A Streetcar Named Desire

I got my activa today! :D It's shiny. &black. &I'm naming it Stella.

diagnosis

the disease without a cure
had an honor to its name
what was flawed? what is pure?
it is no longer the same

they are tempted to mature
to never think, but emulate
there will never be a cure
so watch the kids hallucinate

the glass menagerie shall break
only sharp fragments to survive
without knowing what's at steak
the kids prepare for the shallow dive

they serve to treat the symptoms
but never see the cause
we watch the fight run out of victims
victims run out of petty flaws

the disease without a cure
had an honor to its name
what was flawed is now pure
but somehow feels the same

no conclusion. no regret.

we gawk at the raising prices. our fathers continue to earn. we smile hard enough for the truth to burn. dreams unfulfilled, a voice that couldn't rise. i stare unpleasantly at our infamous compromise. i stir what is stale. in hopes of a surprise. you let things simmer, for stability is your prize.

lungs inflate. pupils dilate. our blood begins to thin. as heads begin to spin. so slightly...ever so lightly... we start to relax. and become we used to be. before the sugar. the hops. and the nicotine.

eyebrows arch inward as your voice begins to fray. eyes dipped in denial squint and turn away. because secrets were not allowed. we judge each other for things we swore we never would. one promise at a time, our bond begins to break. this was not supposed to happen. there lies too much at steak. we grab bottles and sink into songs lyrically vacant and obnoxiously loud. our wavering troubles are to stay. our faces meant to blend within the crowd.

heads tilted into silence, we tell ourselves it's not that bad.

mannequins and coitus

nails dig into flesh as silence seeps in. bones wrapped in muscle wrestle for the sigh of instant gratification. in the back of a barn. in inexpensive hotel suites. in janitor's closets. against the wall. on floral princess sheets. under ceiling posters of celebrities. boys become men, and make girls feel like women.

somewhere right now, grown ups are discussing the accelerated sex drive of my generation. there is discontent. there is disapproval. there is no solution. separated by an element as abstract as time, the enemy begins to drift. more lies. more confusion. more stress. more sex. more lies. the enemy continues to drift.

i giggle sometimes when i flip through the channels and encounter motifs of the 80s. i scoff condescendingly at the holistic inferiority of the times that have passed, and resume my routine. my time is more advanced. birth control is advertised at a larger scale. girls are wearing less clothes. lines are crossed, and limits pushed. there are prudes. and there are sluts. there are gentlemen. there are bastards. i am there as well.

they whine if their chairs aren't pulled out for them. if their doors aren't opened for them. and then they whine that they are not taken seriously. they demand respect. they then proceed to show why they do not merit it. cottony soft dolls stand in line for a robocop exterior.

they're in love with the grunts, the sweat, the energy. it is a prize. they want to touch it. but they don't want to get dirty. they'll admire from afar. dream. try. ploy. proceed. play. and the moment they lose the lead, the prize is flawed. and they wish to spare themselves the contamination. the peacock must strut full throttle.

they are afraid of losing us. they yell. they are afraid of the unknown. they bombard us with what they know. they choke us with their warmth. speechless and possessive. our firm skinned hands rest in their wrinkled ones. the minute hand does its job.

we are an army of mannequins cloaked in hormones. drowning in the false advertising that floods our habitat. we are plagued with vanity. we are plagued with superiority. denial. and enough  problems to wound our future fetuses. and enough treasures to trick them into believing that the universe is in their favor.

last sunday

numb. my hands. my feet. my eyes. my ears. there is no word that could better describe my feelings about my body parts, the weather, the venue or my response to the situation. i rub my hands together for warmth. i try to find the perfect posture for my legs, since they are terribly bruised from my recent staircase injury. as i shift my left leg slightly forward, i feel like yelping in pain. in less than a second's time frame, a very distant and equally overweight aunt of mine manages to sit on my foot. i squirm helplessly as she breaks into her "just right" posture, ignoring my foot. would it be rude if i point it out? i stop fighting it. my foot is underneath a fat woman's derrière. and the hymns begin. great. now i really can't point it out. it's like a social sin to say anything non-hymn related during a hymn. i'm stuck. on second thought, winters do drive you to a point where any contact with a heat source is considered a blessing. my blessing comes in the form of an old derrière.

the hymn ends. i fiddle with one end of my turquoise dupatta and start to dread the drawbacks of handling traditional clothing while a toddler whose name i don't know/once knew/is not worth remembering runs over the other end of my dupatta screaming the words to "Sheela Ki Jawani". The toddler is male, under 5 yrs of age, partially toothless thanks to a playground injury and seems to forget most of the lyrics except for the line "I'm too sexy for you", which he seems to be extremely proud of remembering and repeats the line over and over. i wish somebody could make him understand that these are not the songs you sing at this age. and certainly not the kind you sing at funerals.

i ask my mother the reason behind today's ceremony. she wipes her tears dry and says "in our culture it is believed that the soul wanders around for about 11 days after it escapes the body. since today marks the last day of the soul's supposed presence, we call a priest to conduct the proper rituals to ensure that the soul leaves without any... baggage." i stare at the dozens of boxes of sweets. and for a change it is not because i wish to eat them. i stare because a part of me doesn't understand why at this occasion we care to distribute sweets. till this day i had always associated such actions with occasion of celebration or auspicious value. when i ask my mother why we do so, i can see the little girl within her asking me the same. she says "i don't like it either" and pinches the bridge of her nose trying to refrain from crying. she wouldn't be the first in our culture to follow rituals and traditions without any power to oppose them or even give her two cents on the matter.

i find reasons to stare at things at ground level because i don't want to look up. my eyes trace the carpet design. it is nothing special. i scan the room for the hundredth time. i see sad faces of neighbors. i see tears running down cheeks. i see women sob. i see a settled daughter. and settled son. what i see are the life earnings of a seventy five year old man, who now can only be captured in anecdotes and photographs. snippets of conversation float past my ears. they are all the same. "he didn't leave any duty unfulfilled" is what they keep saying. wherever these words are annunciated, heads nod, women sob and men stiffen their upper-lips in attempts to gather composure. crying out rivers and sobbing endlessly, they manage to put on a show. i stare for an abnormal amount of time at practically every person and object in the cold hall full of grievers. i stare at all but one object. i go over and over my head debating whether i am justified for not staring. whether it is alright for me to not cry right now. whether showing tears will make a difference. whether i can postpone the moment for a little while. i cannot. i look up and stare at the photograph that stands on the white sheet. i stare at eyes in the photograph. and my eyes begin to sting. i want my grandfather to walk into the room and take the string of marigold flowers off of the photograph. i want him to open his arms and smile. how else am i supposed to ever feel the warmth of his embrace again if he doesn't?

i can want and want all i want to. but the marigold flowers are there to stay. nobody can bring him back. not even the tone-deaf priest who continues to taint my memory of my grandfather's demise with his off-beat off-key and altogether terribly rehearsed hymns. at this point i'd rather hear the "sheela ki jawani" toddler. like bullets into uncovered flesh, i see the priest's chants hit my mother and her brother like sharp daggers. his words translate to "you build the palace, and take care of your garden. but you were always meant to leave//your once golden body now dissolves into the dirt. because you were always meant to leave". the priest's lack of tone modulation make the words sound even harsher. but i doubt this was a deliberate effect. my mother, still pinching the bridge of her nose, can no longer keep the sobs inside. all i can do is gently rub her back to remind her that she has more to live for.

as the priest exhausts all the possible methods of repeating the fact that my grandfather is dead, i realize that people have been staring at me. do they want me to cry? do they want me to be strong? do i care about what they want? i give them my ugliest posture. one that exemplifies my extra chin, my fat arms and frizzy temple curls. as i stare at my grandfather's smiling face i think about how he's the last person in the room who'd think i'm ugly. for once in my life i don't feel like conforming to my surroundings. these adults have mood swings. when they walk in, they sob. when they meet my mother, they scream in "pain". when i usher them towards the food arrangements, they ask me what's for dessert. and when my uncle bids them goodbye, they hug and smile. they joke about politicians. they crib about the weather. from time to time, they manage to somehow drag my grandfather into some insignificant anecdote of theirs. it bothers me that they never understood him. even though they had more time to spend with him than i did. these are his brothers. these are his sisters. they come here, complain about the journey, start the waterworks, share a few embraces, eat to their stomachs' content, collect their boxes of sweets, and return to their homes.

the sun had slowed things down, you see

I stare. I stare endlessly into the black tar that covered the basketball from corner to corner. Time had yet to exist as a variable. I lay on my stomach atop two plastic skateboards. I use my feet to go two and fro, in the same spot. I loosely trace circles on the black rubble with my index finger. With my face parallel to the floor and only three inches away from it, I see everything at a ninety degree tilt. Alternately beaded yellow and white plastic jump ropes slap the floor. Basketballs roll out to the corners of the court. Pogo sticks squeak as they bounce past me. I was content. We were all content.

I stare at the puddled floor of the girl's bathroom on the ground floor. I hate how the flush never works. The water continues to leak, slowly adding to the puddle. I lean against the tiles. I know they are not clean, and I wouldn't ever lean against the tiles. But I lean. I have more on my mind than the never-been-washed square white tiles. I kick the wall. Nothing happens. The echo of the exhaust fan is mind numbing. I stare at the disgusting wet floor and wonder what the original color of the tiles was. Ten minutes have passed. I still do not know what to write. I tell myself to gather composure. As the words of my standard motivation speech recite themselves in my mind, my tears find it easier to slip out of the corners of my eyes. My vision is blurred. The questionable color of the floor still bothers me. More tears. I clench the tiny papers in my hand. I have forty four pages of chemistry micro-xeroxed in my hands. I still don't know what to write. Time had passed me by too fast.

So I ask you, what's the point?

I talk for hours in my head. I stare at your face. I smile. You smile. We talk. It's the same. I have you convinced. You think nothing is wrong. You think it's the same. I dodge the can of worms as it rolls on to the stage. It's not the right time, I tell myself. We smile, we shake, and we're on our way. You're on your way to a set of arms that loves you and to a pair of ears that listen to your words and most importantly, you're on your way to a set of lips that tells you what you wish to hear.

I talk and talk for hours in my head, and there really is no point. If you heard even a fraction of what I had to say, you'd shrug your shoulders, make the most repulsed face you can and you'll again be on your way to those arms those and those lips. You'll discuss your bruises. You'll discuss my flaws. You'll discuss everything of mine that I wouldn't yours. Those arms will cradle you and you won't need me to bring you your medicine.

I apologize. I look at your visibly pissed off, but still cute face and I say that I'm sorry. This doesn't convince you. Why should it? I'm feeding you lies anyway. You roll your eyes and tell me I have issues. I crack a light smile and say we all do, don't we? You look to ground and raise your tone. You tell me I'm no longer receptive, and that it's a problem. I sigh because you're no longer a good critic, and that's my problem. But I won't say this because it might prove your point, and my ego isn't dead. So I shut up and listen and I try to fix it with a hug. You lean in with dead arms as your eyes roll themselves out of your sockets. I feel pathetic. Dead cats give better hugs. You usually give better hugs. But you don't ever hug, do you?

So I stand with just as much to say as I had to yesterday. But I want you to be the only one to hear. But I'll never find you alone. So I feel like shit for thinking things that sound this selfish. Because somewhere in this rant, I want you to be alone. Maybe just as alone as I stand now. That's a terrible thing for a friend to want. So I no longer want it. I don't decide to tell myself that I'll try to not want it. I just no longer want it. It's wrong.

Days pass me by, faces cross my path. I laugh. I yell. I crib. I tease. I bid goodbye and return to my bed at night. I talk to my parents on the phone. I check emails that bind to my past. On some sunny afternoons, the sight of the sunlight on the bricks of the wall reminds me of the slow days that escaped my share of time simply because I was dreaming. I think of what I love. I think of what I should be. I think of my circle of comfort. And of how the radius has decreased as of late. I find it sad that I try to stretch it further bit by bit but only to find it relapse pass the original point. I think of how you're in it. You're in that tiny little circle that seems to be shrinking. When this thought crosses my mind, I get up and turn to walk towards you. I imagine the things I have to say, and weigh the acidity of my words before they trip off the tip of my tongue. They are sour. They are sour enough to trigger that repulsed face of yours. The one I hate to see. You make that face in my mind, and the sight of those extra arms, eyes and ears appear. They scoff at me just as you do. I don't want you to scoff. I want you to hug. And not like a dead cat would. So I decide to dodge the can that rolls in again. because I don't dodge it, you'll scar my future thoughts with that hideous face you make.

So I pause and deal with the momentum of my intentions having to be suppressed. It is an unpleasant killjoy sort of feeling. I purse my lips and ask what's up? You shrug and say nothing... nothing special. You're on your way out again. So I get back under my blanket. It's warm enough to make me forget about the diminishing radius and the speed of time.

So I ask you, what's the point?