Times in the life of – or, never truly understanding 'and'

There is perhaps little that is more remote and uncaring as an estranged lover. Unless you consider pickled mangoes. Or fried green apples. So says my old and loyal friend, Mara – let’s call her Mara. (We met yesterday, as she was trying to jump over a puddle, and I decided to do so at the same time – I love being challenged. We met mid-air, and crashed down with a lovely, muddy splash, fell in love, and lived happily ever after.)
Yes..you wish.
Such profound insights scarcely seem to elude her, and I have often sat, danced and fallen headlong into a pot of burning soup, transfixed all the while as she gives a lengthy discourse on the joys of living in a leafless tree, and simultaneously telling me the recipe for turnip-radish cheesecake, all the while falling asleep on the chair. However she has never been able to tell me the true meaning of the word “and”.
Mara loves movies, as I found out once when we were trying to cross Kyrgyzstan by canoe. We never made quick progress, nor got very far, as we were never able to find a river longer than the stream from the leaking bath. Once, facing a deadly desert snake and his many friends, Mara turned to me, terrified of the heat, and said “I love movies.” I smiled, said that I did too, we embraced, falling to the ground, still holding the other with one hand, and a spot of glowing cotton candy in the other, the snakes turned into obedient servants, and a magnificent palace sprung up in front of us, made of the finest mud.
No, not quite.
Hidden in the hills of North India lives a man who dresses stones. We chanced upon him once as we were traveling through China, and lost our way. The man would trek up a mountain each day, and reaching the top, would strip all his clothes, pick a stone and proceed to dress it. He even had a bag in which he had food that he would serve to these friends who were also stones. At night, he would return and there would be great revelry, songs sung about great rocks, and about terrified tuna too. Mara almost fell in love with him, and had decided to live with him, until she found out that he only dressed good-looking stones, and ignored the uglier ones. See, Mara hated discrimination. Also the man had no money, and liked turnips.
Today I twirled around endlessly on my toes when I realized I was a hopelessly boring person. It is a panic attack, and it rarely happens, except on the frequent occasions when I realize I’m hopelessly boring. To add to my misery, all my peers seemed to agree completely, and laughed contemptuously, continually sneering down at me, perched high atop their spectacles. I wonder why they do this – they always end up having to get a new pair.
A week ago was Mara’s birthday. I wished her profusely and dreamed of a bright future with her. I also dreamed of a future where birthdays wouldn’t be such a big thing.
Which brings me to another thought. It is this – one of the things everyone in today’s world must be concerned about is today’s world. By that, I mean, of course, the magazine by that name - the print, and more specifically, the paper quality have deteriorated miserably over the years, so much so that I can no longer bear to serve bits of it as appetizer to my unsuspecting and polite guests.
On deeper introspection, I think my choice of appetizer is the reason for my limited circle of friends.
Introspection is very important.
Introspection once led me to believe that I had a mind of my own. Which of course led to many things dangerous, as I then tried to cross the road on my own. And later the same day, I tried to unclog the kitchen sink – not only did the house get flooded, but my pet pigeon stopped feeding me grapes after that.
Such is life. Or life is such. Which is better, or more apt when explaining a situation as this? Undoubtedly, one could debate endlessly for countless hours over this. Mark that I say one, and that does not include Mara. She would merely thonk me over the head and say “Yours is not a life”. Then she would continue to shampoo her hair, thrice daily. Later she would put me to bed reading ‘On the probability of the Impromptu Jive actually happening’.

(2006)