Blue Women

“I got you something.”

“What? Ooooh, that’s my favorite brand, how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I just liked the color of the packet. Don’t some famous people smoke Camel?”

“And what’s this written on the pack?”

“That’s a little poem for you,” I smiled.

“Yeah, lemme see how you flirt with your women. With poems, huh?”

She reads the short poem . . .

“I’m very much a prose person, and hey, wherefrom did you get the notion that I flirt? I gottu find out who’s responsible for all this damage.”

She is taller than I expected. When I first saw her, it was from a distance, and from another perspective. Tall, with her hair falling on her forehead and eyes, she made a pretty picture. Sharp eyes, I noticed. Why did she say I would find her unwomanly? I was already pretty conscious of being in the presence of a strong, beautiful woman, who probably likes to call all the shots in a relation. But we are not friends yet. We are gauging the possibility of a friendship in this. I am. Maybe she isn’t even thinking.

“Okay, so every time there will be something that burns out? Hmm, candles, perhaps?”

“Hey, guess what, I wanted to get you aromatic candles. Only didn’t find time to go to Forum. They have some nice candles there.”

“But good you got the ciggies, Manas. Do you want to smoke a joint?”

“That’s what I’ve come for,” I lied. I had come to meet a woman, perhaps watch her out of the corner of one eye, or maybe even stare. I can look at beautiful women for hours on end. But so can you all. I have stared at these stills on my desktop for hours. I am exaggerating . . . not hours, probably a few minutes.

She meticulously filled her bong with some exotic weed. From Kerala, she informed. While she was at it, I lapped up all there was to offer in her room. There were these acrylic paintings that she told me about. Very vibrant colors, and some of them were worth a second look. Almost all of them, in fact. I think, out of the seven paintings displayed on the walls, I didn’t like one. One that I, with my limited levels of art appreciation, couldn’t make any sense of. She calls it Blue Women.

"You know what, one Suraj Mansukhani wanted to buy Blue Women. He offered an absurdly high price."

"Yeah, I know him. He is obssessive, people say. He can go to any length to get what he wants. Have you ever met him?"

"No, man . . . in fact I have an exhibition coming up. My paintings are never for sale. If I am not driving a merc, who cares? I paint for myself. For some friends too at times."

Will she ever paint something for me one day? I will wait, perhaps. Perhaps not.

After the smoke, everything became lighter. I realized I was rather stiff till then, sitting across the breadth of her living room, facing her, watching. What is she thinking? The intros are over, as in mine is. I never wanted to know anything about her. Somehow I find it difficult to ask too many questions for the sake of a conversation. I also realize that the weed has opened some valve in my brain that was bringing out words from Babel.

So I talk, looking into her eyes. Her intense, piercing eyes. What is she thinking, I find myself wondering again. We are talking about short stories now.

***

PTI 22 March, 2005: The famous painter Arundhuti was found dead in her condominium yesterday. The police suspected suicide but the post mortem report found poisoning as the cause of death. The police found some foreign cigarettes laced with poison among her belongings. They found no fingerprints, just a short poem scribbled on the pack. The investigating officer refused to comment.

Tomorrow there is an auction of Ms Arundhuti's paintings.

***

The phone rings.

"Hello, Manas speaking . . ."

"Hello, Mr Mansukhani? There's some good news for you," it was my agent Vinod, "we picked up Blue Women."

Letter from Nowhere to "Catherine" in Pune

rishikesh is where my mom wanted to go for her vanaprastha . . . only she dint live long enough. she wasnt religious. a nonbeliever, actually. but rishikesh to her was this place with a pleasant weather up in the hills . . . no pollution, and better still, no family to look after.

she never wanted a family. one mistake was to get married. was never forgiven for that mistake. she never wanted a child. she told me that she wanted her own life. but she never could have one.
wish i could give her life back to her.

from her i learned that you should not compromise on anything that you want in life for others. you die a sad death. there are happy deaths and there are sad deaths. hers was a sad death. although she never realized how she was dying, she still had many unfulfilled wishes. many.

i have many wishes too. i will try to fulfil them in this lifetime. because, unlike you, i don't believe in an afterlife. wish i were a hindu. then i could be born as a butterfly away from the reach of cruel children. again, somewhere in the hills.
so, if i ride my bike to the hills tomorrow, don't blame me. i will be doing it for my mom. because that's something i wish for. doing something for the memory of my mom.

my mom i never got the chance to know.

i never saw my mom in you. you were always like the younger sibling. wayward, lacking discipline. wish i could cane you sometimes. cane you into sanity. back to sanity? or maybe you were never sane at all? maybe you were this insane little girl roaming around the lake, testing the murky water for pollution and waiting for the moon on top of that hill.

i saw in you a lot of unbridled energy . . . which i used to get back on my own two feet. so when i moved ahead . . . i left you weaker, while i was strong. fresh as a young gorilla ready to lick the world single-handed. who said that? Carl Muller?

Ari

From Tehran

From: "The Last Star"
To: "Ari"
Sent: Friday, February 11, 2005 12:30 PM
Subject: Re: where are you hiding, my last star?



Oh! Ari, Ari Aziz...

I am so crazy and lazy girl, too,...serious.
These days, I walk in snow, listen to BACH and,...at all.
After my exhibition,...I'm depress,....I could'nt sell my
paintings and sculptures,...any work...in Iran ( same every where) people
sell simply art works, thing for adaptation with their furniture, but my
works weren't good for furniture,...mmmm,...dead beetle, mug, old
watch, adjustable spanner, sun flower, saxophone and my hand, my hand, my
hand ... no no Ari ..people don't like these works, they don't like my
world, my solitude world...and critics and journalists like every art works
then people like...ha ha ha...any way....I'm so tired and poor! ...Then I
walk in snow, ....at all,...and so sorry for late writting to you.
Tell me about you, in winter, about your motorbike (new!) and your wishes!!!!
warmly and kiss
Jinoos

On the Way to Jaisalmer

"Will you watch my stuff when I'm gone?"
"I sure will, don't you worry pal."

And then he led him to the execution chamber. That was when they had the electric chair, i think. I was curious what happened to the packet after the black man was dead. Did it reach his wife? What did he have in it? He must have made sketches, of people around him, of the jailer, the sentries, the other inmates, of his daughter, probably of his girlfriend too.

I watched the execution, despite being very scared about it. I have to watch a death happen. And suffer the nightmares for months after that. I always try to see how a knife slits the throat of a poor chicken, probably half dead by the time it is picked up, neck twisted. Done with elan, by practiced hands, unfeeling. I watch. I pretend I am not affected. I am macho, I ride a heavy motorbike, how can I be flustered watching someone die?

The morning when Dhananjoy was executed, I stayed up from 3.00 a.m. till about 5.30, thinking how long his body must have twitched after death, hanging from that rope. What is it with me? Is it the horror of the thought? The thought that the state can coldbloodedly decide to take one's life?
If it is the horror, why did I want to be a hangman? Where exactly am I?

I am on the highway. My money seems to be running out pretty fast, although I found free accommodation every night so far. Won't have any such luck as I get into Rajasthan. Jaisalmer? When did I watch Shonar Kella? Must have been more than twenty years now? Sometimes I forget how old I am . . . people like her make me forget how old I am.

She has a very beautiful smile. Maybe I could have met her in Bombay. Why didn't I? Someday I will tell her that I find her very beautiful. Will she feel good? Will she get pissed off? Nah, one thing I've known in these thirty years . . . pay a heartfelt compliment to someone, he/she is definitely gonna feel good. So I will tell her that I had a mild crush on her. Let me see how she takes it. Maybe tonight when I surf the Net?

What if we suddenly connect? What if she writes back and I feel this absurd urge to take a U turn and head back towards Bombay? One thing's for certain: I cannot afford hotel bills. I have my tent with me, which I can't pitch anywhere in Bombay.

Why am I thinking absurd things?

But you gottu be prepared for eventualities!

What eventualities? I am going to Jaisalmer. I have to see the sandstone fort, the golden fortress. Why am I thinking of going back to Bombay?

Who's this new "she"?

She is a mother of two.

So what, isn't it all about being able to connect?

Connect and what? I cannot afford to be in Bombay. Where will I put up?

Whenfrom have you started thinking about consequences? Why did you set off on this journey in the first place? What has happened to you?

Okay, so she hasn't even written, Ari. Don't you assume so much far ahead.

If I don't, I will cease to exist. I will cork my imagination and it will find outlets in other things. I could make a few sketches, for instance.

Keep riding.

I kept riding at a steady pace of 80 kmph. Mentally converting it into miles per hour. For my American friends. Someday I want to drive a left-hand-driven vehicle. But I need manual transmission . . .

Moving On

"So where are you headed now?"

"Tehran."

"don't be kidding, how will you go to Tehran? Why anyway?"

"What do you mean how will I get there. I can choose to ride my motorbike, or take a flight from Bombay."

"Is there anybody you will meet there? Why Tehran of all places?"

"Yes, I want to see the last star in the morning sky..." I laugh.

"Don't try juvenile poetry early in the morning, Ari, go brush your teeth first."

"Oh no, she is called Jinoos, meaning 'the last star in the morning sky'. I will be meeting her."

I am not going to Tehran anyway. But I can't tell her that. I have to move on. Not possible if I leave any traces. I have to find a new life where my past will not haunt me anymore.

"Oh, a girl? Ari, I really don't understand you. Who is this Jinoos by the way? How do you know her?"

"Don't be a nag. You sound like you are married to me or something. I'm not even sure you have the right to ask so many questions."

She quietly left the room.

I don't know if she had any more visions after that. I left Pune and rode on. Stopped near Nerul for a while to get my chain tightened and moved on again. Jinoos is this sculptor friend of mine from Tehran. Very, very pretty. Very pretty indeed. Yeah, that itself is reason enough to go to Tehran, but don't be a fool now. Don't get waylaid by the lure of beautiful faces. Someday you will have your harem, but now is not the time. So my mobike chugged ahead, its steady, pleasant thump almost transponding me to another world.

47 kms

"I love you love you love you, Ari . . ." she whispered into my ear.

"You sound like Catherine."

"So let me be your Catherine tonight. How do you know I didn't use any commas?"

"There weren't any pauses, and not much of the night left, is there? It is already 3.00 in the morning. so good morning, Catherine."

"I will still call you Ari."

"Okay, so you be my Mia."

"Mia who?"

"Mia Farrow."

"And you my old man? My Woody Allen?"

"Whatever."

"The smirnoff was smooth, but i still seem to be swimming in it, Ari."

"I puked it out."

Earlier that night we were together reading a posthumous novel by Hemingway, and I could not help relating her with Catherine that moment. Short hair, crazy, full of surprises. Only we couldn't be married, could we?

"Let's go to sleep now?" I offered.

"Since when are you awake? Has it been 24 hours?"

"Umm, lemme see . . . yes, I woke up last night at 3.15 to get dressed."

"Oh, baby, just go off to sleep now..." she sometimes changes her tone and pets me like I were her son or something. Somehow I feel very comforted, protected whenever she speaks like that.
She has to turn to her left, and so do I. I let her snuggle into me and am surprised at how comfortably my body allows her to dovetail into me. As if we were these gears of a machine, made to order. Is that a bad analogy? Why am I thinking of gears right now? The gears of my motorbike were pretty well-behaved all the way from Bangalore to Pune. They never slipped like they are wont to sometimes. After crossing Kolhapur my body gave up, but I carried on like a machine. I had to reach Pune in one day. I had to reach her . . .
And then, near a diversion, I saw a milestone announcing: Pune 47 km. The other milestones passed me by, every fifty seconds or so . . .

"Ari, I had a vision this evening."

"You are my clairvoyant, aren't you? My very own, my pet psychic. What did you see this time?"

"Will tell you tomorrow."
My eyes were closing. I parked my right hand on her breast and went off to sleep.

"Don't, you won't let me sleep this way! I am sore . . ." she mumbled.

***

"Ari, old man, wake up you fatso!"
She was standing next to my bed in her pajamas.

"When did you wake up? What time is it?"

"You were snoring, my Woody Allen, I went to the other room."

"Oh, so sorry, why didn't you wake me up? Shit, hope you don't hate me for snoring?" I was embarrassed.

"How can I hate you? Maybe when you leave me and go back to your life, forever, I would. I so want to hate you, Ari. It would make things less painful for me, won't it?"

"Let's talk about something else. I am not leaving now, am I? What were you saying about having a vision yesterday?"

"Oh, it was around 9.30 in the night. I thought I saw you taking a turn on the highway where there was this milestone reading 'Pune 47 km'. But of course all that cannot be true. I so wish it were true though," she was smiling . . .

. . . and that moment I realized how I cannot ever go very far from her, no matter how far.