Going through terrible highs and lows. Sometimes the high is so high, there is no time to write. And at other times, the low is o abysmal, that words become so sticky and morose. These are the days when I would rather not speak to anyone, rather not communicate at all.
In this death ward of this great silence, I float listlessly. I hear screams and tears flowing my way from far away, for the sins of a lifetime, mostly unatoned. I feel the fever of loss in my veins, sometimes for a moment, mostly for a lifetime. Memories grow and wither and I have nothing but a silent benediction for the dead, for the lost and for the overwhelmed memories in me.
I know these are the mornings when I see nothing but gray. Is there a poem in all this? I am sure there is, but a better person must write it.
Somewhere there is a buffalo stomping his feet, someone is weeping silently, a bundle of sorrows is unhurled in a room far away. It has been three years since he died. He was led silently to his slaughter by the disease that raged through his body, yet he held his head high and went with dignity.
I wish I could apologize everyday. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to do. But in the end, all that was left was a dream and a short phone call. Three years pass ever so quickly. My life keeps getting complicated. You are not there to teach me to be a man when I am challenged with the burdens and decisions.
I miss you dad. I really do. On a day like today when there is nothing more I need than to make a phone call and reach out to you.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Nail Bites - Nonsense poems
It didn't start as a thought on poetry
Something stuck in my throat
It was just a silly memory
A discomfort in the evening
An overdose of migraine medication
A really dry throat from a word misspoken
A silent scream when slipping in the toilet
A line from a movie seen long ago
Not that I started to think about poetry
But now I am pacing restlessly
***
The soup had brown swirls
like the pictures of the solar system
From the new text books
The salad came in four different
square plates, red, white, yellow and green
Like a flag of a nation yet unborn
A boat went from one chair to the onother
with notes, mail and parcels
and little morsels of rationed feelings
By the time desert came
the ocean had caught fire
and the sky started bleeding
so all that was left for the boatman to do
was to play the riverdance songs
on a harmonica
***
type furiously
always the letter i
hit the spacebar
follow the sunshine westward
over the ocean
float by the snow-capped mountains
spacebar spacebar spacebar
capslock
through airport doors
waiting taxis
enter
apartments
unpacked boxes
new bills
old letters
spacebar
carriage-return
go to work
feeling light
over the cubicle
like a floating cottonball
hit the backspace
then enter
then ctrol-c and control-v
and keep going at
it
until
all that
is
left
in
the
whole
room
is
just
you
and
i
floating
like
the
cotton
ball
Something stuck in my throat
It was just a silly memory
A discomfort in the evening
An overdose of migraine medication
A really dry throat from a word misspoken
A silent scream when slipping in the toilet
A line from a movie seen long ago
Not that I started to think about poetry
But now I am pacing restlessly
***
The soup had brown swirls
like the pictures of the solar system
From the new text books
The salad came in four different
square plates, red, white, yellow and green
Like a flag of a nation yet unborn
A boat went from one chair to the onother
with notes, mail and parcels
and little morsels of rationed feelings
By the time desert came
the ocean had caught fire
and the sky started bleeding
so all that was left for the boatman to do
was to play the riverdance songs
on a harmonica
***
type furiously
always the letter i
hit the spacebar
follow the sunshine westward
over the ocean
float by the snow-capped mountains
spacebar spacebar spacebar
capslock
through airport doors
waiting taxis
enter
apartments
unpacked boxes
new bills
old letters
spacebar
carriage-return
go to work
feeling light
over the cubicle
like a floating cottonball
hit the backspace
then enter
then ctrol-c and control-v
and keep going at
it
until
all that
is
left
in
the
whole
room
is
just
you
and
i
floating
like
the
cotton
ball
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Sick
So, I have been deathly ill. OK, deathly is a little bit of an exaggeration. So, since today I have been able to stand up and walk and breathe through my nostrils, I thought I will post something if this is the last thing I do.
Happy Valentine's day everyone. Unless ofcourse, you think Valentine's day corrupts your culture.
OK, gotta go lie down. Ciao.
OK, gotta go lie down. Ciao.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Post-modern
1. Brand Management
I postponed my suicide
For a day
Considering
The ratings
And negotiations
For a better sponsor.
2. Anna Nicole
How much
Valium and Methodone
Do you need
To qualify
As a celebrity death?
--------------------------------------------------------------
I postponed my suicide
For a day
Considering
The ratings
And negotiations
For a better sponsor.
2. Anna Nicole
How much
Valium and Methodone
Do you need
To qualify
As a celebrity death?
--------------------------------------------------------------
Untitled
Laughter is our language
Poetry our lifeblood
We come alive in the evening
I came this way by accident,
Poetry our lifeblood
We come alive in the evening
I came this way by accident,
like a bird retiring
And found my branch for the night
You came a decade later
To the next branch
With water and warmth
Some nights when I rose up
In nightmares of past sins
You sang me a lullaby
So say good-bye with a poem
Before the night is over
While we are still laughing
And found my branch for the night
You came a decade later
To the next branch
With water and warmth
Some nights when I rose up
In nightmares of past sins
You sang me a lullaby
So say good-bye with a poem
Before the night is over
While we are still laughing
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Turning Tricks
Outside the academy
The language that has many
Wonderfully empty words like
The language that has many
Wonderfully empty words like
-- Humanity
-- Kindness
-- Righeousness
Is calling the passerby
Enticing them with ideas
I watch the torn underwear of the language
Peeking from under its pretty skirt
Today she is quite flowery
But like a cheap whore
Standing around Paquis
For a quick fix
I kept walking because
Enticing them with ideas
I watch the torn underwear of the language
Peeking from under its pretty skirt
Today she is quite flowery
But like a cheap whore
Standing around Paquis
For a quick fix
I kept walking because
I had no poems to spare
Friday, February 09, 2007
Nevertheless
By mid-morning I was in the middle of a moderate panic attack. Perhaps the stress of everything that was beginning to catch up. I probably could have run away somewhere dark curled up under a bed. But I had meetings and had to act brave. I walked straight through a glass door and broke my nose and walked for an hour with my nose covered in ice to stop the bleeding.
The gift from that encounter? A massive headache.
***
Just because I don't say it doesn't mean I am not. After lunch, I sat in my car and watched the cold gray sky. I will learn to drive around the curves without making my passengers sick.
Take a deep breath. The day is yet not over.
***
I walked past the store twice. Each time, I would backtrack and return to the same spot. I was walking aimlessly around town for the last hour. I had enough quarters inserted into the parking meter to cover two hours. I don’t know what I was looking for. Perhaps a dark suit, as if I was going to a funeral. But I was not going to a funeral and I didn’t need a suit. There was a swimwear shop right next to Men’s Warehouse, and the ad displayed at the window, in larger font size and with a color picture read, “What a girl wants, To have the best swimwear.”
It showed a blond woman on the right side frozen in mid step with a wide smile on her face. There were beads of water around her spilling into the rest of the page and onto the letters without smudging them. Plastic beads of water danced around the page without falling off. She didn’t particularly look happy to have what she ostensibly wanted, the best swimsuit. May be the swimsuit she was wearing was not the best, I reasoned, and that is why she is coming out the water looking for what she really wants. The shopgirl came to the window and looked at me with a halfsmile.
The day was too cold and gray. I kept walking down the street away from the nicer part to the dodgier areas, past the nice-looking shops and restaurants until the place decidedly took a downturn. Pawnshops, adult book stores and seedy furniture stores took the place of boutiques and Thai restaurants. I looked out of place but I didn’t care. I looked out of place because I was dressed in a suit and I had no winter coat. I took a side street and walked in front of small single floor houses with iron grills on the windows. There was an eerie violence in the air, which I am sure, was all in my head.
I am going to a funeral, I said to myself, and continued walking. On the street corner, there was a tear graffiti painted on a wall. Under it, there was a photo of a young man left on the sidewalk by a grieving family member with assorted candles and dried flowers. This part of the city loses people regularly to senseless death; gang violence, police violence or getting shot by being trapped between a shooter and an intended victim. There was no method to this madness, people simply dropped dead at nineteen or twenty and their friends added another tattoo on their bodies as a living memorial to the fallen friends. The shooter probably added a tattoo too, as a memory of his act. The police went home and calculated their retirement income. The mothers grieved and left pictures on the sidewalk where their sons fell. Los Angeles Times covered these stories in the city sections sometimes where the stories were sandwiched between the ubiquitous anti-emigration and urban proliferation stories.
At the end of the road, there was a hedge that covered a boarded-up house and its unsightly overgrown yard. The road ended on a T-junction, and I decided to turn right. A woman came out of her door into the front porch and looked at me. She was in her fifties and wore a dark shapeless matronly dress. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall of the porch and an empty place where another picture had been. The empty spot was darker with a strange stain that looked like the forehead of a man. It felt like a house that was comfortable with loss.
I felt that this was the funeral that I was searching. The funeral of time and gray winters. I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do.
Then I turned around and started walking back to my car.
The gift from that encounter? A massive headache.
***
Just because I don't say it doesn't mean I am not. After lunch, I sat in my car and watched the cold gray sky. I will learn to drive around the curves without making my passengers sick.
Take a deep breath. The day is yet not over.
***
I walked past the store twice. Each time, I would backtrack and return to the same spot. I was walking aimlessly around town for the last hour. I had enough quarters inserted into the parking meter to cover two hours. I don’t know what I was looking for. Perhaps a dark suit, as if I was going to a funeral. But I was not going to a funeral and I didn’t need a suit. There was a swimwear shop right next to Men’s Warehouse, and the ad displayed at the window, in larger font size and with a color picture read, “What a girl wants, To have the best swimwear.”
It showed a blond woman on the right side frozen in mid step with a wide smile on her face. There were beads of water around her spilling into the rest of the page and onto the letters without smudging them. Plastic beads of water danced around the page without falling off. She didn’t particularly look happy to have what she ostensibly wanted, the best swimsuit. May be the swimsuit she was wearing was not the best, I reasoned, and that is why she is coming out the water looking for what she really wants. The shopgirl came to the window and looked at me with a halfsmile.
The day was too cold and gray. I kept walking down the street away from the nicer part to the dodgier areas, past the nice-looking shops and restaurants until the place decidedly took a downturn. Pawnshops, adult book stores and seedy furniture stores took the place of boutiques and Thai restaurants. I looked out of place but I didn’t care. I looked out of place because I was dressed in a suit and I had no winter coat. I took a side street and walked in front of small single floor houses with iron grills on the windows. There was an eerie violence in the air, which I am sure, was all in my head.
I am going to a funeral, I said to myself, and continued walking. On the street corner, there was a tear graffiti painted on a wall. Under it, there was a photo of a young man left on the sidewalk by a grieving family member with assorted candles and dried flowers. This part of the city loses people regularly to senseless death; gang violence, police violence or getting shot by being trapped between a shooter and an intended victim. There was no method to this madness, people simply dropped dead at nineteen or twenty and their friends added another tattoo on their bodies as a living memorial to the fallen friends. The shooter probably added a tattoo too, as a memory of his act. The police went home and calculated their retirement income. The mothers grieved and left pictures on the sidewalk where their sons fell. Los Angeles Times covered these stories in the city sections sometimes where the stories were sandwiched between the ubiquitous anti-emigration and urban proliferation stories.
At the end of the road, there was a hedge that covered a boarded-up house and its unsightly overgrown yard. The road ended on a T-junction, and I decided to turn right. A woman came out of her door into the front porch and looked at me. She was in her fifties and wore a dark shapeless matronly dress. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall of the porch and an empty place where another picture had been. The empty spot was darker with a strange stain that looked like the forehead of a man. It felt like a house that was comfortable with loss.
I felt that this was the funeral that I was searching. The funeral of time and gray winters. I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do.
Then I turned around and started walking back to my car.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Cranky Post
I am very cranky today. Personal life, work life, emails, and an unwanted (and ill-prepared for) work dinner/schmoozing session tonight.
I wish I was driving to the little chinese restaurant somewhere in the back of beyond of Versoix and having that carafe of terrible house red and eating some god-knows-what meat.
I am really stressed. I hope things go my way. Is that too much to ask for? Sorry for sounding like an idiot. I promise my mood will improve considerably by Friday and I will have a happy post by then.
I wish I was driving to the little chinese restaurant somewhere in the back of beyond of Versoix and having that carafe of terrible house red and eating some god-knows-what meat.
I am really stressed. I hope things go my way. Is that too much to ask for? Sorry for sounding like an idiot. I promise my mood will improve considerably by Friday and I will have a happy post by then.
In which he has a moment
He listens to Cesaria Evora as he drives around aimlessly. She fills the car with her unmistakable vocals. She makes him feel sad and guilty. She sings in her unmistakable warm and woody voice the virtues of Cape Verde Islands and how content her people are.
He feels sick. Then he remembers he hasn't had anything to eat the whole day. It is two in the afternoon.
The night falls all around him, and he is driving back from the old university place. On his way back, he stops after the bridge where the road turns into a single lane. He knows where to stop to smell country flowers. He knows this place. It is dark and chilly and the moon shows itself enough to light the shrubbery in eerie silver gray. He breathes in the smell of wild gardenias easily and comfortably with the air of someone who belongs. This is home. He drives on slowly.
***
He looks down from the airplane on his way back and sees Long Island Sound stretching like a narrow wall that separates the wild Atlantic Ocean from the prudish coast. He could make out little things in Block Island, and see the shore delving deep into the sound. Over him are purposeful narrow white clouds. And below him, a few puffy clouds float aimlessly without blocking the view. He thinks of his parents' hometown where he spent summer vacations as a child. The same blue sky. The same puffy clouds. The same world.
He feels sick. Then he remembers he hasn't had anything to eat the whole day. It is two in the afternoon.
The night falls all around him, and he is driving back from the old university place. On his way back, he stops after the bridge where the road turns into a single lane. He knows where to stop to smell country flowers. He knows this place. It is dark and chilly and the moon shows itself enough to light the shrubbery in eerie silver gray. He breathes in the smell of wild gardenias easily and comfortably with the air of someone who belongs. This is home. He drives on slowly.
***
He looks down from the airplane on his way back and sees Long Island Sound stretching like a narrow wall that separates the wild Atlantic Ocean from the prudish coast. He could make out little things in Block Island, and see the shore delving deep into the sound. Over him are purposeful narrow white clouds. And below him, a few puffy clouds float aimlessly without blocking the view. He thinks of his parents' hometown where he spent summer vacations as a child. The same blue sky. The same puffy clouds. The same world.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Death by blogging
I got this as junk mail today. Read Each Phrase Carefully and Think About It a second or two.
1. Love someone not because of who they are, but because of who you are when you are with them.
2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
9. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
10. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
11. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
1. Love someone not because of who they are, but because of who you are when you are with them.
2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
9. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
10. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
11. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
Drop Dead Inaccuracies
“This is not my job,” cried the under secretary to the additional joint commissioner of the water-waste water authority, Balasubrahmaniam, “This properly belongs to the Department of Body Disposal.”
“Technically this true,” additional commissioner for Departmental Persuasion, agreed. He agreed that this ought to be a job for no one. But he had a job to do. He had a circular from the Ministry of Political Affairs. He did not want to fail in his job and be transferred as the Officer-on-Special Duty to the Mine Controller of Bamfak, Arunachal Pradesh. So he cleared this throat and began again, “ You See Mr. Balasubrahmaniam, it is like this. You don’t have to do this job, this much both of us agree. You job is authorizing the conversion of water to waste water. In fact, for the sake of both our grand children, I hope no one has to do this job.”
Then he paused and observed with some satisfaction the positive response his mention of grandchildren evoked in the other man. Then he continued, “You see, but we have a small problem. See, the man properly in charge, Mr. Priyadarshan Singh is in suspension. He is being put under an enquiry by the Ministry of Prolonged and Pointless Enquiries for the failure to comply with circular 12.1345.98.”
Then both shared a knowing laugh at the poor old sod’s misfortune. They both knew it was bad news not to comply with the dreaded 12.1345.98. His case is under further consideration. By the time they are done, the old chap will be ready to retire.”
“But technically, as you very well know as a good Hindu chap yourself, blood is a very impure thing. And technically it also falls under your department. In fact the clarification letter number RR123IdiOT to the original law said this. Look”
He extended a photocopied page of a yellowing letter and Mr. Balasubrahmaniam went pale. His powder blue safari suit reflected the pale face with great aplomb. He knew his case was hopeless. He took a crumbled handkerchief from the pocket and wiped his forehead with great care. The visitor looked at this and said nothing. He used the time to comb his comb over for greater coverage.
“So this is what the ministry would like you to do. We will deliver bodies of political assassinations to your department at 3 AM. You will take charge of them and neatly place them on the train tracks near Sealdah. After the Utter-Paschim express passes by, we will notify the Autopsy Prevention Board and their people will take of the rest.”
“But 2 AM? I am an old man.” Cried Mr. Dasgupta.
“We know Mr. Balasubrahmaniam. We know. The minister sends his personal condolences. You see, we wanted an old hand like you, a battle tested warrior,” having surveyed the effective pause again, the visitor continued, “ Next week a very important person is thinking of meeting an accidental death on the tracks. We didn’t want the pesky reporters creating trouble. We know you will do the needful. I am leaving your this top secret memo for your perusal.”
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam instantly realized the gravity. After all, democracy is such a tricky business.
The visitor loudly slurped his tea and then slowly left.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam read the memo very carefully. First to understand the text and then to see if there are any technical reasons, which would allow him to get out of the mess.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam sat there silently and wept. He did not want to get up at 2 AM every day for this job. Then he suddenly saw something that lit up his whole face. Commissioner for Departmental Persuasion and Department of Body Disposal were not copied on the circular. This was clearly against the rules and highly irregular.
So he sat down and began writing a long memo to the concerned organizations.
“Technically this true,” additional commissioner for Departmental Persuasion, agreed. He agreed that this ought to be a job for no one. But he had a job to do. He had a circular from the Ministry of Political Affairs. He did not want to fail in his job and be transferred as the Officer-on-Special Duty to the Mine Controller of Bamfak, Arunachal Pradesh. So he cleared this throat and began again, “ You See Mr. Balasubrahmaniam, it is like this. You don’t have to do this job, this much both of us agree. You job is authorizing the conversion of water to waste water. In fact, for the sake of both our grand children, I hope no one has to do this job.”
Then he paused and observed with some satisfaction the positive response his mention of grandchildren evoked in the other man. Then he continued, “You see, but we have a small problem. See, the man properly in charge, Mr. Priyadarshan Singh is in suspension. He is being put under an enquiry by the Ministry of Prolonged and Pointless Enquiries for the failure to comply with circular 12.1345.98.”
Then both shared a knowing laugh at the poor old sod’s misfortune. They both knew it was bad news not to comply with the dreaded 12.1345.98. His case is under further consideration. By the time they are done, the old chap will be ready to retire.”
“But technically, as you very well know as a good Hindu chap yourself, blood is a very impure thing. And technically it also falls under your department. In fact the clarification letter number RR123IdiOT to the original law said this. Look”
He extended a photocopied page of a yellowing letter and Mr. Balasubrahmaniam went pale. His powder blue safari suit reflected the pale face with great aplomb. He knew his case was hopeless. He took a crumbled handkerchief from the pocket and wiped his forehead with great care. The visitor looked at this and said nothing. He used the time to comb his comb over for greater coverage.
“So this is what the ministry would like you to do. We will deliver bodies of political assassinations to your department at 3 AM. You will take charge of them and neatly place them on the train tracks near Sealdah. After the Utter-Paschim express passes by, we will notify the Autopsy Prevention Board and their people will take of the rest.”
“But 2 AM? I am an old man.” Cried Mr. Dasgupta.
“We know Mr. Balasubrahmaniam. We know. The minister sends his personal condolences. You see, we wanted an old hand like you, a battle tested warrior,” having surveyed the effective pause again, the visitor continued, “ Next week a very important person is thinking of meeting an accidental death on the tracks. We didn’t want the pesky reporters creating trouble. We know you will do the needful. I am leaving your this top secret memo for your perusal.”
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam instantly realized the gravity. After all, democracy is such a tricky business.
The visitor loudly slurped his tea and then slowly left.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam read the memo very carefully. First to understand the text and then to see if there are any technical reasons, which would allow him to get out of the mess.
No.006x/VGL/1017mf
Government of Hindistan
Central Political Activity Vigilance Commission
*****
Merthod Bhawan, Block-Y,
GPM Complex, INSA,
New Delhi-110025
Dated the 22nd November, 2006
Circular no.400/13/06
Sub: Improving political transparency by leveraging rail technology: Increasing
transparency through effective use of rail tracks in discharge of political dead bodies, enforcement and other functions of body disposal using Govt. and semi-government organizations.
Dear Sir,
The Commission has been receiving a large number of complaints about
inordinate delays and arbitrariness in the processing and issue of licenses,
permissions, recognitions, various types of clearances, no objection certificates,
by various Govt. organizations when it comes to the speedy disposal of rail accident victims of political nature. Commission notes with great displeasure that the said persons who commit suicide by jumping in front of trains right after expressing unpopular political opinions do not choose the same spot to commit these heinous acts of cowardice. Majority of these complaints pertain to delays
and non-adherence to the process already laid out.
Taking this into account the commission orders that all the rail suicide victims be brought to the same spot in a pre-dead condition and be placed on the tracks with their necks on the right side of the track for speedy assistance. This would enable all the government and semi-government agencies to coordinate their activities.
In keeping with the respectful manner this republic serves its people, it is also important to prevent autopsies and other unnecessary police procedures on this process to enable the families to move on with their lives. The Minister of Grief will be required to announce Rs. 5 Lakhs (Five Lakhs only) compensation towards the families.
Instructions at para above shall take effect from 1st January 2007. All Heads of
Organizations/Deptts. are advised to get personally involved in the implementation of these important measures. They should arrange close monitoring of the progress in order to ensure that this done in a user-friendly manner before the expiry of the abovementioned deadlines.
They should later ensure that the information is updated regularly to all the appropriate persons.
This issues with the approval of the Commission.
(Bhayanak Singh)
Addl. Secretary
To,
1. The Secretaries of all Ministries/Departments of Govt. of Hindistan.
2. The Chief Secretaries to all Union Territories.
3. The Comptroller & Auditor General of Hindistan.
4. The Chairman, Union Public Service Commission.
5. The Chief Executive of Water Waste Water Authority
6. Joint Controller to the Autopsy Prevention Board
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam sat there silently and wept. He did not want to get up at 2 AM every day for this job. Then he suddenly saw something that lit up his whole face. Commissioner for Departmental Persuasion and Department of Body Disposal were not copied on the circular. This was clearly against the rules and highly irregular.
So he sat down and began writing a long memo to the concerned organizations.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Laptop! Never leave home without it.
Forgot the laptop in the car, so no posts until I flew back today.
Had an interesting dinner at a castle last night at the hunting palace of a former royal family in the middle of nowhere. The trek upto it was alone worth it.
I am really tired, no sleep.
I have an ethical question, comments welcome.
So a man pledges love to a woman and she does not respond either way. Next week in a freak accident, he becomes a paraplegic with no chance of recovery while she is away. She visits him and over time spends a lot of time with him. His friends assume they are seeing each other romantically. They get close but she is very confused about the relationship. But there has to be something that makes her visit him everyday.
Can one see this as a situation of love triumphing against all? Or does one need to see this as situation where the woman is trapped in a hopeless situation and the man being selfish for holding onto something in his otherwise dreadful situation?
I wonder.
Had an interesting dinner at a castle last night at the hunting palace of a former royal family in the middle of nowhere. The trek upto it was alone worth it.
I am really tired, no sleep.
I have an ethical question, comments welcome.
So a man pledges love to a woman and she does not respond either way. Next week in a freak accident, he becomes a paraplegic with no chance of recovery while she is away. She visits him and over time spends a lot of time with him. His friends assume they are seeing each other romantically. They get close but she is very confused about the relationship. But there has to be something that makes her visit him everyday.
Can one see this as a situation of love triumphing against all? Or does one need to see this as situation where the woman is trapped in a hopeless situation and the man being selfish for holding onto something in his otherwise dreadful situation?
I wonder.
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