Once my father’s three brothers parted ways, our house developed cracks
wherein even periwinkles and peepal refused to display their usual examples of resilience.
Some cracks were shallow, like the ones on my daadi’s hands. Others, devastating.
Like the one that ran across the length and the width of the water tank on our terrace.
When my father’s three brothers finally moved out, he ordered for the tank to be demolished gently. Brick by brick. He preserved the lot of them in a storage room on the ground floor for future use.
He kept the base of the tank intact. Even got its surface freshly cemented with water proofing chemicals, then smoothened, so we could sit in the phantom of the tank, submerged in the memory of water without drowning.
On many evenings after his work, we’d sit there,my parents and my brother, with a tube of Odomos, a plate of samosa-jalebi, and a teapot of extra sweetened chai his brothers used to guzzle as if they were resistant to heat and sugar alike.
We gazed at the mural of Krishna guiding Arjuna to a battle against his brothers, across the road. Under their chariot, fake Ashoka trees photosynthesized in the street lamp’s desire.
None of my cousins around anymore, I would drown in loneliness sitting in the same spot a couple of years later. Only a few kilometres away from each other yet in another country for which we didn’t have a visa clearance.
I’d sit on the base of what used to be our water tank, dial other lonelies on the internet. There were so many of us, to my tweenage surprise, all busy asking each other questions like, “So, why do men love women’s boobs so much?” and “Is your dick curved? Can you send me a photo? Please?”
On some days, we even jerked off to each other’s voices, telling each other how much we loved them even though we didn’t know their names or faces. We’d already made plans with several others to run away as soon as we turned eighteen, work in a highway dhaba, fuck during every break.
The silver brick of my Nokia phone charged with countless free seconds the voices of my friends had gifted me, I’d lower my register while talking to the girls, raise it while talking to the guys. Making them all believe that I’m something other than myself, so exactly what they need.
Orkut would soon ruin this. Soon afterward, Facebook. And I’d be lonely once again, sitting in the same spot within the phantom of the tank with empty plates and dusty glasses. My father, too busy paying off the loan his brothers had hung over his head before dispersing. Or ill. Or both.
My mother, too busy teaching my brother manners he’d never truly get accustomed to. Across the road from me, stumps in place of trees. Ballooned dicks graffiti-d over Krishna’s fading chariot.
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Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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