The Ice Cream Men

Dedicated to Deepika Vaishnavi. You know why

WARNING: Strangeness lies ahead!

In the labyrinth under the far away forest, cut off from the desire and dreams of humanity, lived the ice cream men. It was hard work, mining ice cream. You see, the ice cream was all swirled in together, golden butterscotch spiraled around the luscious strawberry and the dark chocolate circled glistening blackcurrant. In the darkness, the ice cream would glow with a soft light all its own. Starting an hour before dawn, the ice cream men would carve each flavour out, chiseling out the little gems of frozen fruit and chocolate chips with delicately designed pick axes. Just before packing the ice cream in the little plastic boxes, they would add the secret ingredient – a drop from the Tiny Vial of Happieness. At night, as they neatly stacked the boxes inside the portable freezers, they would dream of the smiles and the warmth that their ice cream would bring the other world.

The ice cream men were perfectionists. They worked inch by inch, their minds wrapped within the bubble of their art. They were so engrossed in it, that they did not notice that the layers of ice cream coating the walls of the labyrinth were getting thinner and thinner… and beneath the last layer of raspberry sorbet hidden away in the last dead end of the labyrinth, there was nothing but rock. So it was with astonishment that they woke up one day to find that there was no more ice cream to mine. They looked at each other and shuffled their feet. They had been mining ice cream together for as long as they could remember. This was their world. And all of a sudden, it had come to a screeching halt. It had run itself out.

“So, what do we do now?” one of them asked uneasily.

Their eyes met for a brief instant, and they looked away hurriedly. They never really had to look at each other while at work. It was all very awkward and strange.

“It’s a pity we have so much Happieness left,” the other said, fiddling with the vial in his hand.

There was a long pause.

The roof of the labyrinth started to reverberate and clouds of dust fell like choice seasoning on the ice cream men. They looked upwards. It was the pick up truck that came every month to collect the packed ice cream and deliver fresh plastic boxes. They looked at each other, weighing their options. Being locked up with nothing to do was too terrifying. And all that they remembered of the outside world was the beaten track by which the pick up truck would arrive, the dappled sunlight on the forest floor, and the moist southern breeze. Nostalgia combined with the lack of better options made them curious, maybe even excited. They told each other that they had always yearned to explore the outside world, except that there was so much work to be done, they had always been putting it off, and they had never quite gotten around to doing it. They convinced each other so well, they almost believed it.

So they braved the dark journey up the steep, narrow staircase. They used a rudimentary mining lift for shifting the ice cream to the outer world, but this was the kind of solemn occasion that needed the use of a crumbling, ancient staircase. The key turned in the lock and the door to a brave, new world opened to them. Sunlight streamed onto their triumphant and caked-with-dirt faces. They felt invincible.

They loaded up the last shipment of ice cream and clambered onto the back of the truck. All they took from the ice cream mine was the Tiny Vial of Happieness that was stored away in the only soft pocket without a hole. They bounced along on the back of the truck, through the forest, across the green country side, and over the rocky hills. They watched pink stain the blue, blue sky as the sun sank low over the horizon and saw the eagles spinning high at dawn. For the first time they saw the starlit sky. They sang. They laughed at each other’s songs. They lay on their backs and watched the universe spin around them. They did not need language, listening to music of the wind and the sound of steady breathing was enough.

At last, they reached the city on the other side of the hills. They stood in round-eyed awe of the gray structures towering into the watery winter sky. The smoke filled, honking mess of the urban jungle terrified them. They were moved by its discordant harmony. They were impressed that nature could let just a ghastly thing exist. They saw and smelt things that at once terrified and thrilled. The other world swirled around them, drifting in and out of focus with every curiosity seen, a snippet of conversation heard. They were carried along the streams of humanity flowing along the pavement and found themselves deposited in strange places. They were shoved, touched, fondled, hated, pitied, ignored. They saw a girl sitting with her head in her hands, and knew that she was sad. They offered her a drop of the Tiny Vial of Happieness, but she just screamed something they did not understand and walked away, brushing the tears from her eyes. This new world seemed to have no place for them. They wandered down the narrow alleys, hand in hand, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

They came upon a park with an ancient tree in the centre. The tree reminded them of home – a left over relic of some distant cousin of their previous life. They sat on the little bench under those ancient branches and watched the children play. Laughter rang through the park, and the ice cream men smiled. Just then, a colourful truck pulled up, and all the kids started to run in its direction with shrieks of joy. The ice-cream men wandered over to the truck apprehensively. The screaming children frightened them a little. Their nervousness gave way to a particular strain of idiotic happieness when they saw the colourful spheres balanced on the biscuit cones. Here was the reality of all those dreams they had on those long, tired nights when they would imagine the joy their meticulous work would bring the world. They smiled in a friendly way at the children. They even offered to add extra drop of from the Tiny Vial of Happieness to each of their cones.

A little girl screamed.

The ice cream men smiled even broader.

More children started screaming.

“FREAK!” someone screamed.

It became like a horrible screeching anthem “Freak! Freak! Freak!” they chanted.

Big, round eyes narrowed and filled with tears. The petite bodies became rigid with hatred. Their mouth gaped open with screams. But beneath the hatred of the unknown, there lurked another darker animal instinct. They drooled. They looked more like a herd of demons than a group of little children. It was the stuff of nightmares. The ice cream men turned and fled.

They collapsed in a dark alley, breathless. The sun was sinking, and grey clouds gathered on the horizon. The ice cream men looked around in the darkness. A small distance away, a young man and a young woman were wrapped around each other. The light of the dying sun caught in their eyes and sparkled. Its warmth played across their skin. Sweet smiles splayed across their faces and their limbs were entwined. They seemed more alive than anything else the world had seen. They kissed softly, they needed no words. The universe swirled around them, it existed only for them. They did not care, they had each other, they asked for nothing more. Time waited for them. They were immortal in that moment.

The ice cream men were filled with a desperate yearning. A slow drizzle peppered the earth. Their eyes met. They realized that they were lying in a tangle of limbs, sweat stained their bodies. They smelt the fragrance of home on each other – the dizzying scent of all the different flavours whirled in together. Their yearning to go back joined in a frenzied dance with desire and hunger. Their hearts raced. Wave upon wave of sensation broke inside their minds. With excruciating slowness they explored through their fingertips – their hands wandered over hair, face, limbs. The hunger inside them strained against its leash. They let it loose. They kissed. Their senses exploded. They ravenously explored each other – pushing deeper and deeper with their tongues. They licked noses, fingertips, eyelashes. They began to bite, playfully, it tasted quite nice. They tore out great chunks from each other. They slurped and drooled until there was very little left.

The rain came down hard.

The Tiny Vial of Happieness rolled along the gutter and into an open drain.

A dog lapped up the small puddle of ice cream that was left.

This new world of desire and dreams seemed to have no place for them.

Opening of the Nanowrimo Novel 2008

I have no idea if I’m going to finish this. But I just can’t keep myself from trying. Here it goes.

The stone walls of the old temple smudged out the stars that glittered through the finely woven fabric of night sky. The trees whispered to each other, remembering the beginning of the battle. Only the trees knew its beginning, and only they would be present for the end. The story would travel, from leaf to leaf, carried by the gossipy south wind. Then she would waft through open windows and into the dreams of a young writer… and then the story would become legend. But that, is a story for another time.

The sand whispered beneath her feet as she paced the invisible circle… she knew it was there, just as the rakshasa did. They were destined to keep chasing each other – hunter and hunted. The border between the two often becoming blurred, and the roles reversed. She looked into its fiery red eyes, and instinctively adjusted the rope wound around her arm. The rakshasa’s feet padded on the sand, ancient and solid; as though made of chunks of flesh from Earth herself. It growled, eyes flickering from the rope to her face. Gut knotted, heart pounding, eyes gleaming, she snarled. Her teeth gleamed like a lightning flash, charging the air with its intensity. She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her head, her body straining like a wild animal on a leash. She could hear the voices screaming in her head; urging her to escape when there was still a chance. They sounded like they were coming from across a distance – as though through a bad telephone line. Made it all the more easier to ignore them. A sudden cold wind blew, sending shivers down her taunt body. She took a deep breath… today will be the day it will end. She didn’t have the strength to keep fighting anymore. She pulled the rope taunt between her hands, and rushed towards the hulk of dark muscle towering in front of her. The rakshasa looked at her cocking its head to one side. It had a quizzical gleam in its eye.

“That’s not allowed,” it said quite matter-of-factly.

“Let’s finish this!” she said through her clenched teeth. She pulled the rope into a tight loop around its neck.

“No, really. You’re not allowed to actually kill me.”

She felt distinctly stupid. The rope fell limply onto the sand.

“Oh.”

This annoyed her. She did not like being made to feel stupid. The adrenaline was slowly fading from her mind, and the wind was getting a little too chilly. She made an attempt to pool together all that undirected rage.

“What’s the point in the whole battle thing then?”

Her voice sounded petulant even to her own ears.

“Battle ends when you actually confront me,” the demon said shrugging. It settled on a near by rock and made a small blue fire that hovered a foot above the fine beach sand. It waved a stout hand in a vague, inviting action towards the fire. “How do you know I’m real anyhow?” it added.

“Same way I know I’m real I guess.”

“Are you?”

The amused look in the demon’s eye annoyed her even more. Just when she was about to open her mouth and let the river of anger flow, a sudden thought struck her. She was arguing with a rakshasa she had been trying to strangle a few moments earlier. She definitely must be dreaming.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked.

“Depends on whether you are real enough to have dreams or not.” The rakshasa smiled, tending to the fire that was coughing out wispy gray smoke. She eyed demon and fire dubiously for a moment. It looked like a long night ahead, and she was showing no signs of waking up. May as well make herself comfortable. For the first time she looked at the landscape she was standing in the center off. An empty beach sprawled as far as the eye could see on both directions. The ocean aggressive invaded its pale shores over and over, only to be repulsed and fade back into the darkness. The moon sat upon the waves like a fat dowager, casting its pale, tired, light over the scene. The air was heavy with the smell of salt. An old temple stood a short distance away, half submerged in the high tide. She looked around curiously – no smell of fish, no crabs, no small insects, not even a hint of ever-prevalent garbage. This place was completely bare, as though life itself had suddenly decided to pick up its bags and abandon the place.

“So, where are we?” She said, humoring the figment of her imagination. She had never had a conversation with this creature from a nightmare before and she figured it would make excellent time pass till she finally woke up.

The rakshasa looked around and shrugged, “on a beach with a temple.” It fished out a lump of some vile looking substance from under its amour and began roasting it over the fire. ”One of those places that refuse to be named.”

She took a few tentative steps towards the fire while working out the correct words in her head. “I know I’m dreaming. You’ve been appearing in my nightmares since I was a kid. So we’re obviously somewhere inside my head. And if you are inside my mind, then how could you be real?” she asked.

The demon looked up from its slurping for a moment. It looked like it was going to contradict her, then stopped itself. “There are more ways of understanding reality than just one,” it said, taking a bite out of the lump. “And maybe more than just one reality.” A dark liquid oozed out and dribbled down the demon’s chin. A long red tongued licked up the truant droplets. ”Enough questions,” it added, in between gulps.

“But you said rules. What rules?”

The rakshasa held up a hand, silencing her.

She plowed on, determined to fish out the answers. “If this is inside my mind, why is someone else making the rules?”

The rakshasa slowly rose to its feet. “Do you know what this is?” it asked holding up the lump. She shook her head mutely. Her stomach started squirming as an idea crept within her head. The demon watched her expression change with an amused smile. “Yes,” it said, seeing the horror on her face. The stench made her eyes blur, and her knees buckled beneath her.

“It is a heart,” the demon said simply. The half eaten mass was still beating weakly against the coarse walls of the huge palm. “Pity that it should have so much bitterness in it,” the demon said as it tilted its head back, and slipped the rest down the cavernous mouth. The chiseled teeth stained brown in the faint light of the moon.

“I am a demon little one, and you would do well to listen to me. There are things in the universe that are far more powerful than your puny mind. This is my home. We are not inside your mind, it is you who is trespassing.”

She looked into its eyes, and did not see the old furnace, but the worst of herself – her hatred, regrets, phobias, rage, evil, frustration, bitterness, all amplified a thousand times over. She could feel her mind pushing against the edges of her skull, revolting at the sight of how disgusting she was. The stench was crawling up her nose, invading her throat, forcing her stomach to retch. Her eyes blurred with tears.

“Please…” she gasped.

She sank to her knees and rolled herself into a tight ball, cradling her head. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, muttering gibberish. The rakshasa stood over her a moment with a curious expression in its eyes. The demon’s hand twitched – the only sign that it was unsure about what to do. Dropping a soft blanket of silence over her, it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

********************************

Shakti woke up, uncurling herself from the tangle of sheets. She looked at the alarm clock. She groaned. Today was jut going to be one of those days. She looked at the hard bound book resting near her pillow and idly picked it up. She flipped it open to the first page – it had ‘DREAM JOURNAL’ written in a fancy cursive font. And underneath, in smaller, more practical letters was written ‘vol 4 sept 2008 – ‘ Shakti stared stupidly at the page for a moment before picking up one of the reynolds black ball pens that littered her bed. Deliberately she scored out the ‘DREAM’ and scribbled ‘Alternate Reality’. Then she made a silent wish that no one would ever look inside the book. But then everyone thought she was crazy anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal.

That Bitter Aftertaste (A Rant)

This is not universal
this is not about someone else
this is not about you
this is about me.
The show’s all over,
the celebrations are done.
Time to stop the fake actions
those mechanical movements
and swallow that
bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
the idealist.
the pacifist.
the neutralist.
the diplomat.
the compromiser.
the rule-keeper.
the innocent one.
the nice one.
I can see the judgment in your eyes
Just like I know you can see mine.
I try to sleep;
to run, run, run.
I spiral round and round,
round the merry go round.
I can feel the tears clog my throat.
I know they will never come.
I should go watch a movie,
I am getting out of control.
Curl up, shut your eyes,
lock yourself up
inside your head.
Go on, go on,
be unreasonable,
let yourself go for once.
Face it.
Deal with it.
How much of you was really in the show?
What were you risking for that pleasant after glow?
Too many ideas.
Too many arguments.
Too many voices.
Too many judgments.
Throw them out
or keep them in.
One view, one thought
one narrow little path.
Guilt will move into the hollow
and those unanswered questions,
but only tomorrow.
Today, today is for anger
and rage!
rage! how puny it looks on a page.

The Flower Pit

The coals glowed red, pulsing in unison to the rhythm of the frenzied drums. The mob was an entity of its own, a mass of condensed humanity, swaying to the same beats, hearts beating to the same pulse, and all breathing the same smell of stale sweat and wet earth. Hariharan stood separate from that sweaty ocean of humanity – It had been fifteen years since he had last come here. He looked towards the temple, as the harsh Indian summer sun’s rays crept over its towers, and saw the old stone structure glisten, as though it had been scrubbed clean by the early morning shower. When he was a boy, he would imagine each of the demons sculpted into the stone walls spring to life as the rays crept over them, but now, all he noticed was that the plaster was crumbling, and that the new paint was garishly colored.

The drums were faster now, louder. He could feel the electricity in the air, and it filled him with a nameless feeling of dread. The smell of sweat and smoke was almost something tangible now, something that he could taste, and it made him gag as it went down his throat. He took a deep breath, and looked upwards, towards the sky, trying to shake off the feeling of claustrophobia. His vision blurred out of focus, and old memories that he had suppressed for far too long started to surface. A forgotten smile crept to his lips as he remembered the very last time he had been here –

It was on that day that his life had taken another of the several turns that lead away from the small village he had used to call ‘home,’ and towards the life he lead now – an anonymous urban citizen, lost in the state capital. The details now felt hazy, fifteen years were a long time, but he remembered that feeling – it had been a wild cocktail of intense emotions, insomnia and a strange condition of the human mind called, ‘Love.’ When he had stood there with her, in a world of their own- shoulder to shoulder, watching the dawn break over the temple, he had felt himself swept away by a sudden wave of unadulterated happiness and Harinharan in one of the few instances of his life was left grinning like a complete idiot. And in that moment, she had turned, her eyes laughing as much as his did – and they understood.

Today, watching the light creep over the temple walls only increased that feeling of intense longing. Hariharan brushed away the moisture from the corner of his eye self-consciously. It was tough coming back, but it was necessary. He needed to make a statement – to tell them that he was not afraid, not afraid of their judgment, not afraid of the decisions he had made so many years ago, he needed to tell them that no matter what, he did not regret.

Hariharan’s eyes once more wandered towards the fire pit. In Tamizh, the ‘Pookkuli’ literally translated meant ‘flower pit.’ But in fact, it was approximately ten meters of burning coals over which devotees would walk, run and dance across to prove their devotion to the Goddess, and the Goddess in turn would protect them from any harm. He had read several scientific explanations for how such a feat is possible, the Liedenfrost Effect and Placebo Effect, but all scientific rules have exceptions, and sometimes things do go horribly wrong.

He had seen it once, when he had been just a child and had come to the festival for the very first time, and his grandfather had made sure he had a front row seat to the fire walking ceremony. A kid no older than himself had slipped on the coals, and as Hariharan watched horrified, numbed by the sound of the screams, the next devotee picked the boy up, and carried him to safety. But one side of his body had been severely burnt, and it was later said that the child was not immediately taken to the hospital and was left with scars that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Ever since then Hariharan had had a morbid dread for the entire festival and the walking on coals ceremony. It was also then, though he never told anyone, that he had started believing in science and science alone. Where was the benign Goddess when the boy fell? If the ritual was a form of mutual testing, the Goddess had failed miserably.

Hariharan found his mind dragged back to the present as the brown ocean of sweaty bodies in front of him suddenly parted and he found himself face to face with a woman wearing the yellow sarree, a mark of a devotee. Her long hair was let loose, and a skewer was pierced through both her cheeks, yellow and green pastes smeared generously all over body, and yet, amongst the frenzy of the drums and the crowd, her eyes were calm. For a moment they stood, looking at each other, completely alone in a world of their own, and Hariharan had a surreal feeling that she could look into the very depths of his soul. As he was about to take a step back, and melt away with the crowd, a voice of sudden authority spoke.

He looked up startled. The lady walked forward, her eyes holding him in his place. He stood frozen as she approached him; it was several moments before he consciously reminded himself to breathe. He could see her lips move, he was sure she was saying something to him, but the adrenaline did not let the information come through. He saw the priests beside her gesticulating wildly, worried frowns on their faces contrasting with the respect they showed with their bodies, some speaking while prostrating themselves in front of her, but she remained resolute. Her eyes continued to bore into his.

The initial shock slowly began to wear off, and Hariharan realized what she wanted him to do. She wanted him to walk across the coals with him. His mind felt too numb even for his old fears to surface, his entire body turned into lead and he only half listened to the murmurs of the worried crowd around him.

The priests explained that the woman was ‘possessed’ by an ethereal spirit, and it was the spirit that was talking through her. He added with a fearful look that it could be the Goddess herself. He explained that the spirit assured his safety, even though he was not prepared through the ritualistic fast and bath. An awkward silence followed, a strongly emphasized ellipsis in the conversation.

Through the cacophony of the drums, Hariharan could hear the murmurs of the crowds,

“What’s happening?”

“She wants him to do the fire walk!”

“She is possessed!”

“It’s the Goddess!”

“This is not right!”

“Where’s the police?”

He looked towards the pit, pulsing red under the morning sun, and back towards those enigmatic eyes. Something in those eyes stirred something at the back of his mind, a churning of pot of memories and emotions… But no it could not be! His wife was dead! She had died three months back and he did not believe in ghosts! He is a rationalist! The voice at the back of his head bleated on, but Hariharan paid it no regard. He was no longer in the rationalist’s world; he was in a much different one; a world that only the two of them knew – a world in which hearts beat to the sound of drums. And even before he nodded, he felt a warm sense of assurance blanket over him.

Hariharan realized with a slight start that he could move his feet.

According the report of a police officer present that day, Mr. Hariharan had given his full consent to attempt to walk on the Pookkuli that day, and hence the police had not interfered in the incident. He had been dressed in yellow, and smeared with turmeric and sandalwood paste, and walked across the coals, lead by the hand of a possessed woman. He crossed the pit with no signs of any physical harm. The woman fainted a few moments after crossing the pit. According to the priests it was the spirit leaving the body.

Asked afterwards in an interview about what it felt like, Mr. Hariharan very simply said, “It was like walking across a bed of flowers.” Asked about his belief in God, he refused to comment.

Hariharan looked at the inanimate form on the floor that was now being surrounded by a mixture of priests and devotees. He considered staying back to at least say farewell or perhaps a thank you, but he never was one for good byes. He took a step backwards, and melted into the crowd.

Poochandi

A tree, alone, struggled against the wild winds, its branches straining against the force of the mad onrush. Its branches whipped through the air as the rain lashed away its corpse leaves, leaving the limbs bare to the cold. A solitary traveler stood gathering his strength before stepping out onto the winding path again.

Poochandi hefted the sack over one shoulder – his body bending under its weight. The sack was filled with stories conjured in darkness and with the fear that shone in bright eyes. A trail of memories lay behind him, like slime it oozed out of the sack. Some of the memories were claimed by the Earth – only to re-appear in the future when disturbed in their peaceful sleep, others just faded away… into silent forgetfulness.

As he struggled up the winding path, he drew the grey blanket around him closer. Poochandi’s eyes cast a final glance of farewell to the lonely tree and once again wandered up to his destination – a rolling wave of blackness that formed a boundary to his world. It was the boundary to all he knew and all he believed in. The Hill of Reason, they called it. Tonight, he would cross over to the other side.

As he plodded through layers of mud and mist, a single gust dancing between the tearing winds swept beneath one of the limp grey locks that hung around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. Poochandi smiled. The wind always sung in Babel – a mad mixture of so many different languages that no one can understand what the words meant. But the wise never listen to the words of the wind – they listen to the music. The small gust swept away, and only an echo of its voice remained. Don’t go.

Poochandi paused for a moment to look up at the silhouette moon that cowered behind the curtain of clouds – he forgave it. Who else but a figment of imagination be out on a night like this?

The path branched out into a spider web on both sides – so many choices, so many chances to turn back. Lost in his thoughts, through the labyrinth of the past and the future, he had not noticed the small creature that had scurried up to his shoulder.

“You’ve made up your mind haven’t you?” The voice on his shoulder squeaked.

“Yes.” Poochandi answered, recognizing his eight-footed companion by voice. He was also the only one who had come close to understanding, perhaps because their origin had been so similar. Poochandi spoke no further, he had no words to express the sensation that tugged him onwards on his journey and ate away at his core at the same time. It was as though there was a vacuum in another world that pulled him towards it, and with every step, his bond with his own home weakened.

“You do realize that what’s going to happen when you cross the Hill…” the voice of the spider trailed away, unsure.

“Yes.” Poochandi replied quietly. After a pause, he continued, “I was a traveler to begin with. I had forgotten that. It is my nature that I have to move on, if not I will cease to be what I am.”

Poochandi came to a stop in front of a rock face that rose sharply towards the heavens.

“It is time we part, my friend.” Poochandi said softly.

“Farewell.”

The spider had disappeared into the crevices before the echo had faded. Faint light began to outline the jagged outline of rock– the eerie glow before dawn. Poochandi looked back on his land – the mist was lifting slowly, and the rolling expanse spread out before his eyes. Patches of white lingered, obscuring parts, making it seem as though those parts had been neatly erased away.

He pulled himself above the last ledge and squinted in the fresh light. Poochandi walked over towards the other end of the clearing, the freshly washed earth cracking under his bare feet. The sunlight from a new day was rolling across the land – spilling into pits and leaping across the plains – like an army, invincible and unconquerable. The air felt different. Somehow, by breathing it, he had changed it.

As the warmth of the dawn hit Poochandi’s face, the grey blanket slid from his shoulders. There was a mad riot of colours, all spinning and pulsing, to a silent heartbeat.

And then – there was stillness. The light bounded over the hill and swept over the other side; painting everything it touched with colours that can only exist in the boundless imagination.

A grey blanket wafted away – to a new existence and fresh beginnings.