Monologue II



And so now as he sat alone he thought of the ceiling fan, of that woman round that well and, of course, of himself. He was weary. It was not a sign of becoming sick and tired but of just knowing that there were too many, too many battles to fight. He had been fighting for far too long. For as long as he could remember. From the time he realized the meaning of that little knot on his head. Oh yes. Now that he sat alone and thought he realized that this knot of hair had made all the difference. He had traveled many roads but this one had made the biggest difference. The knot of hair on his head. Hair. Samson. Strength. The pillars of wisdom. The pillars of the community which he was himself sometimes aping. Sometimes quoting. Sometimes creating. How does an old man create a pillar of the community? Which community? Whose community? There was talk of a non-community sense which had worried many pillars of the community. Which? He dared not think. He sat alone. He thought of the fan. And sometimes he also thought of extensions. Fanny. Funny. Not a good alliteration. Funny fanny. People did not like his sense of humour. Not always. Many a time he knew they joked about his jokes. Most did so behind his back. Some did it openly. He liked those. Courage, man, he thought, courage. Was there courage when she had opened her blouse on his insistence and he had seen that deep scar left by the nasty accident she had had some years ago. He wanted her so bad he made her remover her blouse. Even in the dim glow of that warm light, the scar stood out. His stood down. What a blow. A blow. His manhood. So was this all that manhood amounted to? Standing down in the face of a scar on the body of the woman he had wanted to make love to so badly? The main problem with mandarin was that it was very hard to make love in it. Better to make love in hokkien or in Cantonese or in any dialect. The mandarins always stood down in the face of any possible scar. They were scarred. They were scared. Mandarin had layers. He sat alone and thought. The ceiling fan went round and round and round.sometimes his head went round and round to. He was weary. Sick and tired. Too many battles to fight. Language was just one. His mind went funny. Fanny. Layers. Delicious layers. Mandarins were delicious he realized. You peeled them and ate them. You could not peel scars off. She must have tried to get rid of that ugly scar. She had told him he was not the first to be frightened. Not the first. Nor would he be the last. Perhaps. There were too many battles to fight. He had fought so many he forgot when, where, how, why. The many pillars of the community had frequently asked him to join them. One had even joked he could do that beautifully in dialect. His poor wife had said no. and she had been adamant. She had her own battles. Her own scars. But she knew mandarin. That made the difference. Their roads had diverged a long long time ago. Only the realizations came late. Other realizations came later. Like how the mandarin was a delicious fruit with many layers which could be peeled. Like love. Like making love. How does one make love in mandarin? Was courage to be found in fortitude? Commitment? Responsibility? Do unto others as others do unto you. A scar for a scar. A fanny for a fanny and a funny for a funny. Pillars of the community didnt like that. Many didnt like his sense of humour. Many didnt even know he was being funny. Others did unto him. Oh yes they all did. Big things. Small things. Just things. Sometimes he sat alone and thought and became weary and sick and tired and wondered about the pillars of the community he had helped in this way and that. Where were they now? These pillars? What is manhood if it crumbles in the face of a scar? One night in Bangkok can make a strong man crumble. But he liked crumbles. Apple crumbles. Pear crumbles. Peach crumbles. Crumbles. Nice word that. He thought as he sat alone. His mind went round and round like that ceiling fan and like that woman around that old well. Do unto others. Had he done unto others. If she frightens me I should frighten her too. Basic survival kit. So if she kisses me I must kiss her too. Simplicity leads to simplicity. Courtesy begets courtesy best courtesy begets. Begin at home, always. Like charity. That little knot of hair on his head had started it all. His strength. His fighting those many battles. His marriage. Mandarin. Delicious layers waiting to be peeled. Scars waiting to be healed. Championships waiting to be run and won. Did he enjoy this? Did he realize what he was doing sitting alone and weary? Alone alone on a wide wide sea. He recalled. Yes. That man had suffered. That ancient mariner. Where had courage been then on that wide wide sea alone? He had grandeurs of illusion. Most didnt enjoy his sense of humour. Mistah Kurtz he dead. What if that had been mastah Kurtz he lives. Now that would have brought many battles into the story. So many layers to peel. So many delicious layers which no one wanted to peel because in the peeling lay the crucial truth. Where did the good fanny lie? Should he be jealous if the fanny could never be reached because of that scar? Because he was scared and she was too?pillars of the community. Pillars. Fallen pillars. Made of clay.Round shining mandarins. There was a time when he would have fought and fought. Now he just sat there. Alone. Alone alone on an empty bench. Around him the birds flew and the children walked. Tomorrows pillars. Samsons hair. That little knot on his head. Samson breaking down those huge pillars. Round and round the mill he went. Just like that woman going round that well.  Pillars made of clay. She had been scared to undo her blouse. He had wanted her to. He had yearned for that special moment of knowledge. When she did and he saw that scar he just could not understand what this knowledge was all  about. After such knowledge what pillars? Courage, man courage. Never say die. Strive on. He did. Carry on. He did. Just do it they said. Do your duty like a man. He did. I must also bear it like a man. Sometimes he wondered whether they knew that the pun was just too much. Bear with me. I must bear it like a man. What did that little blighter Malcolm future king  of England know when Mac duff had said those terrible words? She, his wife was dead. He, his little child was dead. Butchered. Murdered.just too many fights and battles and no real winner. He sat alone and thought. He was weary. All lose when they fight battles without knowing mandarin. He was starting to meander. Life was a meandering. Some did it much better than others. Meander leander. These days no one was too tender. There had been a time when even those who meandered tendered. Time was, he thought, as he sat alone, time was when those he fought with meandered and knew what real knowledge was all about. After such reflection what knowledge? Was he going forward? Was he starting to slide? Was he starting to ebb and flow like that tide which had washed thousands off their feet because it came so suddenly and no one had been prepared? Turning and turning in this huge and senseless mire of wealth and wealthmaking he had forgotten that making love was difficult in mandarin. There were too many layers to peel. Knowledge is power. It is. He smiled. Even as he sat alone he smiled. That fan would always remain in his mind. Just like that funny fanny. Always. Always. There is one story and one story only. The very teacher who had taught him that had forgotten it herself. But who would know that one day these demons of the past would come and visit him? Visit her? Visit everyone? But it was promised! Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush. But there were layers to peel and they were delicious and so people got soaked in that deliciousness that they forgot the demons and as they ate from their own loins they forgot that Samson had long hair. That little knot had grown. From strength to strength. And the pillars came rumbling down. Crumbling down. Rumble, crumble oh what a shumble. No such word existed. Language was too small for all that was going on in his head as he now sat there alone and weary. The time was drawing near. He felt it in his bones. He felt it in his head. He felt it. Felt. Had that teacher known that the one story was his story? Possession was such a peeling thing. Possession peeled layers off. After the peeling people forgot. Origins. Humble beginnings. Terrible sufferings. Scars. Scars and more scars.was that another story? Another story for another time? This was the new millennium. The new millennium. The third. He was the first. The first to have broken through that one story and given it a different significance. Given it a different scar. And they all suffered. Mostly alone. Like him. Sitting there weary and alone and suffering and not knowing if this was night or day. How can we know what we know? Knowledge was power. If we cannot know we cannot have power.there were simply too many battles to fight. And there were these scars. And mandarins. The many pillars of the community around him expressed concern that he was not always listening to good advice. His, they said, was a stubborn nature. He did not fully understand affairs of the state. The nation. Top priority. A priori. Quid pro quo. Status quo. That woman still went round that well. That ceiling fan was still turning. This time he was sitting alone.do unto others. Blessed are those who do not forsake themselves. A new realization. How often had he forsaken himself? How often had he wanted her fanny. How often had he wanted to fight those many battles and how often had he received frightening knowledge of scars? Dont go that way he thought. That way madness lies. To ask for mercy from the merciless was to exact a sentence of silence. The quality of mercy is never strained. And so mercy is never pure. He thought hard as he sat alone and weary. Did he write that? In another life? In another life had always known there was one story and one story only. The longest night. The longest day. Quid pro quo. Status quo. Blessed are those who shall inherit the earth and nothing but the earth. Knowledge was not good. It poked fun and the fanny. And it was not always very funny. Oh my wife, my wife, my wife -she farts. Why was it that people did not want to know that which lived below their waists? Were they scared of the scars they would find? In my kingdom are so many mansions everyone will have not one but two or three. And so they all fought many battles to gain their mansions. Those who delivereth, getteth. How could he come if his pillar had fallen? Would they forgive him after all this knowledge? Round and round the birds flew knowing some great moment was at hand. The darkness gathered. The light had been dimmed to hide the scar. He had wanted this so badly he did not know how to handle himself. She was there. She was ready. She was his. She was. As he sat alone thinking and wondering his mind meandered. He had known a leander in his time. He had tendered. There had been public tenders, private tenders, tenders and just privates. Parts he knew existed below the waist which he was not to speak of. The pillars would crumble if he did. He did. And his pillar crumbled. There was knowledge in the air. But the power had gone. Adios amigo, adios my friend. The road we have traveled has come to an end. How could the mind take possession of this? This meandering, this leandering, this fanny? To leer is not the same as to peer. Even when words rhyme their rhythms dont. he had known glorious rhythms in his life. The rhythm of that ceiling fan going round and round. The rhythm of the pain as his own pillar crumbled. The rhythm of the rain as he sat there alone and weary and wondering if the people knew that something was at hand. The unique moon orbit cycle and a moveable feast. Were all feasts moveable? Were all moon orbits unique? Did everyone come at the same time. Let my people come. Yes, let my people come and see what folly it is to fight so many battles and lose the mandarins. Those delicious layers waiting to be properly peeled by proper hands whose proper lips will savour those delicious peels. Was this true? Had that traveled road come to an end? Mistah Kurtz he dead or alive? Had he dared to look at this abyss of his own making and realize that mandarin was not a language he could make love in? his wife had warned him not to make too much of those pillars of the community whose community he had sought for through thick and thin. Thick and thin. Thick equals blood and thin equals water. Yes. That was right. He had been taught that. There was one story and one story only. He knew that story. It was his story. The story of an old man sitting alone and weary waiting for the scars to go away. And the lights to come on. And the people to know that through suffering Samson knew himself and made a whole world collapse. Samsons folly. He did not speak the right language. He did not know the right code. Or if he did, his right code did not come on cue at the right time. Redundant. Cue on right time. Redundancy. It takes a long long time before most find out the meaning of this strange word. To be redundant is to be funny. Jacks and jennies of all trades knew what the word meant. They had lived through it, some many times. Was he now learning this word? He knew it always came back to language. Reality was language personified. In my beginning is my end. And in my end? What? What exactly was his end? Was there such a thing? Was that that one story which was his? Everyone had stories to tell. We all begin with stories. Do we end with stories too? Or do e just end? You cannot make an omelet without breaking an egg. Why did he think of this line sitting alone on that strange night when knowledge possessed him but power was not there? There came a strange smile to his eyes. Eggs were there for making omelets. He was there for that story to be told and retold and then for it to end. Was his own end near? Was this why he thought of that fan and of that woman going round the well and Samson going round the mill at gaza? His little knot of hair. Those delicious layers had been peeled. There was comfort in this. He could rest now. Rest. And dream of that wonderful life below the waist.Into that haven of freedom, my father, let me awake. As he sat there alone and weary a smile came upon his gentle lips and he started to dream his glorious dream.Alone.

-kirpal singh, march 2001

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