Hanging out

I don’t really understand why the need for a social gathering after the death of a related one. I assume it’s for a last goodbye or to set an end and move on. It is probably a right assumption but it doesn’t make much sense to me. So I pretend. I go to funerals and I make sure others acknowledge my presence, as if I was part of it. But I’m not sad. I usually don’t feel anything, even if it is someone related to me, even if I try. I stand there, watching the coffin being buried while everybody but me is crying or praying or both. I disguise myself with sunglasses and by constantly looking down. It seems to fit the ritual and nobody notices how careless I am being about the whole thing. I could probably sing, make joke or have a beer in there. Cemeteries seem such a nice place for a beer. It is calm, green and breezy; like going to an empty beach or the outskirts of a park. If it wasn’t for the dead people underneath, I guess most people wouldn’t mind hanging out there either.

My grandfather died when I was really young - probably six or seven. It was the first funeral I attended. I was picked at school and remember being happy about it. After all, it seemed as an opportunity to skip that day classes. From that day, I only recall my already dead grandpa. Even my mom and dad’s faces are blurred to me. Everybody but grandpa was ghosts, wandering, giving me pity eyes. But grandpa, grandpa I remember. A lot of him is distinctively clear, a vivid picture taken seconds ago. He had an elongated face, brown skin, eyes shut, and cotton in his big nose. The hair he had left was well combed but most of it was on the back of the head. He was all a big wrinkly forehead. The rest of his body was confined within an indistinct wooden coffin. Nothing else really seemed to matter but my grandpa’s serene expression. He had a happy look, although everybody else was utterly sad. “What a contradiction”, I still remember thinking.

I also remember getting sick that same day, still in the cemetery, moments after my grandpa was buried. I remember a burning sensation in my stomach. I was about to throw up so I ran. I didn’t want anyone to see that. And after arriving at a distant sidewalk with no time left, I put it all out. Today I can tell it was like an awful hangover. My mom, of course, saw me and followed my steps. I remember her saying: “It’s ok son, lets take care of this.” I wasn’t really sure what was there to be taken care of. Of course she didn’t know I threw up not because of a dead body being buried. It was probably due to hyperthermia or lack of food. Or am I on denial? Maybe I still need care.

Since that episode, every time I go to a funeral I remember my grandfather. It is the only emotion that arises, I guess. But it is not happy or sad; it is just a recurring thought of my childhood. I guess my presence is important for others in those moments so I go and I try to comfort them. I don’t need any. It feels like I’m hollow inside or worse because I’m pretending not to be. And if I had to pray, I would for the ritual to be over as quick as possible. I always feel like having a beer after it is over.

Note: This is a work of fiction. Although some events inspired it, the story doesn’t represent any actual facts or a true narrative of my or anybody else’s past.

One night of chaos in India

It all started when I left the shopping mall. The large and yet packed-with-cars avenue was duping the incautious dwellers with its traffic lights and the impractical number of headlamps. The glare was blinding them and everything seemed normal; whatever normal means in India. But I noticed the difference. Half the city was already under complete darkness and a thunderstorm was approaching.

My watch was marking 10pm sharp. The mall was closing and its staff was going home. For them, nothing else mattered, so selfishly minding their own business. But I noticed a flare. It came from the building across the avenue and it looked like it was exploding. And indeed its transformer had just blown and with it all the nearby electrical network, leaving a path of sparks over the wires like scary fireworks. I glimpsed at leaving the place but nowhere would be safe if the whole city was collapsing.

I took a rickshaw. This little devil, covered with some synthetic fabric, completely opened at the sides, was to me the fastest means to get out, zigzagging through cars in a cacophony of horns and moos and barks and shouts, in roads full of bumps and puddles. It was cold and the open sides meant no windows to close and a freezing wind surrounding my body. It was the heavy storm now all over, striking glances of light to the blackout. The lightning could be seen from a distance; 1, 2, 3 and there it was the thunder adding one more percussion to the cacophony.

With all the water everywhere, I should have expected what was coming next. A truck ran over and obviously hit one big puddle and splashed all of us. Remember, no side windows in the rickshaw. And after strings of curses from the driver, another truck came and, probably on purpose and on behalf of the previous truck, splashed us again. At least I think they were having fun.

When we finally reached destination, I was cold, wet, and in the dark when I realized I had to money to pay for the ride; Just a credit card. I didn’t speak Hindi or Kannada, he didn’t speak English. I tried to say sorry. But he probably cursed me as he did with the truck driver. The security guard of my building ended up paying him; what else could I do? Well, I did what I could to finish that day as soon as possible: took a shower and went to bed, hoping for a new day to come with better moods…

Note: This is a work of fiction. Although some true events inspired it, the intensity of the story is beyond possibly any reality. Even in India.

A dream during siesta

I had a strange dream this Sunday afternoon. I was in a complex enterprise of some sort. Don’t know of what kind but seemed very powerful and diverse, yet loosely organized. I was a stranger in that place and apparently had just escaped prison. Don’t know why I was in prison in the first place; don’t know how I managed to swiftly appear outside of it either.

At some points, I had friends walking with me through doors of different departments and rooms. Friends and rooms were simply popping in and out, without any explanation. Like a poor movie. Effusive were my efforts to understand what was going on. I was looking all over the place for something; at least some clue. Don’t know what. And nothing gave me any edge. And nobody seemed to care so I kept walking.

I see the prison again and a friend materializes right next to me. Don’t know how or why. Now at least we have a purpose. We need to escape, get out of there as soon as possible, no matter what. We try to pretend we have nothing to hide while walking casually. They see us, of course. It was clearly obvious that they would. The sun was shinning brightly in the sky; there was nowhere to run to.

I get rid of them. Don’t ask me. Don’t know what happened to my friend. But I meet new friends, a lot of them, all ready to go to some war. We walk past some door and suddenly we are finally outside the enterprise. We turn left and the street was empty but they tell me to stop. I see a door, everything else was blurred and I ignore my friends. I run to get inside, having some unidentified hope.

The building is tall but thin. It is just stairs and the door I came through. Not even windows, just grey walls and cement stairs. And again I run up until I find another door. The top of the building is a small balcony and I can contemplate my tiny friends down the street. No other building is as tall as this one so I cannot jump. They engage a huge fight with another group. I am passive.

After a while, some of them go through the same door I took before. I hear a friend shout: “I will take care of them! I will leave only the easy ones for you!” Am I not able to take care of myself? I see I can go up the structure built around the exit door. It’s not simple to reach the top so I climb it. Up there I lay down. It seems like a plan to attack anyone who comes out the door and push them off the balcony. But I’m worried: What if it is my friend? I wake up.

To fish or not to fish

My father likes to fish. These days he doesn’t do it with the same intensity but that deep feeling of struggling with the fish when it bites the bait and try in vain to escape will probably always exist. I never had the same feeling. For me it was mostly boring to fish or to see my dad meticulously preparing the fishing rod, the hook, and the bait, for only then throw the line in the water and wait for hours before a first bite. “I’m an angler and anglers have patience!” he proudly used to say after I got too bored and started to complain. He was, of course, referring to the practice of angling, that is, catching the fish with an angle or a hook which indeed can take hours if the sea decides not to be helpful.

Sometimes we went to open sea with my dad’s friend. He had a motor yacht with all kinds of weird and technological stuff to “enhance the experience of angling”: An equipment to measure the tension of the line, artificial lures of all sorts and colors, chairs attached to the yacht, designed to facilitate the fight with the fish, and electric fishing reels to reduce the work of pulling the rod. I never had any excitement for any of those things. Sure it was fun to fight with the fish but all the preparation and the wait weren’t worthy enough for me. I enjoyed going to open sea for the ride and to swim and to dive when we were near a coral reef.

But these boat trips were rare. Most of the times we were at beaches or platforms built along them to increase our reach of the sea. One day, after one week going to the same place without catching any fish, I lost the patience and asked my dad: “Why the hell do we keep coming to this place if we don’t get any fish anyway?!”. Of course, after this, I knew something had to happen. My dad had to say something but he didn’t. He patiently prepared everything in the same routine of the days before. And throwing the line, he waited and I couldn’t do anything but to wait with him.

I guess he really wanted to get at least one fish that day. He probably had a whole speech prepared for that. But we left the beach with empty hands again. And in the car he looked at me and said: “If you don’t try, how do you know you will succeed one day?” Then he started the engine but before leaving, looked at me again: “Besides, these are good moments to spend with you, my son...” I never again complained about fishing with my dad.

Next week: more about fishing techniques around the world.

PS: I know it has been more than 4 months since my last post. Sorry for that but at that time I had lost the control of my activities so I had to give up this blog. Now I’m back and I will try to keep this a weekly exercise for me.

Short Story: Where was You last night?

Where was You last night? You didn’t know how to answer.

Tired of the long day that burdened him, he was reluctant. He didn’t want to share yet what he was going through. It is true, he knew how to answer that question, he simply didn’t want to. You’s face was pouting when the question was reinforced and kept echoing in his head. For a moment he thought about shouting back an argument for everyone across the globe to hear, satisfying him and the present people, setting free his friend who was supposed to answer the question in the first place.

- We were mowing the grass – said You at last, trying to end the situation as quick and as painless as possible. Nevertheless, after saying that, his voice trembled and weakened by the stress, he wished he could disappear. It was a stupid excuse for a very delicate situation. The whole scenario seemed like an interrogatory now and the surrounding people were also murmuring oddly and suspicious looks. You was wobbling. All he wanted was to relax and sleep and dream about last night and keep last night only for himself and his friend.

“Mowing the grass” wasn’t exactly going to help and his friend now crying and screaming nonsense words were enough for You to understand that. He knew that the truth had to be said. And he looked at his friend again. Even stared at her for a moment; maybe their last moment together. She was on the big wooden chair of her father, almost in the middle of that ample and bright room on the back side of the house, next to the others, howling.

He got, then, all the courage he had left, raised his head again and started to tell the story, word by word, gently looking at each and everyone’s flabbergasted face. Story told, there was nothing else to do. His friend wiped the tears away…