diary of an amnesiac
nimmy joshi
I want to remember just this one moment of you. On a scale of human emotion, already limited, I stand between negative to further negative. So I do not want a you from future or past. I am extreme. And that’s exactly why I want more contrast. Can’t you understand? I want to remember you right here standing far away from me, thinking about me just when NOT reading and NOT working. But you find time at lunch break. I want to kiss when we are sober.
Sensuous though they may be, it is not appropriate for a bride to let her hair loose. In an age when people do not know the art of speech I love a man who loves sarcasm. How fortunate!
Payback-time, I suppose.
Noticed the similiarity between the marriage procession and death procession? To dog pound or to the adoption agency? I have been out on the streets too long. No adoption for me, thank you.
In this never ending cycle of failure and rediscovery, when exactly does The Snake bite its own tail? It needs to do work. Always. It needs the undeath of wisdom passed on with Oratory. These memories are so unreliable. And sculpting on the walls of the stone caves is long out of the list of Essential Skills to Live. What do YOU think is most important? To do, to ask or to think. Finale is a strong illusion though. But just how unthinkable is it to believe that failure is after all the prelude and the overture. Who cares about the interlude anyway, right? One thing leads to another. You think, you wonder and you’re amused at the naiveté. Or is it deliberate?
I am sure my notebook and your laptop have 100s of unfinished pieces. Maybe complete in themselves anyhow. Like frozen bits of time. And they have 100 incomplete sentences in them. And the lines are all complete. Justified and neatly trimmed.
Why do you think we have an order for people descending onto a lifeboat.
Children. Differently abled. Then? Women. Then? Old people/aged people. First women then men. Are we being politically incorrect? Chivalry is not dead. Not appreciated either. It will have to drain itself down the pipe.
So you pose a question. And it is ironic that you do not want me to have an option. In this day when people are unaware of the art of speaking, I fall in love with men who love sarcasm. How fortunate! The sort who loved posing questions against my virtual existence. What do flesh and blood mean anyway? So many codes and so many rules. Like the fall collection of fabric on the ramp. No one really keeps it, or buys it. They just enjoy it, in the moment, in the crescendo of all human communions. The messiah has spoken about them that they are unmate-able. They giggle too much. They are too imperfect.
Do questions cease after death?
Lend me your ears, and occasionally your eyes. I see things before I hear them. Like lightening. But even before that I get the scent. So, I cannot sleep on the same bed as you.
Do not mistake. I can sense things because I am shallow at most things. And the things I am not shallow about are the things whose scent and feel register the deepest in my mind. Like the scarlet face of the Goddess Durga on the yellow bright packets of Dhoop.
You laugh at the most inopportune moments, at wrong unlikely times. I love it.
Back in my village they give a teak wood bed as dowry for every new bride. And a box full of Alta, Saree, and Jasmine Oil. And she shows nothing but the silver wrapped feet, the kohl lined eyes, the supple and smooth curve of her stomach. No one noticed the tiny little bump. But I know.
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