Absurd Tale Of Konkan And Bovary.

It was a cold night and I was tired.So I started thinking about death.I often do when I am in Konkan.There is an aura that place creates for me that it makes me feel alone and comfortable.I was lying on the floor of the temple in my Waadi.It was known as the temple of the ‘goddess of thieves’. Because the thieves in my village used to bring their stolen money here and offer it to the stones.But now this temple has been transformed into a club rather than a worshipping place.There are trees all around it and because of the absence of street lights,nobody dares to come here at night.Except of course, the lovers and the gamblers and idlers like me.I cannot seem to remember how long I have been this way,but I have gotten used to it.I lit my cigarette and tried to catch a glimpse of the moon that was hiding behind the coconut trees.After some time,I looked at it.At such a moment,everything seems very simple and profound.I become a cheerful optimistic on nights such as these and then become my usual cynical self at dawn.I was then looking at the flags tied upon the ropes that were connecting the two pillars of the temple.They were made of paper and due to the breeze it made me feel that they were hugging each other.The breeze also wanted to take my hair with it.It made my hair look even more disgusted.I seemed to care less about them,as long as they were there,all will be well.I thought of all the essential things in the same manner.If they are,let them be.If they are going,let them go.Do not conserve them or stop them.Do not even try to fool yourself into thinking that they will last for longer than they intended to.I had stopped listening to some Oasis track and looked right up.Suddenly I noticed a flash light pointing on me.I was surprised.I wanted to know who it was.

I knew who it was,I was just kidding myself.I called her Madame Bovary because I liked that novel and related to the character of the fearful poet in it.She had been battered by age. Her face and body were worn out.The remnants that reminded of her beauty in her younger days were still there.She only smiled at me slightly and gave me a look that I have been unable to decipher still.She went inside the GABHARA and prayed.I did not think about what she might have wished for. She might have only asked for my or her own happiness.Then she came and sat beside me.She ran her fingers lovingly through my hair and said,” They have already turned grey”.I muttered something that was not audible to both of us.Whenever I saw her,I would resist the urge to kiss her and take her away from her mundane life.But I had hardly any control over my own.I have always had awkward relationships with married women.I always fall for them and they know it but ignore it.She had not.But she surely did love me.I did not know if it was of a lover or a mother. I lit another cigarette and inhaled the smoke inside and started wondering about what really goes on in the minds of women like her.The ones who do not love their husbands but have stuck with them.The ones who had sex with someone they did not love.And I felt helpless after thinking about it.I then began wondering whether their minds were calm and composed as they appeared to be or were they as cold and cynical as mine is.They did the same chores all their life.That is just to keep their minds busy. And when they get old and are too tired to work,they divert their thoughts towards God.We take it as their inability to love or not having the courage to accept it.I am only certain about one thing,nothing escapes their gaze.I called her Bovary but was she was not the adventurous or adulterous sort.She was a soft spoken person.Someone who would abuse you at times but even make love to you tenderly.I guess most women are like that.She reminded me of Radha from Garambicha Bapu. Whenever I was leaving for the city,I would pass by the tamarind tree that was visible from the left most edge of my house.I liked turning back and looking at it as Bovary was always there.Standing at the edge of the veranda with her face immobile,standing still and her eyes appeared pitch black in the dark.She had no tears in her eyes.I enjoyed the thought of her crying over me.It made me feel like I had accomplished something unique.Something that was unparalleled.That day,she went away and I had not realized it.

Shortly after she left,rain started falling.It filled me with unnecessary and boring nostalgia.The first rain makes me cry every year,though I have stopped crying for a while.The rains have flooded the city,and I am lying on the cold floor of my Mumbai flat,all alone.I must have been about 8 or 9.We would get a holiday and I would stay at home and watch movies.I never really cared about enjoying something truly.Everything was to be got over with.I thought that ultimate motive was to get done with life,but what will be left after that? I could see myself rowing the paper boat in the fast flowing water of an open gutter.I imagined myself playing cricket on the muddy pitch in my village with all my cousins.The ball is covered with mud which makes all our tongues dirty.Because we licked it thinking that it make the ball.I can still hear the sound of the ball hitting the bat and with that an impression of the ball being formed on it and the ball throwing it’s mud away in all directions.It feels nice to walk after rains unless you have mosquitoes waiting for you or are bare footed.I just grow very angry when my feet get wet.I sometimes wonder if I am an absurd person.I had stopped thinking about rain because the sound of the drops was deafening.Besides,I knew the thoughts were ultimately headed towards the futility and mortality of life.I was sick of those thoughts now.

I started smoking again.I was thinking about many things.Like how far I was from Bombay and it would be so difficult to get back to that running all day routine again.I regretted hurting a girl whom I had made to fall in love with me.I had played all those mischievous tricks that adolescents play when they are infatuated to someone.I wasn’t even attracted to her.It was just an attempt to decide whether I could return to the sane world again.I had read so much and seen so much and written so much about sex that I had forgotten that I had never actually felt it.While I was on the train coming home,I was lying down between two lower berths on the ground.I was looking up at the dust covered fans. Just then it hit me, how amazing the feeling would be to provide pleasure to a person you truly admired and loved and they giving it back to you.

I could hear the thud with which the huge jackfruits were falling.It seemed as if big foot was approaching me with his pointy hands all wet by the rain.Then suddenly like flash of lightening, Rama popped in my brain.She was pale now.She had been tested her whole life.She had been detested by her relatives and her father for not marrying anybody.She was fearful of almost everything but sometimes she gave me such cunning looks that made me think otherwise.Her ignorance made her humble and loving if not slightly stupid.She just kept working all day.She had wanted to live her whole life with her father and sister but he had died.And after him,within a span of six months even her sister died.I vaguely remember being dragged into the room and the two things that caught me were the sister resting on the floor with her eyes shut tightly if not widely.And Rama who was crying.She only stopped in between to take a breath so as to not die.I was told to join my hands and pray.I had been acquainted with death pretty early I suppose,this was the second or third encounter.This is literally trash talking but I have to tell you that when I was little and I would hear my mother talking about someone getting expired,I used to think they had performed a split in the middle of a road filled with vehicles honking tirelessly.And they are underneath a fly-over and there is a cat entering a tiny space she had created for herself in that wall.Rama had no interest in being right which is something I like the most about her.I sometimes just don’t understand why the fuck do I have to be right all the time,it is really exhausting.I would spend most of my evenings at her house,she had no one to cook for except herself.So she used to pour me tea first and a plate full of oily potato chips to go with it.But I would never have dinner with her.When I used to look at her ghastly condition,I used to feel sick.She was thin as paper with crooked fingers and toes.Her back hurt like hell and sometimes her groans were audible till the temple.She found pleasure in asking me questions about my life in Mumbai.I used to ignore them or answer the first thing that came into my mind or mouth.She would not feel bad because she knew I was busy devouring the chips.I was assured she would never be angry at me because I refrained from looking at her.It is just a habit of mine.I never look into the eyes or at the body of the person I am talking to.I just keep looking right ahead while I keep talking shit.I always tricked her eventually,to get out of the house or else she would never let me go.I do not know why I used to do that.I had no reason to hurry and no one to meet in my village.I guess I liked the solitude and loneliness.

As the dawn is approaching I have realized that I have started to dislike all that is perfunctory and false.Truth may be corny or complex or even stupid in my case, but it satisfies me.

Whenever I get on a train to Konkan,I question myself,why am I coming back? Whom do I have to meet? There is nothing to do here.But then I think Konkan does just one thing to me,it stops me from worrying about every goddamn thing and teaches me to just float in the sky.Because everything looks beautiful if you hold it against the sky.Now,I am imagining myself in Mumbai,walking on a footpath on a hot afternoon.There is dust rising from one side of the road and there are beautiful yellow flowers rising from the other side to meet the dust, as if in protest.