The Oranges

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all

The needle returns to the start of the song

And we all sing along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Her green bangle broke as she scrubbed the collar. Three pieces. The dirty soap water carried them to the drain cover, where they sat. Waiting as if to go below, and drown. She looked at her brown wrist with a gaze full of vacuum. The shirt collar in contrast gleamed white under it. After madam’s last tirade she was making sure the laundry was done properly. But, her bangle had broken, one from among three her husband had gifted her a certain Teej. Her husband who… She got back to the clothes. Scrubbing knees of jeans and seats of pants with new-found fury in her hands. Holding cuffs in both and rubbing them. Suffocating the dirt off them. The plastic brush lost some teeth, which joined the exodus near the drain. She didn’t notice. For the sound of the tap running had filled the bathroom. And her head. And in came that pain her constant companion. And its lover, tiredness. Oh how they screamed now, the two left bangles. Going in and coming out from the sea of water in the bucket. Rinsing. But as if being murdered. Being forced into a watery grave. Clips bit into the wrung clothes now hanging in a line. Hanged with care.  

2:30 pm. She could hear madam, shouting on the phone at a tele-caller in crisp English and so had to wait for her to finish. To leave. To take bus number 199 to Mangolpuri. To her husband … lying in his watery grave. Drunk. Always. Angry beyond measure for today she was late.   

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all

The needle returns to the start of the song

And we all sing along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Every day he was made to sit in the middle. They did not give him the window to breathe. As if intentionally. As if he was dead already with sorrowful faces sitting around him. Taking him … home. The cab full of tele-callers turned corners lit by twilight. Speeding. The driver in a wakefulness full of hurry. But he sitting behind him, sitting as if in a syrup. Half-asleep and half-aware of leaving the maddening buzz of telephone calls behind, for a day. The Chris the Bob the Alex that he had to be. Day after day. ‘Hello, would you like to buy a credit card?’ and the ensuing abuse. He remembered the bitter lady on the other side today. In crisp English she had dis-robed him. Of his mask which did not pay. He closed his eyes, and his hands around his neck-tie. No way to set his self free from the computers clicking and targets hitting. Bills and mortgages, EMIs and rent. Too much to think about. So little left to dream. The cab climbed a flyover and the metro bridge loomed large. Larger loomed the advert of a car with a smiling family of four. Like a dream. He felt his gorge rising, the faux silk noose tightening, the faux leather belt squeezing him into a tiny sphere. Of monotony, and meaninglessness. Fake accents and mechanizations. Of missing … 

The driver shook him awake with a strange haste. He had missed his home stop today. Last one dropped. That much less time to sleep away, in a home empty of any more dreams. Empty. But home still. But empty.  

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all

The needle returns to the start of the song

And we all sing along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

He could barely see. Except, the calendar next to the clock. They said it was a miracle. It must have been, to be able to see through the cataract. No longer did he know when his drawstrings hung low to the floor. No matter that spittle dribbled down his lip as he mumbled. To the winds. About his loneliness. His hands too he could not see. To feed to clean to hold the stick and sit outside his room in the old age home.  But he always knew the date and time. When his son would come. This evening, for instance. To see him dressed in his cleanest. Oranges in one hand and a hug in the other and 'how have you been, papa?' on his lips. Once, when he said he saw things heard voices, they put him here. Love remained, but he scared the kids at home. His son’s. His son is a driver. ‘Oh, he will find his way here in time’ said the old voice to the bench beneath him. Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick… The wrinkled hand loosened its grip. The stick fell. His son was too late to reach. Too late. Forever. It just so happened.

He had to make a detour, to drop a man who slept off and missed his home stop. 

The oranges lay at the back, suffocating silently in the bag. 

Unseen.  

  

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts: 365 Writing Prompts aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was - Earworm - What song is stuck in your head (or on permanent rotation in your CD or MP3 player) these days? Why does it speak to you? I picked Del Amitri’s ‘Nothing Ever Happens’. The song has always spoken to me of a post-modernist angst that individuals are living.]

Sunday, on a different note!

The plan was to sleep and sleep and not wake-up at 7 am. On a Sunday, you are not meant to do that. God said so and took a break Himself, remember? But the loud trrrring of the doorbell shook me awake. I was playing Laptronica sitting beside Johnny Depp in my dreams, in complete Rhythm and Jazz when the tanpura of reality fell on my head.  

Open eyes and door.

There he stood, smiling as if nothing had happened, two packets of milk in his hands. Creep, I whispered, hoping God didn’t hear that. ‘Ram ram bhabhi ji’ and I growled something back, trying to open the eye that was stuck with the nameless little white things that form in them overnight. ‘The weather is changing fast now!’ and I looked at his face with that thin moustache I wanted to uproot. 100 minus 54 is … um … and he handed me the change. ‘Short by 1 rupee’, I told him. In went his hand into his pocket and jingled the coins inside. Clank clank clink and it sounded like Death Metal to my aching head. ‘Good day Sunday be with you, bhabhi ji’ he sheepishly said, smiling like an apsara no less in the rising sunlight, his words sung like Bhajan Kirtan straight into my head. Did I see him clapping his hands and nodding his head side-to-side too? The door closed. Phew! 

The coffee had to be strong. The bongo in my head had to go. And I had an appointment at the salon. Threading and then skinning alive for a dip in hot oil, and then slow roasting with Elevator Music playing in the bac … I meant waxing. 

I almost gave up, then saw a rickshaw guy sleeping, on duty. On duty! I shook his world and asked him to take me to ‘Beauty and the Best’, for 10 bucks. Cursing louder the sarkar with every pothole in the road, I wished I had a driver, or a bigger bum. The little bell on his handle was going mad with glee, and here I was doing Space Disco, or is this what is called Indie Rock a-bye-bebbe. Drats! ‘Can you go faster please, I’m getting late’ I bent forward to scream in his ear. He agreed. As if I had sung some Gospel Music in his ear. Vroom he went, till my liver reached my knees, my spleen my toes, and my heart right into my mouth. I reached. In one piece, but just a little misplaced inside. 

Minimalist … music I mean, as I entered to take a chair. ‘Threading first, please’ and in came my girl. Twang twang and felt like someone was playing a violin on my brows with a kite-flying thread. The murmur of fellow-sufferers did not help the pain. Such Comedy, the banters. ‘How much for waxing chest hair?’ and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I still cannot take it, a man next to me, querying thus with a green pack on his face. ‘Stay still and pull up, ma’am’ she whispered, matching the Drone playing around me somewhere. Or was it the pain in my head? ‘Oh, sorry! Is it almost over, Shikha?’ As if! The waxing session began. Two women, playing Qawwali over my legs my arms. Outdoing each other. The Drone turned Psychedelic. I am dying, I said to myself. This is what death feels like. I saw a sudden bright light and a woman in white robes saying something to me … ‘Ho gaya, ma’am’. I squeaked a thank you, with tear-filled eyes. Tears of joy. Hallelujah! 

I reach home and breathe, only to find I had forgotten to get the vegetables. Ravivar Bazaar lined the lane next door. And it was abuzz. Do I have to? Argued the angel. You have to! Boom boxed the devil. One jhola on one waxed arm a purse on the other, and an upper lip red like a certain God I entered the passageway to hell. What a Classical Crossover – from my peaceful home to this Samba. All shapes and sizes testing my Heavy Metal, over lauki and tori and gobhi and aalo. More push than that involved in delivering a child. Equal pull too. Hip Hop in the crowd and I reached my favourite guy. ‘What do you mean 20 ka ek pao?’ I screamed though my teeth, in the highest note of the octave. He acquiesced to this raging Medusa’s mood. Finally, to the Afro-Beat in my head, I sprinted home. Less red on the lip, but sore like a thumb in the head. 

Enough. This Sunday was all Noise.

I plonked on the bed and just stared at the fan, like a sax not ready to be played at any more. All my buttons had been pressed enough through the day. Telly on! What in the world is this? A furore in the Rajya Sabha. Hah! What fun. Suddenly, a big belly jangled naked with excitement. Acid Jazz poured in my eyes. Only one word escaped my mouth – Eww! I flushed the remote. Cut the TV cable into two. And closed my eyes. Humming my favourite Blues, finally. Falling asleep, slowly, almost there in the Bill Board chart of Top 10 Johnny Depp dreams. 

And then I heard it. Snore snore whistle snore whistle whistle snore. ‘What Deep F … Funk!’ You dog! And then I just gave up, on this very discordant Sunday. 

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was: B+ - Write about what you did last weekend as though you’re a music critic reviewing a new album.]