Note – This fragment was buried in the mind somewhat, and surfaced reading Primalsoup’s wonderful post on her grandmother.
This white man, wrinkled from the centre to the edges of his very being, he’s not my grandfather. Spring sits like a fat yellow labrador, sniffing and pissing on random trees, causing them to bloom. He walks very slow. Each foot set forward an affirmation of movement. He suddenly falls, his shopping sliding out from the bag. Around us, a few people overcome by their sense of duty, attempt to pick the rolling fruits. He suddenly screams, his wrinkles coming alive, asking them to go fuck off and mind their own business. This combination of an expletive and a strong voice shoots eyebrows northward, and the crowd thins. He picks himself up and in broken slow motion, begins chasing the apples.
I am unable to hold myself back. I decide to focus on the oranges. He asks me to mind my own bloody business. He says he’s old, not dead. I tell him that I will gather the oranges for him, and then he can toss them back on the street and collect them all over again. My ears pick up what feels like more choice expletives and a low grumble. I handover the oranges to him. Maybe I know why people being nice to him can be so annoying. This desire to be anonymous and invisible. And to never feel grateful.
I am selfish. In the hope that far away, some person, similarly looks beyond my grandfather’s pride, and gathers his fallen grocery for him.
—-
I think that is why I cook so much for friends – the guilt.
“Maybe I know why people being nice to him can be so annoying. This desire to be anonymous and invisible. And to never feel grateful.
I am selfish. In the hope that far away, some person, similarly looks beyond my grandfather’s pride, and gathers his fallen grocery for him.”
This is a remarkable fragment. I read two poems this morning, they appeared a bit disconnected, though they weren’t meant to be read together. Now, after reading this, it occurs to me that your fragment fills the missing space, makes itself as that missing link.
These two poems are from “Speaking of Siva” by A. K. Ramanujan (I can swear I got the reference to this book from reading your blog, but can’t quite put a finger on it where…).
First on p110.
If they see
breasts and long hair coming
they call it woman
if beard and whiskers
they call it man:
but, look, the self that hovers
in between
is neither man
nor woman
O Ramanatha
and the second on p104.
He will make them roam the streets;
scrape them on stone for colour of gold;
grind them for sandal;
like a stick of sugarcane
he will slash them to look inside.
If they do not wince or shudder,
he will pick them up by the hands,
will our Ramanatha.
Now it occurs to me that your fragment actually disclosed the disconnected-ness first and then connected them through it. Makes sense?
That white man is no one but our own loved ones who spurn us, who are stubborn and who won’t let us in when the hour of need arrives (our need, not theirs). And the me and you and the all of us, it seems to me, will be picked up by the hands, only if we “do not wince or shudder.”
Thanks for the fragment, because it helped me connect a few things. That is after all what great writing does. Re-collect and relate, isn’t it?
Regards, Crazyfinger
Nicely done!!Makes me want the ‘complete’ work and not just a ‘fragment’!
Nice. Somehow felt that this fragment should have been open-ended stopping with I’m selfish or better yet just before that.Redundant? May be may be then again may be not.
and I wonder – praises apart – what the old man has to say on the post… perhaps, in some other corner of the “huge set of tubes that form internet”, he’s grumbling to a peer about the “‘orrible people” who won’t let him live the “prescribed course” of dropping groceries and picking ‘em up… as his doc recommended to get the much needed bending exercises to heal his arthristis… that pain in the knees/joints that the young folk think is the reason for the slow-moving oldies.
ok… i’m not that man… but I would hate it if people are trying to be extra nice to me for they take me to be a destitute… or desperate… or whatever is the word…
often… what you do as your morals tell you is based on a wrong surmise…. it ASSUMES helplessness and cripples people long before they actually are. So stop being nice to strangers, mind your business (as the old man said) and show compassion… without demeaning the other.
Neha: since you wanted more than one-liners, you got as many :)
But I’m an avid reader of your blog so dont block my id.
me again… realized that this is labelled “Fiction Fragment” so either inspired by reality (as i suppose it is with a 98% probability) or a genuine piece – which the author didnot encounter in real life but cooked up while knitting another pair of checkered gloves, or watching the countless movies she does in all languages/dialects.
In both cases, it speaks to the reader through and through, so pretty nicely written. (OK, I was not paid for this compliment! Not yet, at least :)
The fragment was moving- and then Crazyfinger’s comment made it so very profound…..
if they do not wince or shudder
Beautiful. Thanks, both of you
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