Feb 12, 2016 Daily Life, The Daily Post
Eat to Live, or Live to Eat, but LIVE!
©February 12th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Don’t we all? I mean, live to eat?
No? Which planet do you come from?
No, seriously!
Food is good. It’s beautiful. It’s … full of untold sensations that satisfy so many needs!
Yes, we may analyze in all sorts of ways, and perhaps we might be right, but food is beyond that. It’s mystical. It’s joy. It’s comfort. It’s love.
I remember there was a time when all I did was eat to live. I was too busy being worried about things I had to do, and places I had to be. No, no, I was never anorexic (even then, I liked food, just didn’t eat too much — except for my favorite, crunchy, Indian junk food, a craving which endures even today, and to which my husband and daughter object) — I was just busy with other stuff. I will say that that was when I was in my teens. I was too obsessed with playing music, singing songs, playing the guitar and sitar, writing poetry, and reading books, to be much interested in food.
In my twenties, I was too busy working, composing, writing songs and poems, and being newly in love with my future husband, to pay attention to food, although I ate all sorts of dishes with great enjoyment — I definitely wasn’t one of those dainty, pick-at-your-meal types. I still had my favorite junk muchies like tortilla chips and potato chips, but they were organic junk foods, don’t you know? (she said, with exaggerated pride). And I was slim, despite all that — walking everywhere, and not having a car had something to do with that.
Ah, feminine vanity! When I noticed I was a little heavier than I liked, I started exercising in a focused way, and even went on a diet of my own making, making sure that it was for only ten days, but very strict. After that, it was easy to eat more, and exercise to keep off unwanted weight.
When I reached the age of thirty, I decided I’d go to the gym for the first time. I became quite exercise-obsessed. I loved it. It gave me a rush. So, food, which I still loved, came a poor second. But oh, how I loved my salads, my roasted almonds, and polenta, and Indian food! And I started biking everywhere, so I stayed skinny.
Then, I became a suburban school-teacher, and caved in to the necessity of buying a car. That was the slow beginning of the end. Being in one’s thirties, and staying up many nights to grade papers, and having all sorts of tempting sweet baked goods in the front office on most days added to the slow creep of weight. I still ate to live, though.
But after my daughter was born, it began to change within a couple of years. Being in my early forties, with a toddler, as well as being a school-teacher, with no time for such indulgences as going to a gym, I turned into a full-fledged live-to-eat type.
“Living to eat” compensated for the sleep-hunger and loss of time that occurred when I turned my sleeping hours into grading hours (because I spent my after-school afternoons, evenings and nights with my baby girl, being the good, attentive and joyful new mommy that I was). It made up for the endless work, and the occasional spurts of depression that come when one sleeps less and works a lot.
Mind you, I was not obese — just slightly in the overweight category. So, I was grateful. Standing in the classroom, walking around while teaching helped to keep me moderately fit, and so did walking up and down the halls for this or that errand between classes. Sometimes, my walks led me downtown in my lunch half-hour to get a cappuccino and a cookie — which, of course, did not help!
Then, two years ago, came the arrival of a dog into our lives. With Holly’s entrance, we had no choice, any of us, but to take long, strenuous walks on most days, except during very, very cold (seven-degrees-Fahrenheit-type-cold) weather or rainy days. Holly made us all very happy and fit.
And now, retired after seventeen years of teaching, I look forward to balancing my now somewhat deplorable tendency of Living-to-Eat with my earlier Puritannical tendency of Eating-to-Live. I plan to do it by taking long walks, not eating out much, avoiding Indian junk food (that will be a serious blow for me), and taking the long road back to a balanced, physically fit life, I plan to spend time with my daughter, husband and dog, friends — as well as do music, and write poems and stories.
Back to food, however. Food is too beautiful to ignore. Don’t turn up your nose at it. Instead, turn your nose towards it. Savour its lingering, satisfying aroma, whatever your pleasure. For me, food-pleasure lies in things vegetarian: In the rich fenugreek-and-tamarind flavours of sambhar; in the bay-leaf-cinnamon-cumin-mustard-seed-ginger-and-ciantro flavors of mixed vegetable pulav; in the warm, ghee-infused savour of brown chappatis –Indian flat-breads, in delicately curried vegetables with fresh grated coconut, in toor, massoor, udid and moong dal, in pasta, polenta, in tempting hot South Indian idlis, coconut or mint chutney and dosai, in mint rice, palak paneer, malai kofta, chana masala, candied lemon and orange peel in the delicious cakes I bake; in upma and chakkarai pongal, in masala chai made with freshly chopped ginger and ground pepper, cinnamon and cardomom, with added milk and sugar. It’s in vegetarian Chinese food: Bright, delicate baby bok choy with garlic sauce, spiced tofu, juicy water chestnuts, tender, shy, baby corn, plus other vegetables, crunchy scallion pancakes. It’s in vegetarian Mediterranean foods I’ve tasted: Falafel, fresh, parsley-topped hummus, olive-oil-infused grape leaves, muhammara, pilaf, pita bread with baba ganoush, and more.
My point is, why deny oneself innocent pleasures? As Oscar Wilde said, “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it,” and “I can resist everything, except temptation.”
So, go ahead, eat to live, but also live to eat. It cannot hurt you, unless you overdo it. Oscar Wilde might say, “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess,” but this is where I disagree with my literary God.
Mangia, mangia! Chappidu, chappidu! Kha jao, kha jao! Mange, mange! Eat, eat!
And LIVE joyously!
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Tags: #vegetarian, Eat to Live, Food, Live to Eat
Oct 16, 2015 Original Poetry, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A True Saint.”
Patron Saint
©October16th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
I am a saint. Look at me!
See that halo around my head?
You don’t?
Hang on, I’ll adjust it.
No, it’s not there!
Where did I put it?
Yikes! Here it is,
Shivering in the refrigerator,
Along with sagging beans
Bought at the Farmer’s Market
Bursting at the seams of their pods
While I burst with good intentions.
No, wait for me, Halo!
It’s gone — vanished in a trice.
Ah, here it is,
Lurking in the Blue Room,
Piled high with boxes brought
Home by me three months ago,
And dumped willy-nilly from my
Teacher-life of seventeen years.
(I’ll sort through them, I shall!)
Wait! Vanished again!
Look! Here it is, hiding under
Beautiful tulip bulbs, in their paper bag,
Clutching forlornly at
Their Spring promise of life
Muting their hysterical cry of color,
Waiting for me.
My halo trembles there,
Beckoning timidly at me
With halo-ey fingers.
I reach for it, but no, it
Vanishes again.
Ah! Foiled once more!
I am ashamed, truly.
I know this, though:
When I go soil-wards,
Spade in hand,
Bulbs in bag, it’ll reappear.
When I go room-wards,
Roll up my sleeves,
Sort, rearrange, dump
Discard, put away,
It’ll reappear.
When I chop up those beans
And parboil them,
And freeze them,
Oh, so prosaically,
While putting poetry aside,
(Just for the nonce),
It’ll reappear.
And then, I’ll grab it,
Stick it behind my head,
Where it’ll shine
Proud and assured.
I’ll point at it,
(In case you didn’t see it)
Dance a little dance,
And sing (humbly, you understand):
I am the Patron Saint
Of Good Intentions!
See me shine
Brilliant and beatific.
Come, I shall bless you.
Come, join my canon!
Together, we shall
Create more Good Intentions,
On our merry way to Hell.
But first, there’s work to do!
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Sep 12, 2015 Original Poetry, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Pledge Allegiance.”
I Pledge Allegiance — A Not-Quite Poem
©September 12th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
I pledge allegiance to the Truth,
Which is the web of this world,
And in the web of my mind.
I pledge to mesh both webs
Into whole cloth, if I can.
The Truth, to which I bow
Will not be swayed,
Though deceivers try and subvert it.
For Truth waits, hidden, but potent,
In its patience, waiting to reveal this:
That Life furthers life,
And Death furthers death,
And all life passes into death,
And there is no Beyond.
Only these linger awhile:
Our deeds, our words, our art, our music.
Our imagination, our fears and loves
Our satisfactions and lusts,
Our work and play,
Our dreams and nightmares,
Turned into music and dance,
Our futile, but lyrical railing against Death
Through monuments and songs,
And even these fade, and then,
Dust remains, until it re-forms
And takes on new shapes
And new life, or floats off into
The ether, photonically stoic.
That is all.
I pledge allegiance to this Truth.
I pledge allegiance to our Earth,
And pledge to teach those who deny her suffering,
Who claim all the while that they are doing ‘God’s will,’
While making this world a gutter and a sewer.
I pledge to not judge, but teach,
To learn and and to help,
To be true to this in word and deed.
I pledge to water and plant, and pick up
And clean, and to reduce and reuse
All that I need in my life.
So this Earth, this blue-green,
Living sphere, spinning
Through these universes,
Where broods the Numinosum —
that Dream-Drive that propels gravity
And imbues all the things which are
And which are not —
Sings a song of hope and sorrow,
And I listen to her, as she sings.
And I will sing with her.
To her, my Earth, I pledge my allegiance.
And I pledge allegiance to Love, always.
Love does conquer all, if you will let it.
Though oft-used, wrung-out and dried,
And peddled in stores in trite cards and triter treats,
And whispered in rapturous voices
Over the ecstatic exchange of rings,
And the flashing of cameras,
And extolled in places of worship,
And uttered in passing to someone you know,
Love is simply this:
Reflection upon reflection upon reflection
Of you in the Other, and the Other in you,
Mutually acknowledging, infinitely
Recursive, and all in the same dance.
Love is seeing beauty and being beauty
Loving all you observe
And observing all that you love
With equal distance and closeness,
Eyes reflecting the eyes of others
Seeing beauty, and being what you see
Knowing, whether you love those beings, or not,
They are fully and wholly themselves,
But when you love them, they gain a glow
In your vision, and perhaps, you glow for them.
For, in acknowledgement, are we magnified.
And in love, are we amplified, so that
We are as large as life itself.
And so, I pledge allegiance to Life.
See the bright gleam in the eye of the rabbit,
Or the quick flash of fear in the squirrel
When your dog leaps after it?
They are life.
Pledge allegiance to them.
I do.
See the quickening interest
Lighting up your dog’s face when it
Smells its own blood from the cut
It accidentally received at the groomer’s?
Remembering it is a carnivore,
You love its carnivorousness,
Even though you might be vegan.
It is all of life.
Pledge allegiance to all of this.
I do.
See the flash of woodpecker-wing
As it flies to and from your bird-feeder,
Or from branch to branch?
Or the flicker of a tufted titmouse,
As it swiftly swoops down to eat birdseed?
Or that bold usurper the blue-jay, as he pushes
All the rest away, lordly and larger than them,
So that you’re amused and annoyed, both?
So full of life they are, they glow.
Pledge allegiance to them —
I do.
See the children holding their parents’ hands
So full of sweetness and trust,
So sure that their parents will love and protect
And cherish and defend, and teach
And play and grow with them —
And all this, not stated, but knowing
In the marrow of their bones as an implicit right?
Pledge allegiance to love and protect them.
I do.
And then see other children’s eyes, full of pain
So full of hurt puzzlement
And betrayal and terror and hunger,
For that trust was betrayed, somehow,
Somewhere, by the grownups who were
So pledged to protect and love —
Because, war, or famine, or slavery,
Or perversion, or greed, or hatred
Tore out their hearts, and they
Changed, utterly,
And love and life were betrayed.
Pledge allegiance to these children,
Help reclaim life for them.
I do and will.
I pledge allegiance to beauty.
Inhale the scent of lilacs in the springtime
Or roses in the summer, or lotuses
When you chance upon them,
And pledge allegiance to them,
For they are beautiful.
I do.
See that beautiful smile in an old face
And the joyous smile of a baby,
And those lovely, wrinkled, aging hands
And that long-bladed grass bending in the breeze
And this sunlight slipping lazily through leaves
And the lap-lapping of water on the lake-shore
And hear the laughter of children in a park?
Pledge allegiance to them, for they are beautiful.
I do.
See the flash of dolphins leaping through air
Flashing through water,
Chasing and racing in joy?
See the slow, large elephants
And their frisky young
As they revel in water and mud?
See the lions and the tigers
Lords of this world
Sun-gleam in their eyes,
Indifferent to our adoration?
See the people flowing through
Rivers of traffic, through
Subways and turnstiles,
And schools and markets,
And wildernesses and parks,
Full of dreams and hunger
And hopes and sometimes, sorrow?
They are all beautiful.
Pledge allegiance to them.
I do.
And when the powerful strike
Down the powerless,
And the rage chokes my throat
And when the hurt rises
And blinds me,
And when an inchoate anger
Bubbles, a primordial
Lavascape, at all the injustice
And all the murders, and all
The pillaging, and all the greed
I pledge to right my part of the
World, with music,
With kindness, with patience,
With righteous action.
I pledge this, and more.
And hope for the strength
To live life in the light
Of that which is right.
See the Earth as your mother, and you will love her.
See the Air as your father, and you will listen to his song.
See your Self in the mirror, and love that Self
Smile at that Self, pledge allegiance to yourself.
Then, look outward into the world
Set your face against the darkness
And towards the sun, and see
Where go the wretched and the needy
And the hateful and the seedy,
And the slow and the speedy.
And love them all.
Look for the beauty that was,
For, tarnished metal sometimes hides its silver shine,
Sometimes, not.
Find the shine and love them.
And pledge allegiance to them.
For they are beautiful.
I do.
The earth swings too swiftly for me to bear it
With so much around me to love!
And the sands run out always,
And again, the hourglass gets tipped over,
And over and over again.
And the grains fall inevitably towards death.
But, oh how beautiful is their motion!
For, there’s inevitability and surprise,
And calm, utter calm, at the bottom of
Everything, while everything keeps moving,
Moving towards a resolution, an end.
To all these, and to all of you,
I bow, and take my turn at the dance,
And revolve, and rotate and spin,
Dizzily, ever more dizzily,
And while I do,
I pledge my allegiance
Again, and again, forevermore.
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P.S. Wrote this is a state of sleepless stupefaction. The poem didn’t come easily because of that. I’m trying to stick to a daily regimen of writing, though (but I MUST sleep early tonight).
I looked, and saw that I had done FOURTEEN edits on this — a departure from my usual dash-off and run writing, and it’s STILL not working.
Perhaps, I should just leave it alone?
And yes, I mean what I said in the poem, even if I don’t sound as poetic as I’d like to have been.
Tags: I Pledge Allegiance
Aug 21, 2015 Original Short Story, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Red Pill, Blue Pill.
Choose! (A Short Story)
©August 21st, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
On Tuesday morning last week, I awoke with a hammering heart. I had waited for this day all my life. After showering, I buttoned my white, poet’s blouse with shaking fingers, pulled on a pair of stylish, deep red slacks, tied a dark blue ribbon in my long braid that swung down my back, and pulled on silk stockings. I stepped into my red pumps, and shouldered my long-strapped dark-blue mailman’s bag.
I surveyed myself in the mirror. Sea-blue eyes stared back at me, shining brown hair caught the sunshine of a bright June day. I applied lipstick lovingly, lavishly, then, smacking my lips, I stepped back, and admired myself. Not bad, I mouthed to my reflection. Perhaps, my eyes needed a touch of shadow? Liner? No, I don’t do well with those — I tend to rub the corners of my eyes (lack of sleep), and they would get smeared if I did. I looked closer at my reflection, and frowned — there was a shadow above my lip. Damn! Well, Sally Hansen could take care of that … and she did.
I took care to feed my cat, Jazzy, who looked a little startled. Usually, I look like me, not a stylishly dressed lady. Now be good, I telepathed to her, and she stared back haughtily. What do you think I am, a dog?
I soothed her hurt feelings, assured her that I’d be back for supper, and left, clattering unevenly down the stairs. I’m unused to pumps, you see.
I took the Number 77 bus all the way into Cambridge, switched to another bus, and made my way to a dingy building somewhere in Boston. I won’t reveal it, for fear of causing trouble, so don’t bother to find out where it is, all right?
I pushed open the door to No. ____, and went in. The place was enshrouded in darkness. Nervousness returned.
“Anybody there?” I said in a false, higher-pitched voice, the better for … him to hear me.
A light came on. I saw a dingy couch, a threadbare Oriental carpet, some tattered armchairs, and pictures on the walls of beautiful women posing in various alluring attitudes.
A man in a long, purple cloak (A cloak? Where in the world was I?) emerged from another room, whose doorway had resembled a bookshelf.
He surveyed me with distaste, and said in a deep, low voice which dripped with disdain, “Yes? May I help you?”
“I … er… answered the advertisement — it said something about switching, um …” I trailed off, feeling awkward and flat-footed in my high-heels.
“Oh,” he said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“I thought it would be, like, a clinic, with a surgeon, and all …” I finished, lamely. Internally, I was slapping my forehead. Why did I answer this advertisement? It was a hoax, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t, said a voice in my head.
I looked up. Another cloaked man had joined this one, and obviously had more authority over him. His cloak was a royal purple, edged with blue-gold and red-gold threads.
And yes, it was I who spoke, he added in an amused tone.
“So, what should I do? Do I need to be examined? How long will it take?” By now, my heart was hammering in a strange blend of excitement and fear. What if everything went horribly wrong?
“Come into the other room with me,” he said, now speaking aloud. The other man curled his lip, and went back into the recesses of the room beyond, and the one in authority went in behind him.
I followed.
The room beyond was clinically bare, except for two pictures on the wall — one of a man, looking quite handsome, and one of … his twin, a woman, looking stunning.
Below the man’s picture was a blue pill. Below the woman’s was a red one.
“The order in which you choose will determine the outcome,” said the man in the blue-and-red-gold-threaded purple cloak.
He asked me a few questions. I answered them. He wrote them all down, created a copy, asked me to sign both, gave me the copy, and told me to choose.
Panic suddenly flooded me. What if I didn’t like what I got? But it was too late to back out now.
I chose.
An hour later, when I stepped out into the street, the door which I’d shut behind me vanished. There was nothing there.
I, however, was changed. The panic was gone, replaced by calm joy.
I was All-Woman.
I was free to be me.
I hoped Jazzy the cat wouldn’t mind.
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Tags: Gender-reassignment, Magic, Transformations
Aug 18, 2015 Daily Life, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In the Summertime.”
Summertime and the Livin’ is Easy
©By Vijaya Sundaram
In the summer, all bets are off. There are no strict rules, just hazily outlined guidelines for being, which we trace, or retrace, or erase, day by day. The days are long and sunny, sometimes boiling hot, (unless you’re at home with all the fans going), and cool in the evening, when our panting dog ceases her panting, and breathes evenly, gratefully, a flopsome, relaxed canine at peace with her world.
When we aren’t visiting her friends or going to museums or zoos, our daughter sits in her room, reading book after book, until it is time for me to read to her (our special treat), or until it’s time to take a long, rambling walk around our neighborhood, and come home for dinner, which she concludes with a delicious mango or lime popsicle.
On other days, we are at the local pond, surrounded by trees, and my daughter splashes in joy, while I sit sedately on the shore, reading, or gazing up at the sky through interlaced branches, entangled in a glowing, sunlit mesh of emerald-green. Sometimes, we’re off at her friend’s place, at the local swimming pool in the neighboring town. While the mothers chat about this and that, four young girls, all between ten and twelve, splash and play games in the pool, and I say to myself, “May this innocence and sweetness last forever, even when adolescence hits.”
My husband is busily building her a “tree-house,” although it’s more like a tree-platform (we have a smallish back-yard), with a (promised) soon-to-be-installed corrugated roof. This tree-house is glorious and abuts the Japanese maple in the back yard. Big enough to hold two girls comfortably, and four girls wedged together, it is a promise my husband made to our daughter a year or two ago, and now it’s taking shape. When he isn’t teaching music for a living, he loves working with wood, and wood responds to him — there’s a meditative interplay between him and the inanimate sun-captured pieces of lumber he engages with, and it’s beautiful to see that. To top it all, he’s a loving father and a devoted husband, and we love singing together in the evenings, all three of us in our little family, while our dog sprawls contentedly, secure in her place in our pack.
In the summertime, bees seem to drown themselves in ecstasy in the cool waters that fill our tomato, basil and eggplant planters, then rise, buzzing and whirring like helicopters, careering away from me, without harming me, when I come close to water our garage-top planters. These bees are friendly, and belong to our neighbor two houses down. (He’s an avid bee-keeper, and a brilliant gardener/landscaper by avocation, and we’re fortunate in knowing people like him. Bees need our help! When bees die out, so will we. So thank you, A!)
Our summer days are hot and hazy, and nights are cool and lazy, and my family and I feast on tomato salad and pasta with pesto made from our own basil growing joyously and luxuriantly everywhere in our front yard.
Madrigal singing en famille, reading books, writing, walking the dog … this is what I’ve been doing for the past week, although it was hectic before that — but who needs stories about hectic lives when the Summer sits outside our window, splashing heat waves around in happy abandon?
Does this mean that our lives are this lazy and happy all through the year? No, we have our ups and downs, like anybody else, but mostly, it’s happiness, because we choose it.
After all, happiness is a choice (unless we’re talking clinical depression).
It’s summertime, and the livin’ is easy.
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Tags: In the Summertime
Aug 18, 2015 Daily Life, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Helpless.”
HELPLESS
(or, Torrent of Consciousness, or Leashless Grammar, Punctured Punctuation, OR:
DOG-FIGHT! )
©by Vijaya Sundaram
So I’m walking down one of the dog-inhabited streets in my neighborhood enjoying the cool evening air and thinking how nice it’s to be walking with my dog Holly who is the most beautiful Standard Poodle in the whole world, just a tumbling mess of poodle who happens to look elegant after coming home from the groomers with a bow around her neck with silken puppy hair cut close but not silly and with gently waving curly fantail like a flourish of joy and I’m thinking that when I get home I’ll be making dinner for my sweet family and then grade some papers and feel like I’ve finished off the day to my satisfaction when I’ve written my self-inflicted obligatory 100-word short story for the flash fiction group that I’m a part of online when my dog and I see a quiet cat sitting in feline fashion at ease with itself and with life, near a car. And I say to Holly look look there’s a cat, and Holly who has seen an actual cat only about two or three times in her conscious existence is fascinated and leans closer and the cat is getting ready to flee or fight when the cat’s neighbor, a woman who might be in her mid-thirties or early forties shows up with a wheeled garbage bin and she and I get to talking about the stray cats in the neighborhood which her neighbor to her left feeds freely and this woman and Holly greet each other and the woman seems really nice when suddenly out of the right house a lumpen, misshapen, ungainly bulldog comes gallumphing towards us and I tense up, because Holly sometimes is reticent in manner towards older male dogs, and gets nervous. However ,the bulldog seems friendly enough and greets the woman whom it seems to know and like and touches noses with Holly wagging its little non-existent stump-hint of a tail, and out of the corner of my eye, I see its presumed owner come trotting tensely up the street towards us, clearly somewhat alarmed that his dog had rushed out of the house, when suddenly, GRRRRROWL, BARK!
DOGFIGHT! Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God DOGFIGHT!
And I’m utterly, bonelessly HELPLESS.
This beastly barrel of a bulldog is charging mindlessly towards my dainty but feisty Holly, who is yelling back, backing away all the while, while the bulldog’s plunging forward, aiming for what seems to me to be my dog’s neck, and from there being two dogs, there’s a sea of dogs around me, one pulling away, yet staying close to me, and the other pushing madly at me and at my dog, in pure and terrifying attack mode, and not remembering or even knowing at that moment that one should NEVER EVER separate two fighting dogs by hand I plunge into the mêlée and shove the bulldog away from my baby pup who is by now so terrified that she’s slipped her own collar and leash and is in abject terror but still unwilling to leave the general vicinity of her mom.
And in pushing the bulldog away from my baby I get BITTEN BITTEN by that horrid beast of a bulldog with its ugly fanged mouth and this creature commits this heinous deed in a thug-like remorseless way and meanwhile his owner wrestles him to the ground and I’m crying my hand my hand, it’s bleeding. I hope my dog isn’t bleeding, will you hold her please she’s slipped her collar and I can’t seem to get it on and I’m close to tears and the woman I’d been talking to puts her hands around Holly’s shoulders and gently steers her into her house inviting me to come in and she’s comforting both of us offering Holly a bowl of water and looking around for a treat to give her but I say I have a treat here it is Holly and Holly looks fine and her tail is back up and she’s not bitten OR bleeding and she looks less freaked out but I am still in panic mode and I’m holding my hand under running water in the woman’s kitchen sink, while her husband (“I’m Laura, he’s Dan,” says my kindly host) looks through his emergency First Aid kit, fishes out a Bandaid and ointment, no I need some alcohol first I say, and he finds an alcohol swab which I use on my (now paper-towel-dried but still bleeding finger and then apply the Band-aid, thanking them both the while and I’m chattering nonstop I hope that dog’s had his shots, I hope my finger’s going to be okay, I say, and Laura says, he’s a good dog, he has never bitten anyone before and I’m so sorry because he was running up to say hello to me because I give him treats, and it’s my fault it all happened. I say to her that the dog had not had a collar, and as we’re talking the dog’s owner knocks at the door and enters and looks terribly contrite and upset and says I’m so sorry about what happened and he assures me that his dog has had all his shots and I ask did he slip his collar and leash? And the man says, I should never have let Max out without his collar and leash this is the last time I’ll do that for sure. And I’m thinking you mean, you let him out like that every time? but I say, how come? and he says, well it’s a short route from his door to his truck, and Max usually just comes out and jumps in.
We stand around digesting that information, and the silence is big.
And I surprise myself because I find myself saying it wasn’t his fault, it was just an accident, Max didn’t mean to bite, it was just an unfortunate series of events, don’t worry about it. The man looks relieved, but says, I’m right next door to Laura, if you need me for anything at all, and I realize he’s talking about vet visits for Holly or doctor visits for me, and I say, I’m sure it’s nothing, just a small bite, please don’t worry about it. Thus we mutually reassure each other and he goes back, still looking very upset. Meanwhile, my panic level has come down several notches, and I’m glad I didn’t get upset and angry with the poor man whose dog might have almost killed mine (but didn’t) and bit me, because, after all, he’s just an unfortunate wretch to be the owner of that belligerent unpredictable bully of a bulldog* and one HAS to feel sorry for him.
And I thank my hosts and sally forth down the street with Holly and reach my home and THEN burst into tears and tell my husband and daughter about it all and get comforted and then I get to work prosaically cutting onions and other vegetables for dinner and happy that my loving husband and child had already helped by cutting cabbage and getting that ready and I cook a fantastic dinner and everyone is fine again
Except that my finger is infected and I see the doctor two days later and here I am downing an antibiotic twice a day for five to seven days and feeling resentful about it all but at least I have a story to tell, right?
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Aug 17, 2015 Original Short Story, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Through the Window.”
Through the Window, Darkly … (Short Story Response)
©August 17th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
It was autumn, and the pre-dawn darkness was absolute. A skunk crept on silver-dark feet outside. Looking up from my physics textbook, I stared at it, fascinated, as I always am, by nocturnal creatures.
I left my book and notes, and wandered towards through the window. I’d been up all night, preparing for an exam the next day. One of my failings is that I suffer from insomnia and a hyperactive imagination. This is great for doing work, and for studying when one is on overdrive, as I was, but not quite so nice when one crashes and burns after a binge of sleeplessness three nights in a row, as I’ve done frequently.
So, perhaps that is why I could swear I saw two hands scrabbling about in the grass outside my window — just two pale, expressive hands, decked with gleaming rings and brightly tipped with red-polish, wandering about in the bright light spilling out of my living room into the darkness beyond.
I froze. A scream gathered itself into a tight fist and jammed into my gullet. A strangulated “meep” squeaked out. Momentarily paralyzed, I came to myself, turned, skidded into the kitchen, armed myself with my biggest knife, and returned to the living room. Standing at the French windows which led into the yard, I bared my teeth in what I hoped was a menacing snarl. A horrible, guttural noise emerged from somewhere, and I realized it was from my throat.
The hands scrabbling in the dirt paused. The fingers waved in my direction, then walked crab-wise towards me. The fingers looked … friendly?
My heart, which had been beating one hundred and fifty beats a minute now slowed to a nice, round hundred. Still too fast, but more from adrenaline now, than from fear — still, I didn’t let my guard down. One never knows. Strange hands in one’s yard, glimpsed through a window in the pre-dawn dark, cannot be fully trusted.
I watched them approach me, and unconsciously, my grip on the knife tightened. One cannot undo billennia of fear in the human organism in a matter of minutes — and fear translates into violence, if not into flight. (Perhaps, that’s why aliens leave our planet alone. “Don’t go to Earth. They have humans there, and you know what that means, right?”)
The hands, having found two small July 4th-type American flags on the dirt directly outside my window (How, you ask? Beats me! I had no idea how any of this made sense) semaphored, “We come in peace.”
At least, that’s what I thought it semaphored. How was I to know otherwise? I thought, Perhaps they are aliens. Two of them, by the looks of it. Maybe, they do come in peace.
I patted the area where my heart beat a steady drum, and opened the window …
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*******town Police Bulletin:
A newspaper delivery man found a young man dead at the open door of his house on Main Street. He had appeared to have crawled to the door. His eyes were open. There was no sign of violence. Strangely, there were two small American flags stuck in both his hands, which were clenched shut. Two fingers were found on the scene. Investigation is in progress.
Tags: Original Short Story based on prompt "Through the Window"
Aug 16, 2015 Ramblings and Musings, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Breakdown.”
Breakdown
©August 16th, 2015
by Vijaya Sundaram
One of the things that plagues me the most is my utter, shameless (okay, there’s some shame) caving to my nocturnal self, and the need to write or work deep into the night, and sometimes into the morning.
Why? Because, I adore solitude, and I love to taste the darkness pressing in upon the windows, while I sit, surrounded by things that fascinate me — books, computer, a mason jar sparkling with water, a cheap Pier One tapestry on the kitchen wall.
The night is my lover (okay, so is my husband, but he’s asleep), and there’s mystery and magic, and quietude — and occasionally small furry creatures outside my kitchen window — I glimpsed two small skunks once, and three raccoons on our pine tree in the back yard, their gleaming silver eyes reflecting the flashlight I shone on them to get a better look. I love the silver sickle of a young moon, or the cool light of a full moon sweeping the window-panes through moving tree-brances. I love the hum of the refrigerator and the soothing whirring of the fan.
Night, my secret lover, welcomes me into her/his arms (but I have a light too, because, well, how could I see what I’m typing, or reading, or perusing on the Internet, or … shudder … grading (papers)? Thankfully, that last will not happen any more, because, well, I QUIT public school teaching. THAT was a habit I broke!
Where was I? Ah yes, my habit, my nocturnal habit of doing pointless things deep into the silence of my solitude.
And, sadly, this is the habit I want to break.
For, attractive, and private, and delicious though this solitude is, and wonderful though it is to get work done, unfettered by the pressing demands of daytime, it is not good for me, nor is it good for my family. And I know I’m shaving years off my life from this pernicious habit (which has persisted since I was fourteen).
You see, my family misses me. Yes, I do all the things I’m supposed to do — I play with the dog, take walks with daughter/husband, cook, shop for food, do laundry, and so on, I also end up getting up much later in my summer vacation mode than any person should, unless one is a teenager, whereupon all rules crumble to dust — and I’m always tired. I never come down for breakfast at the same time as they do (summer, summer!), and I dislike breakfast, anyway. I want my coffee, black and strong and ready to knife through my somnolent mumblings.
So, this habit is the one I’m planning to break. I will, I shall, I must.
But not just yet.
It’s still summer vacation mode.
Please?
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