Leaky bucket days–life dripping down

“Water not only moves around a rock, it actually moves through it,”
Larry Fleinhardt in Numb3rs

An eccentric genius, Larry is a physics professor who cannot get his ‘self’ together. In certain aspects of his life he is highly organized and anal retentive as, for instance, in his food habits, he eats only monochromatic foods. But, Larry has his anarchic  side as well; he sells his house and, now, beds down wherever he feels unthreatened.  http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0888290/   The episode opens with Larry scurrying out of a steam tunnel, bedding in hand, watched surreptitiously by a Senior Professor.   Although he has been offered a space in Charlie’s garage, he moves out after a few nights, preferring the tunnels.larry Larry’s is a more borderline personality than Charlie Epps, the math genius who, though he may have commitment problems, lives in his own house albeit with his dad. Watching the show at night, having had a few pegs of ‘Honeybee’, that wonderful Goan brandy, I sense Larry in myself.

So far the day has been a leaky bucket, my resolve to write, my good humor, have both dripped out through the hours. An all too familiar mood of futility and desperation flows in instead.  I hear my own voice, shrill, high, and loud, berating the service people who delay the car’s return until the afternoon.  The heat today  is like an unwanted blanket, it presses down and renders me numb and nerveless.  Aware that the world is at odds with me, I don’t want to move.

Sure enough, my voice hits the heavy air again like a harpy’s. I shout at Francisca, the housekeeper, who forgets to bring the sticky tape I need to mend a carton. And, I am constantly on the phone to the service people who whine,
“we are bringing the car, just now, bringing the car ma’am.”
They have now been bringing the car for four days.
“Brake pads are worn down, ma’am, we don’t have a driver, ma’am, the car is in the body shop, ma’am.”
Sung in inimitable Indian cadence, the refrain drums through my head. The customer will never be God here, s/he has to grateful for any favors done.

My harangue, in response to their ditty, removes me to another time and place–the ashram of two years ago when its founder died.  The note of hysteria that inflects my voice summons up those days:  Swami dead, people, pilgrims, gawkers, and thieves bound together in the sweat of mass emotion.  Me, in my tiny flat, I cower amid the thick of things, hidden behind my walls but I witness all.putt  I don’t venture outside, but my room rides the gusts of hysteria and hypocrisy. My apartment is a ship, battered by a cyclone of mourning.

I lock myself forcibly inside, and attempt to eat myself into immobility. My legs lock up.  They ache because they have nowhere to walk. [FYI:news video Devotees mourn death]  Today, two years later, the legacy of locking myself in for eight months endures, physically and mentally.  I write to release myself from that immuration within doors. Physically, I am free, I have the means to move where I please–to be in Goa, to meet folks, to walk on the beach.  But every so often I feel the weight of  those mental shackles.  I allow myself more latitude now but grief still bears down on my mind. I will not move out of this room in Sunlife Residency today, although my voice beats at different doors.

Scrunched over my little MacBook, I hear a scooter start up, and Shalini, my neighbor goes by with her year old son balanced in front of her.  She looks up and waves, plump, with shoulder length black hair, large dark eyes that crease up when she smiles. Her round face, as well, creases into goodwill. In her black skirt and printed blouse, she looks the perfect mum.
“You must have heard me screaming,” I tell her, “horrible day, guess how much the service cost?  Thirteen thousand rupees.”
“Ooh,oh, my Gawd!” she exclaims.
“Fuck them. Ba-a-ad day.”
“Yes”, she agrees.

I’ve been bled dry.

 

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Snakes of the sea–a catholic-hindu mongrel on the beach

“Le hasard, c’est peut-être le pseudonyme de Dieu quand il ne veut pas signer. [Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when he does not wish to sign his work.] —Théophile Gautier [http://www.phraseculte.fr/phrase-culte-hasard-theophile-gautier-18.html]

I never knew who wrote this until right now when I trawl the web for writings on coincidence. These words, like so much other literary miscellany, jitterbug through my mind at odd hours, waking me up when I need to sleep. Coincidence rests in the realm of the miraculous.

Surfing the net a few days ago, I read that sea snakes are common to Goa‘s seas.[http://indiamike.info/india/goa-f23/sea-snake-t180518/#post1493182] sea-snake-in-goa-beachhttp://indiamike.info/india-images/pictures/sea-snake-goa-beach The very next morning I see a dead sea snake coiled up on the sand at low tide. Today again, I enter the beach at extreme low tide, walking onto exposed black sands, and I notice on my right, just about a yard away, a sea snake. Only, this snake is alive, opening its mouth and attempting to make its way back into the sea. I watch it for a while, wanting to help but queasy all the same. As I make my way along the shore for my morning stumble, the thought of that stranded serpent remains at the back of my mind. On my return, about an hour or so later, I look around but see no sign of it. Hopefully, the snake has regained the sea.

Coincidence? Perhaps, but also a sign from the god that follows me about, a whisper from the universe,

“You are not alone, detritus on the shores of life. The snake and you, god holds you both equally, process without hierarchy.”

Evolution or not, the plankton on the waves, a dense frond of seaweed on the shore, inanimate sand and animate human foot, we are interdependent, we create G-O-D together. Shell studded beach, star studded sky, neon studded cities, will I learn to hold these together equally? If my prayer is listened to, what about that breathed by the cockroach I spray with Baygon? At unprompted moments, this catholic breath blows through my being; at others I am empty, washed clean, like that spiral shell on the beach.

Yesterday, I had to take my blue Jazz for service to Verna. A long drive, but I follow my friend, Gerry, in his little red Zen to the service center. Leaving my car there, I hop into the Zen, accompanying Gerry as he does a few errands. Then, we drive to his house in Orlim, where the carpenter and his assistant are replacing the tiles on the roof. They remove the red terracotta tiles one by one, then, they clean and replace each: their activity writes a poem in color, labor, and sunlight.

Underfoot, the black dust from the tiles sprinkles the mosaic on the floor. Inside the kitchen, Preethi is at the stove, busy with an Indian breakfast delicacy, pooris. Deep fried, true, but ambrosia to a hungry person. Gerry has a headache which he attributes to a hangover from a peg of vodka drunk the night before, but we, Preethi and I, are sure that the pooris will prove a remedy. Sure enough, the headache vanishes, and he holds forth on his projects for the day. Standing up to leave, he remarks casually that he’ll see me later.

“But, Gerry,” I hesitate, “should I come with you right now, otherwise, how will I make my way back?”
Surprised, he looks at me: “Ah, no, you’ll have the car, so you can leave later.”
“What car, do you mean you’re handing over the car to me?”
“Yup, keep with you in ‘Sunlife Residency,’ you’ll need it to go to market, or beach.”
He mutters, “I prefer the scooter to move about on, any way. What traffic in Margao, you know.”

His unforced kindness bowls me over. My interactions with others over the past few years have been fraught; his simple goodwill renews my faith in our species. Preethi pipes in, “keep it, keep it. You use it.” She’s got a lot to do after Gerry’s departure—-wash the dishes, sweep, dust, and mop the house in the aftermath of the roof cleaning. As she moves round to the back to free their two enormous blonde Labradors who have become entangled with each other, I follow to see pails and pails of clothes soaked for wash. Freed from his chain, Tyson jumps on me, tongue lolling to the side. I push him off, fearful of my legs. Meantime, Bruno, still chained, starts wailing.

I take my leave, not wanting to get in the way of Preethi’s chores. Outside, the small house faces a vista of fields, the neighbor’s place is well beyond a banyan tree. Gerry and Preethi have cleared the ground about the house, and planted decorative shrubs. To protect the emerging shrubs from the depredations of the dogs, Gerry’s brainwave is to circle them with upended, Tuborg beer bottles. Everywhere I look, those beer bottle butts wink greenly back at me. The Zen is parked facing the narrow dirt track that leads up to the house, making it easy for me to maneuver it over the rubble.

I start the car which is in first gear, but, before I get it to move, the clutch jerks and the engine cuts out. Under the grinning gaze of the tile cleaner who is watching me closely, I try a couple more times. No go. Finally, I raise the engine in frustration, and the tiny car moves down the track. I am off in Gerry’s car but it is a tense and jerky ride until I get used to it.

Anxious though I am at driving a vehicle so different from mine, a sense of felicity envelops me. Later, the same evening, I visit my neighbor, Shalini, to genuflect before the icon of Mother Mary in her living room, decorated with a crown of electric lights above and a burning taper below. Mother Mary travels from house to Catholic house in Varca. (Every local church sends their particular Mother Mary from house to house in their neighborhood). Each home welcomes her, keeps her for 24 hours, and celebrates her visit with fireworks and prayers. I am blessed.

So, I consecrate my private togetherness with god and the vast anarchic totality of Being. For now, a divine, fugitive order of coincidence directs my steps. Tomorrow? Who knows? Certainly not me.