paris special, or why it stank

how softly that city kills! do you remember? we met at dusk, i was waiting at denfert like you told me to. an old drunk man tried to talk to me, je parle pas francaise i mumbled. then you arrived, drunk. we kissed on the train, i wore my new red lipstick did you see it? it was a paris special. 

you left for work, we slept apart. i walked onto the street outside your apartment, terrified someone would talk to me. three euros 

don't get you very far. i bought a baguette and ate it on the train, it was dry and plain, the train smelt of old cheese. 

on my way home i stopped at a vintage store, breathing in the musky hopes of african immigres lost in cold winters 

then it was time for you to return and i brought you red flowers i found on the road. 

i put them in a jar, i took a photo of us, i watched you talk to computer, dressed up, talking fast. i wore my special dress, did you notice? in the mirror behind you, i watched myself watching you,  

that cat looked best silhouetted against the sky, upclose she stank, that apartment stank. (later you told me eric kept her litter carefully stacked behind the machine, why was that?) 

i tried so hard to be a part of that house! i swept the floor, used that little trickle of a shower, bought overpriced strawberries. they were so sour, do you remember? 

that city stank. only the buildings sparkle in the night.

meanwhile american tourists line up, grumbling, gypsies reach out, grabbing, old men walk by with postcards, hustling. i was broke and hungry and it all stank, except that hour before i left and you held onto me, sobbing. 

house help, part one

basanti was the magical one, the dreamer with the slow smile, her hair wispy and unkempt, skin mottled with unfinished thoughts. she was beautiful as she floated through our rooms. we shared our dreams every morning, as i sipped my green tea and she chopped and diced for our breakfast. mine was a recurring one of being chased by wild animals, meticulous panthers and rhesus monkeys that would appear and chomp my arm off after a short chase. hers were also recurring, alwayz about struggling to fly, as she ran away, from animals and from  her mother, who chased her with a stick. when her mother came to visit from the village she was tiny, no bigger than her 3 year old grandaugher, and i couldn't imagine how she'd infected her daughter with a life long fear. 

but silky was different, much more pragmatic, poring over the hieroglyphics in the kannada newspaper that came specially for her. another rape! she'd say with almost gleeful horror, he gagged her with an iron rod, broke into the house, you can't trust any one these days. I'd shake my head, tut-tut, and so the gossamer mornings were quickly burnt away into the banal horror of everyday life.

what does it mean to let someone into your house, to live your life just one degree removed from their skin? her hands chop dice cook wash everything that goes into your mouth. her fingers massage your head and back, fill rubber bottles with hot water in the winter and crush ice into glasses of iced tea in the summer, smooth over the creases in your bed every mornings, scrub your clothes, wring out even your inner clothes, your bras and underwear on days you're particularly lazy, hopefully your mother doesn't know. she hangs your bags, fold your clothes, pins your sari, give you sartorial advice on your new clothes, this is too wrinkled, that color is nice. pushes you to attend social obligations you don't intend to fulfill, but its her wedding how can you not go? 

But today there is a crisis to be solved. we need to talk, she says. she looks determined and troubled. i ask her to come into my fathers room, this house is all windows and no doors, voices travel through it like the gust of wind from the gigantic cooler in the summer. maybe this is why things just go missing, because the borders between being and non-being are just too porous.

her eyes quickly well up and her voice rises, shrill. i come here to work, she says, there are both of us, and yet i hear things, i heard from the garden bhabhi asking about that girls clothes, but i don't wash them downstairs, i finish the work here, and then i was upstairs today and everyone knows my name has been mixed in the mud and my son, i can't lift my head with what he did i know what you all say about me and i ignore it but it can't go on like this i can't live like this. i cant live like this. i move uncomfortably towards her, pat her shoulder and quickly take my hand away, unsure about how to comfort someone when you're the source of her misery. she's miserable, but there's something unsettling. even marriages break up, I tell myself, mothers and daughters vow to never talk to one another. but something here isn't right. I mumble about trust and the lack thereof, the funny thing is how often this word is thrown around in my life. speak the truth baby, says ma, and this dicta is my heavy albatross.i drank with a friend later that night, and he laughed at me, what is this christian attitude towards the truth! do what you have to and deal with it later. but, and this is the power of imagery, ever since I couched this feeling in colerige's calamitous metaphor i feel the physical weight of every untruth and half truth.

what is it about little lies that is scarier than big ones? i can't tell, can't tell if she's a hounded animal, back to the wall, snapping at every movement towards her in the only way she knows, that acid sharp smile and crisp denial, banking on the dreaminess our heads are wrapped in - or if this is calculated, and we're too busy to notice strings emerging around us, tightening to draw us in. like a bond movie! don't be idiotic. but the signs are there, i saw her fight once, like a panther at her door, sinewy and snarling.

I don't know why you're waiting, says achiles, waiting for a real calamity to jolt you.  

do these things happen? the world is a strange place, I can't forget how boring and brutal it can be. we  lie and cheat, steal and hack through relationships and lives for opal rings and for our muscles to contract in orgasms.

hello, this is a tabli

you show off, trying to turn me inwards
but see
the game changed suddenly
you looked at the music, all of it, filling my room
forcing your way inside my head.

here's teen taal, think of one beat today, the next tomorrow, the infinite moments in between
each beat, flat, and yet

dha - dhadakkadhin
dha dhin dhina dha

you say it's poetry, my fingers can't move this way, my bones don't keep time
this is alien to my flesh and yet I feel
we're all parts
perhaps bits of a longer day

locking horns

And we fight and we end, like always,
With indigestion, mine
And sleep, yours.

You insist, I rage
Grind teeth choke back salt
Feeling through our thoughts and wants
like blind rats in the rain, confused
moving towards a dull longing to be warm and dry

knowing all the while to become so
is to be so alone

battling with your knives turned in

1. truth-telling:
I am battling with Ma’s moral compass, hung like an albatross around my neck. It's like she gave me a shot of veritaserum instead of breastmilk. She told me speak the truth, baby
and you have nothing to fear. But the truth is a sharp knife, and if you run with it you will cut through your skin and slash through the jungles, decapitating people you know and love. If you can't see the cars you have no business driving.

2. trust-trees:
Shadowy metaphysical nightmares, because you can burn them and slash them and cut them in a million ways, and all this with your eyes closed and ears blocked, with the barest wriggle of epiglottis. But they grow slow, and have shallow roots.

3. tortured troubled trite
my yoga teacher, in his quavering voice tells me close your eyes and relaaaax observe the changes going through your body. know you can control your body, and your mind. I twitch, resisting the inward gaze. I feel like faulty apparatus, lazy and stupid, insincere undignified and trite

you can know people when you know their worst nightmares: on a moonlit night I tried walking across the sky, but not with you watching

an enthusiastic

insistence on self contained happiness sets you on edge

easy slow

burning out slowly like camphor fuming and then erupting into sudden flames without body that die out before they begin taking with them light leaving behind a slight acrid smell
oh and talk the same talk and smell the same smells