Of Dreamworlds and Catastrophe
You weave dreamworlds and catastrophe out of big-city rejects. Reject cell-phones, footwear, football jerseys, tie-up bras, sunglasses, CDs. Counterfeit doesn’t quite catch it. A mofussil version of commodity is created. A purely original creature of limited resource and fantastic urge. You may scoff at these products and their adolescent desire to be like the real thing. They adorn many adolescent breasts filled with eager sexuality. The morning runner carries around leaping jaguar on his thighs. Cell-phones are repaired with new batteries and new keypads. Carefully blanketed in plastic covers. These are blessings of modernity. They must not get blemished by rain and dust. Maruti vans are repainted. With a message for Champa at the back. Champa wears a shiny butterfly on the butt of her jeans. She smiles coyly and expects you get the message. If you don’t, she conveys her indignation in SMS short-form in the dead of the night. You would not want her wait too long at the bus-stop next to the B-grade movie hall. Next to a blown-up photo of exposed breasts and an angry man. Probably called Sunehri Raat. Or something in Bhojpuri. It would ruin your nightly fantasy if she stood there too long. Her innocence corrupted in the evil company of murky sexuality. But you’d like her to waver in the hedge behind the park sometimes. Retaining guilt and shame, of course. Or else your nightly fantasy would be ruined. It’s the only thing this nightly fantasy. It keeps you going as you hang out of the trekker, as you jump across heaps of garbage, brave the kicks in your lower abdomen, fall asleep in your sweaty armpit, expect the next dot to appear soon after you join the first two. You pull together leftovers and rejects from everywhere. And weave this world. Whatever floats across the river. Whatever the big city doesn’t care for anymore. Whatever turns into mouldy obsolescence, you pick up. It’s your next dot.