Excuse me, please.
The world I had known, Things I was sworn; I shudder at the thought of being reborn.
Akin to my 'High Holy Days', Sundays are usually rummy. Days
when I laze around and watch a fly, a squirrel and cobwebs go about rummaging
the sacred corners of my house while I loaf in the couch. A day when even an
asinine "Hi Handsome" commercial rendered in that
hey-Tom-look-I'm-a-bomb voice of a desperado, which on other days could twitch
the inner linings of my stomach in revulsion, seems to echo with no immediate
chain reaction. And precisely, the day when even an open faced Satyamev
Khan serving pork tenderloins as moral laxative and pushing it down my
stoned oesophagus doesn't succeed in turning my stomach. (Now you see why they
picked a Sunday for moral purgatory? Hell, yeah. It's a rummy day!) Dash it!
Where's my conscience?
My conscience, eh? So I've been scouring the pages of "River
of Smoke" and like Opium is what Opium does, I am halfway through
Deeti's sacred shrine in 1838 Mareech. Fisch! I could see my conscience etched
there: rings of smoke in a wraith-like grin. Years later, the grin would
seemingly convey my last words to this world: "Oh, you were such a waste
of time." This reminds me of my younger days when I could barter my soul
to be Eliot's Macavity - the scheming mystery cat. I'd twaddle
around my hostel corridor several nights, join the clan in their late night
tuck-hunts, delineate the moves, objectives and space: sway my head from side
to side, focus my third eye on the Matron's room, walk stealthily across the
corridor to some prospective cupboard ( occasional giggles, pardon me) and turn
the master key. Later, they had me pegged as a fiend who'd "broken every
human law and breaks the law of gravity". Once, summoned to the
Principal's office, I owned up the crime (although when they reached the scene
of crime, Macavity wasn't there.) and had to kneel down post assembly to the
sunshine of many a foe. Mr X, quite a hit among the women folk for his full
mouth Australian looks, breezily smirked: "So girl, you stole a pack of
Uncle Chips? Next time, consider me." I smiled flippantly while my head
spun with ideas of shipping him to Castle Black. “Say what again! Say
what again! I double dare you. Steal? I’ll hunt you down and feed you your testicles,” my conscience let out a Gin Rummy. Sixteen years later, on this
idle Sunday afternoon, I could see that rebel conscience in Deeti's shrine on a
graying tower alone on the sea.
My spirit, which had hitherto been wilting, suddenly perks
up. My ailing phone reminds me of a friend who'd be visiting late in the
evening. I dash out in a jiffy with my little boy to fetch some meat. My mind
trips a corner and the indicator goes right for left. And then buoy, I do rummy
things (more like a good film which starts badly and never recovers) and I get
to Shad's.
Out of evil cometh good or something like that and I do reach this meaty little
'Middle East' I discovered a month ago. I must tell you - they make better Haleem
and anything mutton than other Islamic quarters of the world. Well, let's not
stretch - it is, indeed, delectable. The best pull - they let you taste (in
fact, they aver you try) a spoonful or two of every palatable sin right there
in the menu. So I take away a goblin's share and rush back. Rummy does things.
Our buddy powwow is a topping and ends with an edited
version of “The Rain Song”. As if to draw an adequately dreamy parallel, drops
of rain thump the window sill in rhapsody. I swear rummy things while my boy
sings with the lark. Brim-full of gladness and love, we
dribble-dribble-dribble. As we say 'Night, night!’ Plant splits me up and completely pours me out: “This is the mystery of the quotient – upon us all a little rain
must fall.” Absolutely! I declare rummy with this run of an ace, conscientiously. Ace it!
The world I had known, Things I was sworn; I shudder at the thought of being reborn.
