Sunday, October 15, 2017

Short for Annihilator

This is Anna. 
Anna is a study in hesitation.

Anna thinks 17 times before jumping off the bed, extending one paw off it at a time, trying to gauge whether this is a wise decision or not. "Should I stay here forevermore? Should I perhaps take this bold leap to go where I actually go everyday, multiple times? Will this end badly for me?" He lands clumsily, looking startled at the jolt. He walks about the house looking worried that something will attack him, a fear not at all unfounded as he walks into a wall 20 seconds later, his body folding into itself, crumpling like an accordion. He routinely steps into the water bowl, looks at his sodden paw in dismay and shakes it vigorously. Sometimes he steps into one food bowl while eating out of another, because he just doesn't realise it's there. He starts at soft noises, jumps a foot in the air when we turn the music on, retreats under the couch whenever he sees anyone new.

Poor Anna lives in fear of his own existence.

We've gotten his eyes tested, we've taken him to the vet and asked her what on earth is wrong with him and she says not a damn thing my friends, he's in the pink of health, he's an adorable healthy little monkey. So we scratch our heads, shrug, and go on. Anna's been home for 4 years, and he's happy and comfortable with us, and with our other cat - our stupidly handsome pure white idiotcat full of swag and bluster, who takes care of him, grooms him, plays with him, keeps him company when fireworks are the sound of the season and Anna is trying very hard to will the world to go away post-haste.

A comfortable relaxed Anna looks like a beautiful loaf of brown bread.

I rub his head and he closes his eyes in rapture and asks for more. I move down to his neck, he extends it and asks for moremoremoremore, his little (usually nervous) face so incredibly smiley. I move to his back and petpetpet him and his body thrums happily. I move to his bum and give it a little scritch-scratch and I feel disturbances in the infrastructure. His muscles ripple like sand shifting on a dune, over and over again. (The kind where you have to look again to see whether it's a trick of the light or whether the shape of the dune really is changing is there a mirage around the corner is this just fantasy?) He cocks his head to one side as though he's wondering what I'm doing and hey this isn't half bad but wtf? His head swivels about looking for me, looking for the hand that is doing these wonderous and strange things, where is it? Little pulses trill through his body like sine waves - there's one, there's another, there's one more (I could plot them on a graph and figure out their frequency, what fun), all caused by the butt scratch. And when he decides he's had enough; he gets up and walks all over the keyboard on my open laptop, putting music on, sending gibberish mails to my clients, writing reams of text that will one day be deciphered to be feline research papers on the complexities of catnaps. He takes one exploratory round of my bed, walks up to me and curls up next to my feet. All is well, all is happy, until I make the slightest movement, at which point he might need a defibrillator.

I love that stupid fur factory. Poor thing probably needs therapy.

Monday, July 17, 2017

I am Jack's fetishised misery. Your good self?

Every time I'm on a flight, I idly think of it plummeting to the ground, crashing with a pretty boom. Debris and destruction and the crushing despair felt by 3 people on the ground who weren't nice to someone who died on that flight, not realising they'll never see them again. They'd be terrified, mortified, petrified, stupefied... for 8 seconds, before moving on to being annoyed at Ola Share algorithms. Because, let's face it, that rubbish thing is infinitely more infuriating than a piddly little demise.

Every time I fly I think of that scene in Fight Club, of Edward Norton on the flight, not wanting to kill himself but wanting to die all the same, hoping for a convenient air disaster. Air pocket, turbulence, stewardess running over your foot with a trolley full of tasteless cup noodles, air pocket, flight crashing right into mine, jolly good, goodbye world. Nicely done Chuck Palahniuk, you little shock-value-ho.

Certain characters and scenes and dialogues will always remain with me, whether I liked the parent books/movies/shows/voyeuristic peek into others' lives or not. The image of a succubus consuming people whole, a la American Gods, is forever burned into my brain and wouldn't she make one helluva patronus?! Little less growly, more cuddly and dozy, wanting back massages and chocolates and hair pettings, slaying a dementor or two before bingewatching Bojack Horseman and feeling miserable (but very productively so, don't you think?). What an excellent patronus. I would name her Alice. 

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Shot Story #2: The one where they all know it's a cliche

"Rin safedi madam, hamesha", he always promised with a smile to the ladies he collected the laundry from. with a special wink reserved for the prettiest housewives in Cabana Enclave. Yes, those ones whose smiles would be wider if not for all that botox. those ones, who tried extra hard to transfer the sparkle from their solitaire earrings to their dull dull lives. He could tell that they weren't quite able to manage. He could help, though. he just didn't care enough to.

He gave them just enough to get them hungry. that wolvish smile, that lingering touch on their fingers as he took their laundry, when he gave back their change, when he took that glass of water that everyone knew he didn't really need. "Haan thanda paani please"

102 was older and quite undeniably sexy, but a bit too blatant for his taste. 403 was shy, but too easy. he knew he could have her anytime. 1303 was his favourite. there was something about the way she met his eyes and cocked her head every time she handed him the newest batch of clothes, that almost seemed like a challenge.

"you know what i want.
and i know you know what i want.
you going to do anything about it then?
or are you scared?"

The sheets were his favourite. The prospect of him and 1303 falling back on those sheets on that big bed that was beyond his pay scale to even see (but he imagined it was quite big) made him pine and blush and imagine and fantasize. None of the others made him feel this way. With the others, he had the control. Not with this one. This one's sardonic raise of a perfectly shaped eyebrow gave him sleepless nights. the thought of sullying those pristine white sheets on a bed that wasn't his, with a woman who wasn't his was almost too much to bear.

So when it finally happened to be, and when the not-entirely-unexpected sordid aftermath transpired (dhobi gathers the fortitude to seduce woman- husband walks in on some rather excellent sex- husband goes from shocked to miserable to violent in a matter of minutes- dhobi grabs kitchen knife from husband's hand and tries some rather unfortunate self defence- husband bleeds out wetly and vigorously and dies- wife screams- dhobi stabs wife in panic and then sits in silent shock wondering how his life got to this juncture- dhobi gathers his wits and saves existential contemplation for another day), it was rather convenient that he was able to deal with most of the evidence rather easily.

A drinking buddy who works in the local crematorium is a good thing to have. helps in speedy corpse disposal.
A job which has made you an expert in removing blood stains from almost any surface is another. 

(Picture by Nitish Singh)