Millennium #15 Issue, May 2005
Did not choose...
by N. BANGOLORE
I did not choose my children’' names, people called
their off springs with names that sprang out of love, mine
were insignificant flowers of some undecided minutes of
Their names are like them they .do not make sense to my
life or being...it is as if they blew in the air and sat
on my belly -traveled on some wild whim towards a long unhindered
His name is: Spring
His name is great friend: lanky and wanting
How could I have chosen their names when my name itself
wasn't chosen by me?
Growing up thirsting, haunted by memories… wanted
by duties. The rest was all in the hands of others who made
shapes out of my being...Couldn't control anything.
I randomly laid eggs hatched them, someone made them happen…
These thoughts are mediated on a lazy afternoon when I could
not shake my fear of being
child, I have often wondered sitting on the windowsill which were dark, huge unassumingly
friendly at my school... … that was let off 10 hours
ago, waiting to be picked up on wallowing nights, no one
would come. It is like they do not know that I sat
there cold hungry and dizzy, tiered and drowsy… it
was after eons I heard a bark and a black dog climbing the
steps of the school...I stealthily slithered to the windows
hugged them closely watching the dog sniff my boots….
the dog just left without a whimper . The tall
gates of the school had closed…
looked at the looming nuns quarters beside the school.
As I walked along the little windows I could hear the
clutter, I could hear lilting voices of the celibate nuns.
The aroma of fresh bread. made me feel quite comfortable
to the surroundings..
ticked away. I watched the empty roads for a long time…dark
and scary, may be some day...my legs will be big enough
to take me home…I could go home when I wanted to..
then I heard footsteps behind…as I turned a strange
strong hand grabbed me and too weary to protest my eyes
close to the darkness inside..
He was opening the wine bottle..and telling her
shouldn’t give up”
was looking at the opener, which was drilled slowly in
to the bottle..the light red Merlot eventually filling
took one of them and both retired to the living room,
Padma began her interview with this budding Movie director
who was barely 30, she stared at his short pouchy pudgy
hands, cute face, restless eyes under thick glasses..
He smelt good and felt distant, she remembered the e-mails
they had exchanged the whole day. He had grown on her
like the thorns on a cactus tree, it hurt in a peculiar
way as if the hurt was growing with you.
lit a cigarette and questioned,
your husband drink? Smoke?”
tell me what’s the problem with your husband”?
“I pity him”
pity my husband”
felt like a slut.
pity is a loaded word”
fumbled- she wondered if he would barter her 13 years
was furiously thinking,. she gaped at his hands, burning
tip of the cigarette all those jokes n sundry they shared,
his warmth, his thoughts which goaded her to live.
is he waiting for?
about my marriage she thought-marriages are made in heaven
let them stay there.
are ordinary mortals beyond that we are human beings with
ignored most of what he rambled about commitment. He was
a good man all he needed was a good fuck she thought.
seized that moment and stared at her, their eyes met…
he bent over her softly kissing her lips…she succumbed
to his touch, his breath...his song.
Millennium #15 Issue, May 2005