Disillusionist //

Learning From Past Presidents – Doris Kearns Goodwin

I crossed my friends’ names off the list one by one. I dragged their gray, cement bodies out of the galley. I heaved them on to the plank, then dropped them into the ocean, one by one.

The ocean didn’t care. She swallowed them whole, not bothering to check who they were. I looked on at the swirling spots where they had sunk swiftly and silently.

Real, rough humans stand behind rows of delicate pastries preserved in clear glass. They wear black and greet me warmly.

She walks in, glittering diamonds and rubies; looking befittingly posh, as must an affluent wife of Somebody.

Talk.

Show that you care.

Slow down.

Know her name,

Know yourself.

Push forth and break out to space.

But break bread too, and smell the day.

Her hair; thick and curly,

Sweet and pungent;

Her steaming nape, and moist expectation,

Between her thighs.

With bosoms bursting,

Bittersweet dripping,

We press our mouths

Ancient mounds of green earth, formed over centuries of weathering. They’re enormous.

A little path far below, zig zagging sharply down the hillside like a lightning bolt.

Contemplative silence in the car I travel in.

A little girl with clear brown eyes, a bulging plastic ‘basta’ on her head. She looks at me.

Steep slopes; each hill a crease on this earth, their summits hidden in clouds.

A little boy in a dirty blue shirt and khaki pants, sitting alone on the culvert, legs dangling. A stream gushing underneath.

The hills are coated with fuzzy grass embedded in rock.

Little patches of 'dhania' and cabbage planted near the road. Five children on a bend, each brandishing a vegetable in hand and shouting: “kaddu lelo, kheera lelo, gobi lelo!”

Heads of passangers above a line of pale green seats in a near-empty compartment.

A “Pehla Nasha” ringtone keeps playing frequently. The phone’s owner – a young businessman keeps cutting the call.

I finally understand what Haridwar means after reading the name on the yellow station sign board.

Tall trees, green thicket underneath, separating me from the Rishikesh road that runs parallel to our tracks.

A skinny man on a dusty moped wearing chunky suede Catterpillars. Heat emanating from hundreds of vehicles stuck in afternoon traffic. Hot blast of air. Grey smog hiding everything beyond a few kilometers from sight. I.m happy to be hungry on time, at 1:15 pm.

At Katihar, a Bihari uncle and aunty join me in my cabin. After tea and a brief conversation we all get back into our phones.

Outside, it’s fresh after some rain. The sky is the palest shade of pink. At a railway crossing, old village men sit by the roadside, waiting for us to cross them.

I wonder if my unsettled stomach is just another manifestation of anxiety.

Our coach, the last in line, lurches everytime we speed up or slow down.

The breeze, rippling through paddy fields, making vibrant green waves.

A black t-shirt pinned to a bamboo post, a proxy-scarecrow, swivelling in the breeze.

Giant anthropomorphic towers, lines of them, with bizzare hands clutching electric cables.

A memory of her and Pictionary. She hugged me before I left.

The muffled clanks of iron wheels creating an aggressive, random pattern.