boy really count up to two thousand and thirty six? Would I be really happy like them with a pair of foster-Parents?
I don’t know the answer to these questions, honest.
I ask Mother,” Mother, Will I be really happy, like the rest of the kids if I go away?”
Mother answers,” Yes, darling. You will be happy.”
I don’t know if mother is telling the truth
I guess I will have to wait.
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