Oct 2, 2015 Original Poetry, Writing 101
Image by Cheri Lucas Rowlands
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Journey to the Heart of the Web
(In the Future — My Day 20 Post)
©October 1st, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The future is now. And now. And now!
Half-way towards my Death, I lurch.
I see her lurking in the shadows. Her breath
So cold, her eyes so gray, her face silver
Like stars stretched across space.
She is patient, so patient! Spinning,
Spanning time, hanging beads of questions
On her web, and oh! how big those questions:
Who are you?
Where are you headed?
Why toil so much?
I am silent, thinking.
I am one among many
Unique to those I love,
And to those who love me,
Forgotten by the rest.
I have poems to write,
Songs to sing, a daughter to cherish
A husband to love, a dog to adore.
I have a garden and a novel waiting
For me to nurture them into life.
I have books to read, things to put away,
Flowers to inhale, birds to feed,
Snow to play in, a planet to explore.
This is not toil, though it is work.
And it is joy.
I say to her:
I am not ready for you. Hang back,
Step away from me!
And her voice, cold as glass, says:
I am always waiting. I will welcome you.
Not yet, I say, calmly, hold back.
I have plans. I do not fear you,
But I have a life to build,
I’ll create a tower,
With storeys* made of story.
In the future, just before you entwine me in silk,
In my future, I will write,
And sing, and teach my child.
I will love my husband and child,
And take them with me on
A story-journey. We will travel
Through my stories, and theirs,
Sing our songs, grow our minds,
Forget our fears, drop our bags,
And run through the fields.
And Death is silent. Then, she says:
I shall be waiting.
Her voice is like a desert.
I think: My stories will come to me
From the spring of stories
That encircles the world,
And brings life to parched places,
And I want to dip my cup
In that water, and drink deep.
So, I face my future,
Setting my face against that quiet
Shadowed form, that voice
That rustles, my Death so elegant,
So ice-quiet.
But her voice, cold as glass, says,
I shall wait for you.
I am always waiting. I will welcome you.
Yes, wait, keep waiting, I say.
I think: In my future, I will learn better
How to tell those stories,
And sing songs, and write poems,
I will strip ego, and listen, listen
To all the people I meet,
Sans judgement, sans fear,
Sans ready response. For, in their
Voices, stories live, and in their
Hearts, grow dreams and love.
I will see their hearts, and sing those songs.
And I turn to her, and say:
When you come, O Death,
I shall sing you my song,
And tell you my story,
And we will journey together
To the heart of your web.
And we will be as one.
But not yet, not yet,
I have plans, and
There is much to learn.
And Death pauses, sighs,
Rustles her robe, turns away.
And her voice, cold as glass, whispers:
I shall wait for you.
I am always waiting. I will welcome you,
And you shall tell me your story.
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*In the US, the word storey is not much used. But those from other English-speaking countries will know what I mean.
Tags: #Death, #Journey, #Learning, #Life, #Love, Family time, fear, poems, songs, stories
Sep 30, 2015 Original Short Story, Writing 101
For my Day 17 post, I searched my old blog for drafts, and found these two things. The first was a draft (ADDENDUM: I found out after checking my private blog just now, that I had published that piece with a different title and opening — so I just took the draft form of it, and added 39 words to it).
As for the second one, I added 2,453 words to its already long 1444-word long draft.
The first (to which I added 39 words):
Refuse to Comply
©June 6th, 2013
By Vijaya Sundaram
With apologies to M.K. Gandhi ( who said, “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win”), I humbly state this:
First, they notice you.
Then, they respect you.
Then, they woo you with an offer you cannot refuse.
Then, you lose.
Refuse to comply if it insults your intelligence and your aesthetic and moral sense.
Refuse to comply if it is false.
Refuse to comply if it belittles others.
Refuse to comply, especially if untold wealth is promised you.
Refuse to comply, if it diminishes you.
Refuse to comply if it goes against righteousness.
~ Dreamer of Dreams
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Below is the second piece, a draft of a story that I began on June 10, 2014 (on my other blog), but never completed, and never published, and to which I added 2,453 more words today:
Teddy’s Roses
©September 29th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Fat Teddy Marino was a fat, jolly old man of sixty-five, and hopelessly provincial.
He had no real concept of a world beyond his very small, narrow one. He didn’t believe in Climate Change, drove a big red SUV, spent winters in Florida, grew hydrangea and roses and other flowers (all of which he fertilized with industrial fertilizer) in his immaculately kept front yard that was covered with weed-killer-sprayed grass. He grew tomatoes and beans, bought from Home Depot, in his back yard, kept a house cat who looked with baleful yellow eyes at passersby from between the dark drapes of their living room window, and had a wife who never seemed to step out-of-doors. He sported a cheerful grin, though his eyes scanned everything inquisitively, as he sat on his deck, and watched the cars go by.
He had always been known as “Fat” Teddy, even since he was a little boy. He didn’t seem to mind, though perhaps, long ago, he might have minded. He might have run home, crying from elementary school, when the other kids teased him for being plump. He might have been ingratiating and a bit of a gossipy tattle-tale in middle school, when he learned that some teachers liked the carriers of tales and gossip, He might have nursed grievances and grudges against all the athletic, slim guys who got all the girls in High School.
It didn’t matter now. Fat Teddy, from working in his father’s convenience store making a small income, went on to undreamed-of riches. He had come into an inheritance when he was twenty-three, the lucky recipient of a reclusive uncle, who had made a small fortune in scamming the gullible, and decided that the least-regarded of his nephews would receive the full benefit of his generosity when he died.
So, Fat Teddy didn’t work another day in his life, except that he would tell you that he was always hard at work, taking care of his home, his yard, his flowers, his finances. He had become something of a financial wizard, multiplying the money that he had inherited, playing the stock market. He spent his afternoons tending to his roses, or hydrangea, or lilies, or daffodils, hyacinths, irises and tulips, according to their season. He put up a large, white fence around his large, two-acre backyard and a hedge running around his property at the front of his house. He always had his curtains drawn, so that no one could look in. He had his many-roomed house and property properly secured with the proper alarm systems, surveillance cameras, and so on. He had a gardener who came once a week, a cook who came every day during the week, but not on weekends, and a succession of maids, who always left in a hurry, after not tendering their notices.
And he had a wife, whom he nursed with the utmost care and love.
For Fat Teddy’s wife was wheelchair-bound, debilitated by the unrelenting progress of a cruel disease. Fat Teddy loved her dearly, and would do anything for her, despite that she had turned into a horrible shrew, who screamed curses at the maids and threw things at them when she was in a truly desperate mood.
Fat Teddy’s provincial nature was known to all in the neighborhood. He believed that his town was the best, his church was the best, his religion was the best, and his politics were the best. He gave to his charities, to his church, to his political party, and to causes he believed in. He believed that he would need to protect himself and his wife from intruders, and had a burglar alarm installed. He also owned a gun, for which he had a legal license, and in the use of which he had been schooled.
His neighbor, Kevin, who had just moved into the neighborhood a few months ago, would politely say “hello” to him every morning or evening when he saw him in the front yard, which was near the sidewalk, and would try to jog on. Fat Teddy would look up, if he were clipping roses, smile a beaming smile at Kevin, and immediately engage him in chat. Groaning inwardly, poor Kevin, a tall, gentle, beautiful man with the slightest hint of epicanthic folds in his eyes, and elegant eyebrows, would stop and allow himself to be assaulted with a few minutes of absolute stupidity.
“Neighborhood’s going to the dogs, isn’t it?” Fat Teddy would say, cheerfully, not seeing a glassy look come into the eyes of his interlocutor. “First that slant-eyed Chinese couple moved in, and then that Indian family, and now, it’s these Mexicans and Haitians! What happened? I thought America was for the Americans.”
“Mumble,” mumbled the trapped Kevin, himself a product of a mixed marriage between an “American” Englishwoman and a “Chinese” American, as he was forced to listen to his diatribe against “un-American Americans.” He’d gesture at his wristwatch and try to make a quick getaway.
“And what do you think of our President? Seems that we’ve got a bunch of jackasses running the country. What I think we need is a better armed citizenry, don’t you?” Fat Teddy would say, oblivious to the resentful and mutinous look on his listener’s face.
Mostly Kevin couldn’t get a word in, and it didn’t matter that Fat Teddy was wrong — Kevin couldn’t get him to engage with actual facts. He would try to explain about white privilege, or tell Teddy that America had become rich on the backs of the black slaves, or that “‘Mericuns” had come to this country as greedy fur-trading, land-seeking interlopers and had wiped out whole Native American populations, while taking over the land.
Fat Teddy just rode roughshod over Kevin, paying no heed to his weak rejoinders. Kevin would say, “But … have you considered that we stole the land from the Mexicans down in Texas?” or, “The Chinese built much of our railroads on the Pacific side in the 19th century.”
Fat Teddy would stop his torrent briefly, look dismissive, and then continue, “So, what do you think of the weather, huh? Hot enough for ya? I don’t mind telling you, this past winter was so cold, I thought I’d freeze my nuts off the minute I stepped out. How’s that “Global Warming,” for Christ’s sake? That’s Global Freezing. These Climate guys, they’re all in some sort of conspiracy — all ’cause of that ‘oBummer guy, him and his “clean energy.” Bet you a million bucks, they’re planning something.”
“Think my cellphone’s buzzing. Listen, I’ve got to take this one. Nice talking to ya — but I gotta go. Bye!” Kevin would say, as he pulled out his cell phone, pretended to check it and look absorbed, as he walked away, waving his hand.
One day, after hearing Kevin complain for the nth time about Fat Teddy, his wife, Susanna, a well-known newspaper columnist, beautiful, blond, curly-haired, brilliant and very “American” looking (notwithstanding the fact that she had a blond Jewish father and a brown-skinned African-American mother, something Fat Teddy would never understand), said, “Why don’t you tell him directly that he’s driving you crazy with his redneck shit and tell him to shut up? The guy’s a racist bigot, for Pete’s sake. Don’t give him the time of day!”
“I can’t,” protested Kevin, weakly, chopping some basil, as he helped her with the pasta primavera they were making for dinner. “He doesn’t listen to what I say.”
“Be a mensch,” she said, tartly, while decanting the cooked pasta into a bowl. “Just butt right in, and tell it like it is.”
“Nah! Not worth it. I’ll just avoid walking down that way, when I go walking in the mornings,” replied Kevin.
Kevin tried avoiding that route, but knew he couldn’t avoid it all the time. Besides, he liked that particular route. The flowers cheered him up.
Neither he nor Susanna knew about Teddy’s wife being wheelchair-bound. All they knew was that Fat Teddy had a wife and that she was ailing and reclusive. The maids who had come and gone seemed to be South-East Asian, and didn’t speak with the neighbors. The cook came during the hours they weren’t home, and the gardener who came once a week was … Mexican.
One hot summer day, Fat Teddy was outside, soaking up the sun, clipping his most favorite rose-bush, pruning a little here and a little bit there. He liked playing gardener, and it gave him a quiet sensation, which, if he had been pressed to describe it, he would have compared to happiness.
He loved this rose-bush. It gave him solace. He would never speak of it, but here was where his heart had found its peace.
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Continued below on September 29th, 2015:
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Today, as he clipped, and watered and tidied his beloved rose-bush, he felt a strange pain in his chest. Out of breath as he always was, he thought it’s just a stitch, and sat back on a large, smooth rock on which were inscribed the letters RM, next to the rosebush. His mind was vacant, and his mouth hung somewhat open at such times. His large, bulbous grey eyes mirrored the sky above him. Looking up, he saw thunderclouds.
The pain increased, like a vice squeezing him. He made a low moan, and slumped over the rosebush, holding his chest, breathing stertorously.
Rose, he thought.
It was a Saturday at 8:30 in the morning.
Kevin came up, jogging, ear buds on. He didn’t hear Fat Teddy. He passed by with a wave of the hand. Fat Teddy did not see him.
It didn’t strike Kevin as odd that Fat Teddy was slumped over until he had gone about twenty-five feet. Then, he stopped abruptly. Without thinking twice, he ran back, shoving his ear buds in his pockets as he ran, and called out to Fat Teddy. A faint groan came from the man. Kevin whipped out his iPhone, called 911 and the local Emergency Medical Services. By the time they arrived, Fat Teddy was unconscious. They put a mask on him, applied CPR, and got him breathing. His eyelids fluttered open, and he held out a hand to Kevin, who immediately went over, and took it. Fat Teddy said, “My wife … tell her, please,” then closed his eyes. Kevin asked the ambulance driver where they were taking Fat Teddy. They named the hospital, the best in the country, told him he had done everything just right, called him a good citizen, and drove away.
Now, with the flashing lights and banshee siren of the ambulance dopplering away from him, he found himself shaking. His heart raced, and he found himself thinking, I hope the old geezer doesn’t die. I’ve become fond of him. Recollecting himself, he remembered Teddy’s wife. I wonder why we’ve never see her, he thought, and went up the steps to Fat Teddy’s house,which was perched like an eyrie high above the others in the neighborhood.
He rang the bell. There was no answer. He pounded the door. There was no answer. Turning the knob, he went in cautiously, now wondering what he would find.
He didn’t have long to wonder. A loud, accusing voice assaulted his senses when he entered the room whose windows were completely draped in deep red curtains, shutting out the loud morning light. His eyes took a moment to adjust, and he saw near the back wall a thin, resentful-looking woman with startling blue eyes, and ice-white hair sitting in a wheelchair.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Where’s my Teddy? Get out of here!” All of this was said in an uninterrupted stream of vitriol.
“Ma’am, I’m Kevin from down the street. Your husband is seriously ill — they’ve taken him to the hospital. That was what the noise on the street was a few minutes ago.”
The old woman took a deep breath, and said, now weakly, “My Teddy is ill? What happened?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you sure someone didn’t beat him up or something? Those blacks moving into the neighborhood, and those Indians — can’t trust those brown-skinned savages!”
“No, Mrs … er … what shall I call you?” he asked, mentally shoring up his indignation against the onslaught of her horribleness.
“You may call me nothing. And I haven’t had my tea yet. Teddy should have thought of me first. And the maid isn’t in on the weekends. Who’ll take care of me?” And she moaned, rocking to and fro in distress.
In spite of his rising dislike of her, Kevin felt sorry for her. He said, “Tell me the maid’s number, and I’ll call her. Don’t worry. I’ll pay. Please don’t distress yourself.”
The old woman pointed to a little black notebook near the telephone. “Her name’s Evangeline Mendez — she’s one of those Filipinas the Agency sends me every time I need a new maid. The number is on the front page, not under “M” — it’s for emergencies. And mind you wipe the phone with one of those wipes from this box on the table. I can’t have your germs all over my telephone.”
Kevin called the number, suppressing his irritation. He was willing to overlook people’s intolerant attitudes, unlike his sharp-witted, impatient Susanna; he loved that about her, though — it balanced him out. Besides, Susanna was kind. If she had been here, she’d have done the same as me, only with a lot of back talk, he thought.
As he listened to the rings, he scanned the mantelpiece, on which were photographs of a young woman and young man, looking proud and happy. Upon second glance, he realized it was a picture of Fat Teddy and his wife. There was another picture of them with a baby in Fat Teddy’s arms. Beside that was a photograph of a radiant young woman.
An accented voice answered on the fifth ring. He asked for Evangeline. It was she. He told her what had happened, and promised to pay her twice her daily wage if she could come and spend the whole of Saturday with the old woman, and leave on Sunday morning. Even as he spoke, he laughed at himself for doing all this, and for what? Still, one cannot ignore one’s conscience.
The person on the other end hesitated for a long time, chatted with an unseen person on the other end, then said, yes, she could come in half an hour. He hung up.
“Evangeline will be here in half an hour. I’ll wait with you. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, about time! Yes, a cup of tea. One spoon of sugar. Milk. And get me a cookie from the jar near the kitchen window,” answered the old woman.
Kevin went in, found the tea, sugar, milk, started the kettle, and called Susanna, letting her know what had happened, and where he was. She was completely silent for a minute, and Kevin found himself getting nervous. Then, he heard her laugh and laugh.
“You’re a complete idiot, you know that? And I love you for it! Do you want me to come over, and protect you from the old harridan? She sounds quite terrifying,” she said.
“No, I’ll manage, sweetie! Thanks for not getting mad at me for doing this. It’s a pain, but there it is. They’re our neighbors.” He told her he’d return once the maid got there, told her he loved her, and hung up.
“What’s taking you so long?” yelled an angry voice from the other room.
He didn’t answer, just put the mug of steaming, milky, sweet tea, the cookie and a napkin on a tray and carried it to the old woman, who glanced at it, didn’t thank him, and began sucking tea in great gulps from the mug, her eyes never leaving him.
Kevin gestured to the picture on the mantelpiece, and said, “That’s a lovely photograph of you and your husband. Where was it taken? And you have a daughter?”
“I’ll thank you to keep your questions to yourself, mister,” snapped the old woman, but he detected her eyes filling with tears.
Tactfully, he looked away, pretended to read texts on his cellphone, tried to block out the noise of the woman crunching on the cookie, and waited for Evangeline the maid, who finally arrived, duffel bag in hand, flustered and upset.
She also looked a little apprehensive, he thought.
“Do you need help?” he asked Evangeline at the door, after he’d said goodbye to the old woman, who had merely nodded, and muttered something that might have been Thanks!
“No, it’s just … she yell a lot, and accuse me of stealing things,” whispered Evangeline. “I plan give notice on Monday, and now … this!”
He told Evangeline his address, and said he’d bring her money over in the evening. He told her he was going to visit the old man at the hospital. She thanked him, and said, “You’re a good man — not many like you.”
Then, he left.
He went home, where Susanna was waiting. She put some coffee on, while he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her over and over again. She tasted of honey and caramel, he thought. They danced around the kitchen for a few minutes, and he inhaled the fragrance of her curly hair, thinking how fortunate he was to have her in his life, and how glad he was that she was not an old shrew. And yet … that old woman had once been a vibrant, lovely young woman once, and her husband still loved her.
He told Susanna what he thought. She laughed, and said, “And what if I get a horrid disease, and become ugly and mean. Would you still love me, and cherish me?”
He raised an eyebrow, and said, “Is that even a question?”
Then, she got serious, and said, “You know, the old coot doesn’t seem like a cartoon character any more, does he? I feel bad, somehow, for him. And I wonder what happened to their daughter? She probably couldn’t stand them, and left.”
“It’s not for us to speculate, sweetheart, you know that,” Kevin said.
“Why ever not?” she tossed back, but they moved on to other matters after that.
He showered and called the hospital, but they told him that the old man was undergoing an Emergency Angioplasty, and would be able to receive visitors for six hours. He sighed, and hung up.
Later, he couldn’t concentrate on anything that afternoon and early evening. Susanna was out with one of her newspaper buddies, and wouldn’t be back until later that evening.
He watered his garden, and tried to read The New York Times, but gave it up. It bothered him that the old man was in the hospital and there was no one but himself to check on the old curmudgeon. It bothered him that he hadn’t known until now that Fat Teddy’s wife was in a wheelchair. It bothered him that she hadn’t told him her name. It bothered him that they had a daughter whom they didn’t acknowledge.
He checked his watch, called the hospital, asked for the old man who had come in for an angioplasty that morning, and was told that Mr. Marino was awake ,and ready to receive only family members.
“There’s no family! His wife is wheelchair-bound. I’m his neighbor. I’m the one who called the EMT guys. Can I visit, or not?” he asked, somewhat snappish at having to go through all this.
There was some chat off-phone on the other end, and a perky woman’s voice said, “Yes, of course, Mr. Lee, you may visit.”
And so it was that around 6:00 that evening, after paying the maid, and making sure that Mrs. Marino was comfortable (she was less grouchy now that she’d had her needs attended to), Kevin Lee found himself at the old man’s bed. Fat Teddy gave him a two-thumbs up, and a wide grin, and said in a somewhat weaker version of his booming voice, “Come sit down, sit down! Good of you to visit. That was a scare, hahn? It was good that these guys got workin’ on me right away. If it hadn’t been for you …” and his voice trailed off, and a little fear crept around his eyes. He resumed, “I cannot die, I cannot. My wife … did you see her? Did you talk to her? What did she say?”
Kevin told him what he’d done, and Fat Teddy nodded and looked pleased. “I’ll pay you back what you paid the maid. You know, one of the surgeons who worked on me was one of them Indians. I wasn’t too pleased about it at first, but they tell me he is one of the finest in the world. What can you do? Well, I sure am glad he did what he did for me.”
Kevin leaned over and asked the question that had been burning him up, “You know, I’m curious. I didn’t know you had a kid. I saw that lovely photograph of her. Where’s your daughter now?”
Fat Teddy’s face grew dark, and his eyes filled with tears. He looked agitated, and his mouth trembled. Instantly regretting his question, Kevin said, hastily, “It’s all right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Fat Teddy said nothing for a moment, then whispered, “Rose, my Rose, why did you leave us? Why?”
An unimaginable tragedy hung in the air between them.
Kevin looked around, desperate to change the topic. “Would you like some water? Can I get you something?”
“No, no, it’s all right,” said Fat Teddy. “She died. She ran off and married a black man, and then, they got themselves killed in a car wreck. Stupid shit was driving too fast. I was driving after them. I was going to kill him with my gun. Good thing he died before that.” He stopped, looking a little shocked at himself. “Anyway, I don’t want to remember that. It hurts my heart. My daughter is dead. She was my Rose, our Rose, so full of life, so beautiful, and she left us.” He paused, and his voice shook a little. “Look, I want to thank you … and I don’t even know your last name!”
“My name is Lee, Kevin Lee.”
“What kind of name is that? Lee?”
“It’s Chinese, Mr. Marino. My father was half-Chinese.”
There was a silence in the room.
Mr. Marino looked around vaguely and said, “World’s changing, huh? All this melting pot stuff? It’s not bad, is it? I mean, I like you, and you saved my life, and you’re Chinese, for cryin’ out loud. And that Indian surgeon, and that other colored doctor who was there too. Mind you, I’d swear my colored nurse here’ll kill me if I’m not looking, but still. She’s neat, she’s clean. She’s good at her job. You know what? I’m glad you live down the street.”
Kevin rolled his eyes mentally, sighed internally, and said, “I’m glad as well that you live down the street, Mr. Marino. Maybe we’ll have you over for dinner. I’ll have to warn you though, my wife’s half-black, half-Jewish. Can your heart stand that?”
Mr. Marino laughed loudly, and set a machine beeping. A black nurse came running into the room, and looked stern.
He stopped laughing. She shook her finger at him, and said to Kevin, “Don’t excite him. He’s weak after surgery. You be good now, Mr. Marino.” She adjusted his sheets, patted him on the arm, and left. Mr. Marino looked rather shaken by all this kindness.
Kevin smiled to himself a little, waved goodbye, and promised to come the next morning, and take him home.
As he shut the door, he thought he heard the old man whisper Rose, my Rose!
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Tags: #Family, #kindness, #Life, #Love, #Original Short Story by Vijaya Sundaram, devotion, disability, duty, neighborliness, Prejudice, racism
Dec 5, 2014 Original Poetry
Photo-Credit (Unknown, but here’s the source where I got it from:
http://dabacon.org/pontiff/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Reflection_in_a_soap_bubble_edit.jpg
Without End
©December 5, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
A perfect sphere,
Encapsulating house and trees
And trees and house
And blue so intense
It might break but for the violet
Which edges that without edges:
It floats, delicate and
Precise and ready
To disappear.
And it does.
And I mourn its passing,
But rejoice in its brief
Eternity.
Why, then, must I fear
The end of my bubble?
All my troubles
And joys and pain
And loss and gain
And a future which
Must appear
Whether I fear
Or not, will be
Captured in that
One perfect moment,
Until I
Disappear …
As I, too, must.
So, while you mourn my passing
Rejoice in my brief
Eternity, as I shall
Rejoice
In yours.
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Tags: #Death, #Life, #Original Poem by Vijaya Sundaram, bubble, Reflections
Oct 24, 2014 Original Poetry
E Pluribus Unum or A Brush with The Ego
©October 24, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Muted voices, many minds
Jostling, moving in an abyss,
Vie for recognition
Vie for space
Vie for sound.
One of many,
I jostle, and am jostled.
Yesterday,
In blind darkness
Unseeing, flailing,
Bodiless, falling,
I felt the void
Cradling me.
If this is death,
So be it, I thought.
If this is life,
I won’t have it, I muttered.
One of many
You melt and re-shape
The me I knew.
Why? I ask.
You answer:
Out of many, one.
No!
Smelt me, slag me
Cut me, drag me
Back into the me
I used to be.
Take the unused bits,
Make them fit someone
Else, then!
I never want
To see her or him.
He or she is the Many.
You might be the Many, too.
I am always the One.
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Tags: #Death, #Life, e pluribus unum, ego, many, one, solipsism
Sep 22, 2014 Original Poetry
What Words?
©September 22nd, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
What words can we say
When a young person dies,
When anyone dies?
I’m so sorry doesn’t cut it.
Deep sympathies doesn’t, either.
The world rushes by, myopic
And meaningless,
While a mother and a father,
And a sibling or two
Stand, bewildered, static
Amidst a whirl of meaningless
Heartfelt chatter, while
The patter of feet
Come in and out,
And death stands
Eternally by their side,
Silent, spare, sorrowing.
Death comes with quiet foot
Or a skid of tyres
Death comes with a twist of fate
Or the twist of a knife
Death creeps up and stings
Or bites down hard
On a fatal vein.
Death blooms, red and angry
In one’s blood and slashes
Left and right, clearing a
Path only it knows.
Sometimes, there’s pain,
Sometimes, a flash,
Then, nothingness.
So, I imagine it.
What if it isn’t any of these?
What if it’s the eternal squeeze
Of life, oozing out toothpaste-like,
Pain so piercing
There are no words,
Just living it, crying,
Living the dying:
THAT has to be
The apex of agony.
Would dying be easy?
Would I want to go, unresisting?
No! I’d say, give me one more chance
Just one more!
I promise I’ll do it right this time.
And a remorseless Judge
Would say, Yea or Nay.
Of course, that’s if you believe.
What if you don’t?
What would you say, then?
Better to be scattered
Atoms of one’s self
Entering into the inmost
Secrets of existence.
I’d say.
Better to be photons
Better to become
Lighter than air
And ascend.
And descend,
And ascend again
And again, that ladder
From DNA to Death.
To feel is a curse.
Lift that curse,
I want to say, and yet,
I cling to it, for it
Is all I know, for it
Is all that any of us
Will ever know we know.
And so, we say,
I’m so sorry
Because, somewhere, hidden,
Our blood-cells know
About this remorseless
Yet familiar stranger,
Death.
And we grieve
For the living,
For ourselves,
Once the dead
Have fled.
________________________________________________________________________
Tags: #Life, #Loss, DNA, Dying, Living, photons, Words in the face of Death
Dec 7, 2013 Uncategorized
Tags: #Life, #Original Poetry, #Singing, dancing, existence, fleeting life, Triumph
Oct 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
Straightening Up — A Short Love Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
October 22nd, 2013
The day had been bad. A butterfly fluttered in her breast feebly, the last throes of love.
She stumbled up to her apartment, fumbling with the keys, turning the lock, opening the door, shutting it, falling to the floor.
How much feeling is too much?
Her breathing shallow, she took a few steps into her kitchen.
All around her, the evening hummed. Street noises floated up. Somewhere, the elevator groaned and shuddered to a halt. Somewhere, far below, a truck snorted and lurched, tires skidding. Somewhere, ocean waves crashed against escarpments. An acrid smell pierced the air, heavy with smoke and sunset.
She leaned over the sink, her vision blurred and moist. Reaching into her cupboard, she picked the china mug which she had bought many moons ago in the company of the person she had just left. It had pretty patterns all around it — and it reminded her of being a young girl who went for pretty, inconsequential things, simply because they pleased her. She turned on the tap, and filled the mug, then sat down at her little kitchen table and stared through the tall glass kitchen window down at the street below.
The clock steadily ticked one eternity after another. It echoed in her head and made her neck stiffen, and made her grit her teeth.
Everything in her life spelled futility and despair. With two brothers and a sister firmly ensconced in upper-middle-class mobility and self-assuredness, she knew she was doomed. No one seemed to understand that she saw through all of the illusions around her.
Wherever she went, she saw hollow bodies filled with dreams that had turned sour, and where they weren’t, because they were children, she saw what might come.
Because they all pointed to death.
Yes, yes, true, there might be meaning, and there might be hope, and there might be love and laughter and light and all the rest of it, but that’s not what she saw. She didn’t see the face of it all. She saw the back of it all.
And then, she saw it all topple into an endless black hole, into the spinning space inside the event horizon.
Her head was a hollow place. She longed to forget. What did the poet write in his over-dramatic hysterical piece about a bird that had wandered into his home? Ah, yes, respite, respite and nepenthe. That was what she craved.
She downed the water, and walked into her bedroom. Ah, the familiar mess — clothes on the bed, clothes piled high on the armchair, clothes in danger of creating life forms on the floor. Despite herself, she smiled grimly. Despair and futility was all very well, but there was one unassailable fact that was always true in her life — laundry that awaited her.
It doesn’t do to be untidy. Being in despair and being in a mess shouldn’t be synonymous, she thought.
She set about folding the clean clothes and putting them away in neat stacks in her dresser. She piled the dirty clothes into the laundry hamper. She picked up books (in stacks under the clothes) and placed them lovingly and attentively back on the shelf. She picked up a bowl of congealed oatmeal which she’d left in a hurry in her bedroom that morning before setting off to her editorial desk at work. She made a face at the cold mess of oatmeal, ate it anyway, then rinsed the bowl and placed it in the dishwasher. She rinsed the stacks of dirty dishes in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. Adding the dish-washing liquid, she started the dishwasher. The hum of it soothed her and straightened her back a little. Humming tunelessly along with it, she walked around, picking up things, cleaning surfaces, running the vacuum lightly over everything. She went into the bathroom, and scrubbed the sink and wiped the floor with a mop. She picked up bits of hair and put them in the dustbin. She straightened up all her bits and pieces of toiletry. She cleaned the toilet till it sparkled. She scrubbed the tub till it gleamed like a newly whitened tooth.
She straightened her bedroom, and turned on the lights one by one. She lit a delicately scented candle (not overwhelming, just a hint of lemongrass and perhaps, lavender), and turned to the big picture window.
She saluted the world ironically.
Then, she went back to her bathroom, drew a hot bath, and stepped into it, luxuriating in the warmth. At least I can wallow in despair while I wallow in comfort and warmth, she thought emptily.
She toweled herself dry, while listening to the strangled gurgling of the bath-water as it swirled down into the underworld. Musical, though unfocused, thought her critical mind. She rinsed and wiped down the tub, washed her hands, sprayed some rose-water around her in a mist, dried her hair, and put on a robe of pale yellow silk.
The whole time, her mind stayed empty. She tried not to think of anyone, least of all, a certain person whom she had resolutely not thought about the whole day.
Then, after putting on a CD of Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny titled “Beyond the Missouri Sky,” she made her bed with clean and fresh sheets. She piled the contents of the laundry hamper into the washer, added detergent and turned it on. While she waited for the clothes to wash, she made some phone calls, canceling services. She went over her bills carefully, and made online payments on all of them. She checked her bank-account, and transferred all of her money to her mother’s account.
The washer stopped. Good. She took her clothes, put them into the dryer, and set it for one hour.
Then, she rummaged in her work-bag, and checked to make sure that she had a certain letter she had typed earlier in the day in her presentation folder. She had it. She looked it over for errors. Damn! There was one. She took a blue pencil and circled it, and wrote one word over it – Sorry. She placed the letter in an envelope, and sealed it neatly, propping it between the salt and pepper shakers.
She took out a book by her favorite author and started to read. An hour in, she heard the horrendous squawk of the dryer signaling the end of the cycle. She sighed, put the book down and went to get the clothes. She folded the last of them and put them away neatly.
Her mind was completely empty. Somewhere, a butterfly fluttered within her, but she felt quite distant from it.
She went to the bathroom, found some pills that she had set aside, and washed them down with water.
Then, she went and lay down in her bed, covering herself to stay warm. She craved warmth. It was all that remained in her now-diminished list of needs. There was one more.
She hesitated. Came to a decision. Made one last phone call.
A voice answered, somewhat cranky and tired. She said, “Hello? Goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.” Then, she hung up, and laid her head on the pillow. She was comfortable. She had eaten and drunk. She had put away her stuff, and had cancelled her services. She had taken care of any debts. She was done.
She closed her eyes and waited for tears to come. None came. Good, she thought, no regrets.
How much feeling is too much?
A butterfly fluttered into the stars and burst into a million points of light.
Darkness spread its wings and flapped hard, and covered everything, but the points smashed their heads against it, as they struggled to break through, finally streaking out like lines of escape, carrying with it the smothered scream of a butterfly trying to breathe.
And so, her love struggled, frail and brittle, against the huge, crashing wave of doubt and despair, as everything drowned in its wake.
Some of the dust from the disaster floated around her, supernovae of sadness.
“I loved you,” whispered the dust.
The darkness answered, “But not enough.”
Suddenly, the telephone rang. It rang and rang and rang. A little while later, a door opened.
There was a fluttering in the room. The candle still burned.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Life, #Love and Death, #Original Short Story, despair and hope, love and life
May 7, 2013 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Reading, Writing, Thinking, Teaching and Learning
Ruminations
(Not too earth-shattering or terribly original, but what I thought of today)
©Vijaya Sundaram
May 7th, 2013
It seems so obvious, somehow, when one puts it baldly, thus: One has to have a meaning, a purpose in life. If there isn’t one, find one. If we cannot find one, look elsewhere. If we still cannot find one, create it. That’s it.
If the meaning and purpose come from a place of emptiness, then one’s actions are empty at best, and harmful at worst. That’s where we get the Dzhokhars and the Tamerlans. That’s where we get empty men with hungry souls emptying their weapons into innocent and hapless people. Adrift without meaning and purpose, the empty ones fill their emptiness with rage, religion and false notions of honor. Killing is the ultimate worst expression of that emptiness.
If we act with mixed motives, our lives will crumble, and we will create confusion in the lives of those around us. No one will benefit in the end, and all of us will be unhappy. I did all this for them, how come they don’t appreciate what I do? is the question that haunt those who act with mixed motives. Or: I don’t mind sacrificing my needs for others. Really! Confusion and anger come from these, and ultimately, disappointment and bitterness.
If our motives are clear and obvious, and we are not working only for our own benefit, but for the benefit for all, our lives will be the richer. As a great soul once purportedly said, “What you do to the least of my brothers, you do unto me.” Interconnectedness is everything in the web of our lives. Self-expression and service to others work only if both come from a place of joy and love. Clarity is the result.
If we work with purpose and true motivation, and we are doing it from interest and a willingness to learn, and a willingness to be vulnerable to failure, our lives will be the richer, and so will the lives of those around us.
If we act from moral strength and purpose, and our actions are real and obvious extensions of our intentions, and there is no self-aggrandizement detectable in our actions, our lives will reflect that. And inexplicably, others’ lives will be affected — positively.
Meaning and purpose germinate in such grounds as these.
It is the job of teachers and parents, and of the policy-makers to help create a world with meaning and purpose. If, instead, we create a generation devoid of true self-hood, but made up of selfishness instead, we are committing societal suicide.
Create meaning. Help and hold each other as we cross the treacherous terrain of existence. It’s in the reaching out and the holding that we find the poetry of living, the art in life.
Ultimately, a true artist or poet does art or writes poetry for its own sake, because it’s beautiful and because it makes her or him happy. Artists or poets don’t look for rewards or recognition (although they wouldn’t refuse it if it came their way). They bring others pleasure, but they do it unintentionally. They come from a place of truth.
Make your life a work of art. Make poetry. Make truth. Make love happen. Make the act of living, both for yourself and for others, a beautiful thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Clarity, #Life, #Love, #Poetry, #Truth, Art, Beauty, honor, interconnectedness, meaning, self-expression, self-hood vs. selfishness, service, Teaching the young
Apr 25, 2013 Original Poetry
Abandoning
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 25th, 2013
At the moment of abandoning all,
One feels relief.
Like dropping one’s backpack
And troubles at the door
When one comes home from school.
Or unhooking that bra
And tossing it over a chair
And sinking, boneless
Into the same chair,
Staring, slack-jawed
And unambitiously into
A happy space.
Or like dumping a job that
Has grown like a forest
All around one’s body,
With clinging vines and
Dark underbrush, with
Snakes crawling about.
At the moment of abandoning all,
One feels relief.
If only that feeling
Could sustain itself over the ache
And terror, or weariness
And more tasks
That are sure
To follow!
It’s a sister to that other feeling:
Falling in love.
Dizzying and breathless
Heart-bursting and
Empty-stomached,
Weightless, feathery
In a buffeting wind.
Or like a blazing fire
That starts with a little match
Match-making!
If only that feeling
Could sustain its white-hot
Fire, over the cooling winds
That follow!
It’s a brother to that other feeling:
That of letting go of life,
And whirling, leaf-like
Into blackness.
Weightless again,
Whirling, wind-tossed
Orphaned by life,
Plummeting slowly
And leisurely into death.
If only one could sustain
That mad, exhilaration
That onrush of breathless
Heart-extinguishing
Joy over the vast
Unending desolation
That is sure to follow!
Perhaps, I just need
Some sunlight right now —
A light-hearted stepping out
Into the luminescent evening —
And chase away the shadows.
I know the shadows will wait.
That’s all right — I’m clever.
I can out-wait them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Death, #Life, #Love, #NaPoWriMo, #Waiting, Abandoning, letting go, patience, relief, sustain
Apr 16, 2013 Current Affairs / General Interest, Original Poetry
For the Sake of Life Itself
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 16th, 2013
Call me a coward.
I didn’t tell my eight-year old
That an eight-year old died
Yesterday, standing, waiting
To cheer the people who ran.
And his father, who might have run,
But did not, on that fateful day,
Can run and run from now
Until the end of time
And never catch up.
And the beautiful child that son
Must have been (for how could he be otherwise?)
Died in mid-cheer.
He was eight years old.
He held a poster that said,
“No more hurting people. Peace.”
His name was Martin.
How can one explain such a thing
And how can one still stay intact?
For, in that moment when the world blew up
And an eight-year old flew into the air,
Becoming one with the stars and the atoms,
One broke into a million fragments.
But we carry on, for all the other
Children, who wait for us, eyes wide with trust
Believing that there are good people among us.
And we turn to them, in relief and grief.
And I turn to my beautiful
Angel-child, for the sake of love,
For the sake of all the little ones,
And for the sake of life itself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Life, #Love, #NaPoWriMo, Boston Marathon, children, eight-year old, grief