When I Die

I'm Glad. Certainty. My House

Dedication
Before everything else, this: Pita , you rock, m'am! When it comes to the real deal, real people, one-on-one, I'm always at a loss for words like I am now, and just about the only word I can think of that makes any kind of sense is this: thanks. I want you know that that thanks comes from a very sincere, very honest, very clear heart. Love you, GOD. Really do.

***

1. I'm Glad

Here's a truth: I'm feeling fine.

Here's a bigger truth: I'm not lying.

Pink Floyd sang about coming back to life on their last album. I think I know now why it was their last album. It's because they really did come back to life. And that when they did, they found they had nothing left to sing about. Everything they had known--sorrow, depression, regret, abuse--was over. They'd forgotten it all, buried it all.

I think that's how it is with me. I'm coming back to life.

And what helped me the most wasn't really a miracle, but in a way... it was. I've always found a lot of comfort in music--hearing and composing it fills me with a exquisite ecstacy I've always found unreal. As if I might lose it in time; that this much joy can't possibly be good; that there's no damn reason why someone like me deserves this much joy. In most ways, music is my love.

But something amazing's happened: over the past year, slowly, calmly, writing's become my love as well.

I used to long for those music sessions when I would sit at my computer and compose. I used to do it losing track of all time. There was just me and the music. And we were soaring up together.

That's what's happening with writing now. I find myself tapping and striking away at my keyboard and before I know it I've got a few pages of story and the clock's saying I've been tapping away for at least a few hours.

I'm coming back to life, and music's one reason why. But it's not the only one.

I've been a reader all my life, and sometimes I couldn't understand whatever possessed those writers to make them sit down and type their wonderful tales. Made me wonder how they could get through all the back breaking work without complaining of cramped muscles and fatigued fingers. I know now. It was love. It is love.

They all told their tales because they had to. Because they'd come to love the time they spent in their imaginary landscapes. They did it to forget the real world for a while. Forget their worries and care about someone else's problems. Someone who, at least for the length of the tale, is real. And in a good story, is real long after the tale is over.

That's how it is with me, now. I've heard that people do a heck of a lot of crazy things to forget. They drink, smoke, do drugs, trip out, have sex, vomit... but I'd like to tell them something today: writing helps you forget.

Forget who you are, forget where you are, forget the crazy shit that happened in your life, forget just about everything except what's happening in your story and how your words are changing imaginary lives.

I've never wanted to be a writer... and I still don't want to be one. What I mean is I still don't think my tales are good enough to be published in a book. What I mean is that given my current location (India), that's not possible anyway. But one thing I do know now: I'm gonna write. I'm gonna keep doing it even if every goddamn person in the world says I'm actually disgracing the honorable art of writing with my drivel. Love is love and love doesn't recognize anybody else's opinions and doesn't care about them.

All things said and done, I've found something that's clean after a long, long time. I've started to love it. And I think, like my music, I'll keep on doing it even if someone tells me it's pure drivel or if he threatens to rip my goddamn lungs off.

And this place, Writing.com, is a blessing. I'm glad I came here. I'm glad because if I hadn't I never would've found writing. And I don't really know what would've happened when I found out a couple of bad things if Writing.com and everyone at w.com hadn't been there.

I'm glad I found writing.

I'm glad I found Writing.com.

I'm glad.

***

2. Certainty
Mom comes home at seven in the evening, flops her bag on the clumsy sofa, flops herself on the clumsy sofa, looks at me. I smile. It's the best thing I can think of.

"What's the smile 'bout?" she asks.

I think of some wisecrack and decide not to. Rage isn't something we need in our house.

I don't know what my face looks like right now, but she grins. She has a way of grinning that says, "Look here, I'm gonna speak now, you just better listen or I'll do a few things none of us would like talking about on our graves."

"You're all the same," she says.

I'm startled. "Huh?" I mutter.

"You men. You're all the fucking same."

I'm standing right in front of her, and I think she can actually see my knees give way.

Her grin widens. "Same pisspot cowards," she says.

She leans forward, and for a moment I feel she's gonna reach out and slap me like Granny liked to. But she doesn't. Only glares at me. And that's worse than the slapping.

"Always take what you fucking want and leave, don't you? Always dumbfounded when confronted, ain't you? Always so fucking macho, all of you goddamn motherfuckers."

I'm so badly shaken that I start hearing my heartbeats behind my eyeballs. She's used that word, "motherfucker," for the first time.

"You're nothing but goddamn peckers who get it in, spurt it in, get it out and fuck off."

I rail back, find the edge of the table and balance myself.

"Yeah, yeah, truth hurts, poor baby. Truth's a real dog."

"Wuh-what..." I begin and gulp my words when I see she isn't in the mood for listening. Today the professor dictates and lectures.

"Shut up," she says. "You just don't know when to shut up so I'm telling you: shut up."

Okay, Mom.

"Don't try that sissy stuff with me, wiseass. You ain't different from your father..." her voice wavers. "That man... you ain't that different from him."

There's a big ball knocking its way in my throat now. I just want her to talk it out and go away. Or I will. Go away.

I want to defend Dad, to tell her not to talk about him like that, but I don't. Because I'm a sissy and because I don't want a confrontation. You're a loser, a fucking loser, I tell myself. So what, I ask. So fucking what if I am?

She's massages her temples. "Just the same," she whispers. "Just the same. Never should've married him."

It's hurting me. She knows that. It's hurting me and she doesn't want to care.

"Never should've."

I look at her again. That's a mistake.

"Wonder who he's with now. Wonder what kind of bitch'll have him."

I almost protest. Almost.

"Say, sonnyboy, how about you, eh? Started fucking around yet?"

It's breaking me. I'm afraid that if this continues I could burst into tears or burst into anger--none of which would be nice.

Then I see tears spilling out of her eyes and she wipes them off. She peers at me, and I try to brace myself for another hate-filled sermon. But she gets up, walks shakily to the bathroom. I hear the plastic door shut close.

For a second I'm blank. Stunned.

Then I hear the dim hum of water flowing through the tap.

And I think, She's gonna kill herself. Her mother was mad and I'm mad and so is she and she's gonna kill herself. She's gonna fucking do--

I'm at the bathroom door before I know it, calling her out in a voice that's surprisingly loud.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Juh-just come on out, Mom."

Nothing.

"Please?"

Silence.

"Puh-puh-" I never manage to complete the word. Break into sobs.

She opens the door.

I don't look at her face. I don't think I can bear to.

I look at her sandals instead. She hasn't taken them off.

They're black. Shiny.

Then a drop of water dabs on her left sandal.

Another one plops onto the white floor.

I do look at her face.

And she's crying.

The kohl below her eyes blackening her tears.

"What is it?" she whispers, her voice so thin I have to decipher those words.

Then she just lets go. Buries her face in her hands and starts sobbing.

I reach out a hand and touch her cheek. I'm aware that this could do a lot more wrong than good. But I don't think there's anyway I can not do it.

She resists. Shakes her head.

I touch her cheek again.

Shake. Hesitant.

Then she hugs me.

I hug back.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I said, I'm sorry I said those..." her voice is thick and heavy and close.

Her fingers are ruffling my hair, and I don't like that, but right now it's okay.

Then she pulls away, wipes her eyes. Smiles. That smile is beautiful. Bracketed by laugh-lines, that smile is beautiful.

"I just," she begins and I stop her.

She glances me over again, and I'm thinking that whatever she said she didn't mean it didn't mean it didn't mean it.

And that whatever she does I love her, love her, love her.

Her brows crease up, like they do when she catches me watching an old cartoon. "Grow up, sonny," is what usually follows this.

But now, her eyes widen and she says, "You've got a white hair."

My reflexive response is a "No" and both my hands are scanning my hair--as if my fingers have got eyes at their tips.

"Look," she says, wiggles just above my forehead. She pulls a strand out; leaving me with a dying sting.

She holds it in front my eyes. And yes, indeedy-do, it is white.

When I look at her, she's looking at that strand. And her eyes are crossed. I can't help it. I laugh.

She looks at me, her brows raised again ("Grow up, sonny") and then she laughs out.

One of her laughs comes out as a snort. Only, that snort sounds like a fart. And that has me going again.

Her too.

There's water running out of my nose--it always happens when I'm crying. Most of the tears come out from my nose instead of my eyes. And the water mingles into the stubble above my lips and tickles me all over. I reach out my tongue and slurp it all in. Yucky, right. It's salty.

And I'm laughing harder because I'm doing something really icky right in front of my mother. About two-steps away from pushing a finger all the way into your nose; that's how icky it really is, tasting your own mucousy tears.

When the laughter's over, she says, "I'll make some tea. Want some?"

I have tea only once in the morning. And never after that. That rule's as iron-clad as brushing my teeth twice a day.

But I say, "Okay."

She goes to the kitchen, chuckling.

I enter the bathroom and shut the running tap.

The tea's awesome.

So's my Mom.

I know it's childish, but I almost want to ask her if she really meant those bad things she said. I know it's childish. But I still want to ask her. I know she didn't mean them. But I still want to ask her.

I start to. I know it could ruin whatever shaky patch-up deal we've chalked out. But I start to.

Before I say anything, she says, "Had a bad day." Then, raising her empty tea-cup: "Want some more?"

I shake my head side-to-side. "Nuh-huh." And decide to drop that question. There's no point in asking it.

She takes my cup and goes in.

When she returns with her second cup of tea, the phone's ringing.

It's Ash. She wants me at the park gates in half an hour. Sharp.

"Who is it?" Mom asks.

I tell her.

"Go on," she says. "I've got to check some papers." By that she means correcting exam papers. That's a pissant job.

So I leave home. I leave home feeling assured.

Even if it's futile hope, I don't think I really care.

I leave home with the certainty that Mom'll be there when I come back.

With the certainty that things will change. For the better.

And above all, the certainty that we're gonna make it through. Somehow.

We are.

***

3. My House
Welcome, senors and senoritas. No, really, I'm pleased to have you here. I'm beaming, smiling, happy for your graceful presence in my humble sanctuary. Look around, you'll find something to interest you. Look, there, on the shelf, a stack of books, arranged alphabetically, according to the genre. Look, there atop the dining table, a bunch of fake roses. Those bees are real, but they don't bite. They're rather pleasing; their humming soothes.

Look, there's the TV! Turn it on, if you want, the reception's pretty bad, though. Look, beside the small couch, the CD player! I've got a nice collection, and pop something in if you like it. Music's always a blessing.

Oh, some of you really like it here, don't you. Okay, let's leave these people here, the others, follow me into the other room. Look here: a matchbox sits on top of the white table. The table's full of drawers. There's nothing in those drawers except cooking utensils and spices. Peek around, if you want. Oh, m'am, thank you, tea would be most welcome, don't you people agree?

Ah, here's the sink. Don't look in, it's dirty. Behind it, can you see the little white rectangle hanging on the blue wall? It's blank, right? Well, walk around here. Yeah, where I'm standing... oh, yes, you see it now, don't you? It looks like a rabbit, you say? Actually, look properly. It's a fist.

Surprised, are you? That little thing is just a simple trick of light, really. It's made of partially coated shards of glass. Made it when I had nothing else to do.

Let's turn around, walk past the white table where there is no matchbox anymore because our gracious Ms. Green is using it to make tea for all of us. Past the table then, let's turn left. We're heading to the bathroom. Oh, don't worry. It doesn't stink in there. Nor does the john, but that's not where we're going, so don't worry.

This door is new, the old one was wood. It decayed. This one's plastic, though. It's amazing how we're replacing everything with plastic, isn't it? Sometimes, I wonder if someday we'll have plastic husbands and plastic wives... uh, bad joke. Forgive my insolence.

Anyway, look inside. I don't have a tub, have to make do with a shower. But I like the shower anyway. Look, a small cupboard with a mirrored door. Oh, Mr. John, you can go ahead and comb your hair.

Finished? good. Now, I'll open the door.

Look here... a bottle of coconut hair oil on the top shelf. Four toothbrushes. A tube of Colgate Total toothpaste; another one full of Pepsodent Germicheck. Below this, on the lower shelf: I have to make do with the bare essentials. A set of five Gillette Presto razors, a small inverted tube of Godrej Shaving gel, a bottle of smelly aftershave.

Below it... ah, here things get interesting, don't they? At the right, can you see that small crack in the tile? Peer in closer. Closer... now, ah! You found that beam of light sooner than I thought you would.

Look at its source... do you see that boy lying naked on the sand from the crack? Do you see his little penis limping on his stomach? Do you see his hands spread out? His thin fingers grabbing sand on both sides? The crack is a crack between worlds; a peephole into another universe.

If you peer closer still, you'll see his moustache. His mouth is open, do you see that? A small crab crawls in and out of it. But that isn't the only creature infesting him. Two maggots swim out of his nostrils. His ears are clean.

And what do you know, friends and neighbors, he is alive!

Who is he, you ask? It doesn't matter. Know that he is very, very sad.

Beyond him, far in the waters... oh, if you try, you can zoom your view in. Yes, good... just think you want to go closer to that ship in the horizon and you'll jump right to it. Talk about Godly powers; we're omnipotent here!

Can you see the little girl there? She's not real. She's a doll.

Behind her, do you see it? Do you see that black thing? It's not real either. It's called a Bend. It's a bend in reality, fellow men and women. Be careful, very careful; you might slip over into it and come out somewhere... unpleasant.

Oh, you're disgusted, aren't you? I'll close the door.

Good. Now, take a moment and try to forget what you just saw. It's easy to forget things, you know. Ask anyone about Vietnam, for example.

Let's turn around. I'll show you something more pleasant.

Out in the hall we go. Mr. Jonesy there has opened a book... Lewis Carroll's "Through the Looking Glass," we see. It's a good book.

Look, here, beside the TV, down, at the lowest drawer, we bend. I'll open it and...

Oh, it's like finding a treasure, isn't it?

This is my treasure, in a way. My photo-chest.

Look, here's the album full of pictures of me at age three! Oh, here I am, naked, playing in a small bucket of water. That duck you see in there isn't plastic, thank God. It's rubber.

Oh, this black album's full of mom and dad's pictures. Before I was born. Don't they make a pretty couple? Yeah, they do, don't they? Well, they did.

And here's a picture of my Granny! Old and white and dangerous. She's not smiling here. She never does when I'm around.

And look! Here's me and my brotherhood. We were all eight or nine when we took this, I think.

See that guy with his hands above the black guy's head? He's teasing the black guy. His little finger's right on the black one's head. It's like he's pissing on the black guy with his pinky. The black one's Wally. Oh, Mr. Smith, I hope you don't mind me calling him a BLACK guy. Really. We call each other White Faggot and Black Maggot all the time.

And by the way, the guy who's teasing Wally is me. See that big hole where a tooth should've been? Ha, I broke a tooth a few days before this snap.

Ah, here's all of us at thirteen! Look at the golden haired girl with the blue eyes. Now, isn't she something, Calvin? Oh, you're blushing. Well, this is Sonya. And she's four years older than you, and has a heck of a lot of guys her age trying to woo her already. So tuck that little daydream back in your head.

Beside her, wearing that stupid pair of shades is Steve.

I'm not in the picture. I'm the guy behind the camera. The picture's a bit dark, no? Well, it was taken in the night.

Oh, look, do you see that snotty girl sitting on the rock? And can you see that mean looking guy standing to her side? They're Ronnie and Max. Oh, Calvin, bad luck again, buddy. Ronnie falls in and out of love (well, I don't really think it's love. If it was love, she wouldn't've broken up so soon everytime) every now and then.

You can't see Wally in this picture because he's hiding behind Sonya. You can almost make his hand out on her left... well, almost.

And oh, my, look at this picture here! It's my birthday picture! Oh, that brown-haired bloke is me, of course.

Who's that lissome lass wearing the blue dress, you ask? She's... she's someone special. She's pretty, you say. Well, was... is... more than that. And Calvin, buddy, don't you even dare. She's not in this world anymore, anyway.

Let's shut the drawer. Let's open the one above it.

Here are all my clothes. Nothing fancy. A couple of pair of jeans. Two trousers. A few collared shirts. Lots of T-shirts... here's one which reads: "I'm a force of nature; I fart like the wind." Disgusting? Yes? Here's a good one, a WWF shirt. No, not that stupid wrestling one (which is WWE now, by the way), but World Wildlife Federation. It's got a small white panda on it who's saying this in a speech blurb: "if you need to squint your eyes to see me on this T-shirt, you'll need a microscope to find me in the forests." (I made that slogan myself, by the way. I was nine then. So spare me the sarcasm.)

Look, the shirt from my last day at school! This one's before Farewell day. And it's got a lot of fading wisecracks on it in ink: "Lots of luv and luc - Amy" and "Live life kingsize - Wally" and "Fuhgetmenot - Ronnie" and "S-s-s-supreme! - Feroz" and "Joke on, yaar - Shoaib" and "Kiss this - Gaurav" and "Maximus Flatulence - Max" and so on.

Now, above that. This is something Calvin would like.

Look here, this is what we guys call our Black Room. There's a lot of stuff here. All those things we wouldn't be caught dead with in front of others. This is where it all goes.

Look, a small model Hot Wheels Range Rover.

Look, a GIJoe figure called "Snow Job". Another one: "Snake Eyes". Both are dressed in white.

Look, a Disney book, based on the Christmas Carol. Mickey's old Bob in it, I think.

Look, a set of marbles. White ones and green ones and orange ones. (Marbles in my attic, friends. I've got lots of them. Did I mention I'm a mental asylum reject?)

Look, a set of broken casettes. They're all oldies. Mostly Pink Floyd and Alan Parson's Project and Sade. Sade? Yes, Sade. I love that woman's voice. And Enigma's MCMXC a.D.

Look, a small diary! Oh, don't open it... oh, okay, whatever. This one's from the time I was sixteen. Full of love-sick doodling and two names written inside heart-shapes and my attempts at drawing sketches in ink--they look cartoonish, don't they? Well, lah-di-dah. You can't be good at everything. Conversely, you can always be good at nothing. Which is what I am.

Look, a telephone book! Most of the numbers in it are redundant now, but I keep the darn thing anyway.

Look, I kept this small pebble ever since I slipped on it back in '96. Looks so shiny, doesn't it? Doesn't it?

And... look here. A picture of Pink Floyd. This one has Syd Barret in it. It's black-n-white.

And... below that. A picture of Alicia Silverstone from The Crush. Once upon a time I was stone in love with her. I think it was right after I saw Aerosmith's video where she shows us the finger.

If you really poke around, you'll find another girl's picture somewhere. Well, not a picture, really. More like a poster. This one's the girl from "In Country". I don't even remember her name. The movie also starred Bruce Willis. Here, she's jogging in the middle of the road in shorts, a walkman's clipped to her side. Know what I find amazing about this picture? Looking at it makes me feel safe. Don't know why. Makes me think that there's some place out in the world where people can jog like this without any real worries.

Look, at the left, that's supposed to be a very old Harrappan civilization coin... which I thought it was when I found it on one of our brotherhood adventures. Well, it really is nothing more than a small piece of metal squashed thin enough to look like a coin. No hidden artifacts in this closet, friends.

Ah, here's my first harmonica. I usually sucked air in when playing it instead of the other way around. That's also the way I whistle, by the way.

Oh, Mr. Jonesy, you've joined us again. Good. Here's something you'll like. A book I keep seperate from the rest: my very first comic book! This one's Batman. He fights a sinister villian called The Black Mask here. Thing is, the Mask here also has shades of white. I used to have Superman #1 (that's Action Comics, fellas), but I gave it to Max one day. Simple trade. He gave me his entire Soccer card collection. Zidane and Maradona and assorted others. I lost those cards somewhere along the way. Or maybe they're buried somewhere in my house. And I haven't poked around in my shack for a long time now.

If you'd come around a few weeks back, there'd have been a pile of old Archie comics somewhere. I loved that soppy bunch of teens. Especially ol' Jughead. And Betty Cooper. Oh, I was stone in love with her too, I think. All the time I used to think that Archie was a complete idiot to swoon around Veronica (was that her name? I can't be sure) Lodge. I'm a real-life version of Jughead all right. Except for the "hate girls" thing, I think.

Now, look, above this drawer, here's where I keep my guitar. It's empty now, the guitar's on the terrace. And after you leave, I'm gonna change it's strings. Two strings broke last week.

Ah, I forgot about this. Behind the guitar, this envelope. It has a little love letter in it.

Oh, please, don't read it.

Please?

Thank you.

Let's go left. Here's another stack of magazines. Computer mags, mostly. Beside that is a big pile of CDs. Computer games, mostly. A few good ones here. System Shock 2 and Half Life and Black & White and Sims and Unreal Tournament and Deus Ex.

Below this, look, my computer!

See that farmer playing his lute? Someone special gave it to me once.

Anyway, the computer. This is half of my life. Most of my music is stored here. And don't tell my mother, but there are a few short stories stored too. No, I'm not a good writer, no sir, but I write anyway.

Further left, we go. Here's the place I keep all my study material in. It's a big crock of rubbish, let me tell you. Lots of notebooks and textbooks and pens and refills and blank sheets.

And below this, at last, is something I want everyone to see: we built it, Wally and I and Sonya and Ronnie. It still runs, but the engine won't hoot now. The train tracks are rusty too, but the train still totters along the path. There are four carriages behind the engine. The first one's mine. You can see all those stupid guitars and spaceguns drawn on the top. The second's Ronnie's. All those barbie dollish cartoons. The third's Wally's. That black blotch you see there was oringinally Michael Jackson. Later, Wally blotched it when he didn't like old Michael Jackson anymore and opted for Michael Jordan instead. The last one's Sonya's. See that stupid little piece of silk tied to the end? It's supposed to be a band of friendship. I think it makes the train look sissy-ish. But I've kept it anyway.

Guha built the engine along with us and so, after Guha died, we repainted the engine and wote his name on its side in huge white letters.

Ah, it's getting late, isn't it?

Okay, see you next time... and...

You want to stay, do you? You're welcome, of course! Just know that I usually am a big snob when I'm asleep. I don't snore, no sir. But I'm a snob when I'm awake and I don't think sleeping changes your behaviour much.

I don't have a lot of room in my house, but be comfortable. And if things get really crowded, I could sleep on the terrace. Sure I could. In fact I love doing that. Of course, those darn mosquitos are a pain, but a nice fat dab of Odomos will take care of them. And in the night, it rains here sometimes. Which always make the blankets cool and feels amazing.

Oh, and another thing: stay away from that small shoebox. It has a nasty surprise in it.

What is it? I'll tell you all tomorrow.

PS: the crack in the bathroom cupboard is fabricated bullshit. Ditto the shelf full of books. Everything else, essentially, is true to life. This is my house. My home.

PPS: GOD, thou rocketh.

PPPS: Man, is this an assbloat entry or what? I didn't meant to yap so long.

***