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I was in the mood for some experimentation the other day and tried to write a piece with lots of mythological allusions, something like James Joyce's style only not as complex.
'Out!'
'Not out!'
'You're out!'
'No, I'm not!'
And it went on for the next fifteen minutes, Darkness had descended and both teams saw preferentially. The bowler saw the ball hit the concrete slab which they used as a wicket. The batsman saw the ball go past him for a wide. His teammates were equally convinced that the bowler's foot was out of the crease.
'I'm going home. It's getting late.' the bastman announced. He picked up his bat and ball and trudged off home. The others began drifitng homewards in groups of two or three. Vinay sat on the wicket with his face cupped in his palms. Darkness awakened a quesy sense of dread inside him. He couldn't stay in the park. No, there were too many mosquitoes and Harsh had heard from the watchman that foxes came out from the woods at night. No, he had to go home. With a sigh he got up and set off from the park.
He took the longest route he knew with street lights. He cut across the lawn to a clump of bushes and high ornamental plants. He crouched low among the plants, brandishing a gnarled, termite ridden branch in his hand. He was a hunter. He was stalking the Savannah lion. He creeped among the bushes, signalling quietly to imaginary companions. He was no ordinary hunter. He was the huntmaster. He was the best of all the tribes. But huntmasters were old. He didn't want to be old. No. He was a lone hunter trying to make his mark. Yes, that was it. He imagined a movement in the bush and hurled his spear which splintered promptly upon impact. He lapsed into a self invented 'tribal dance' to celebrate the kill. He heard something move for real and ran as fast as he could to the road where the lights blazed and everything was visible.
He stood in front of the building, reluctant to go in. He was hungry and tired and itchy from playing in the grass. He crossed the courtyard to the corridor and peeked in. The door was open and he could see the shoe rack across the room. He could see his school shoes, now coated with dust; his white canvas shoes which were slowly turing a pale brown shade due to youthful carelessness on the playground; big black seude shoes but no sandals. He was home. She wasn't. He sighed and walked back to the courtyard. He sat on the neighbour's scooter and idly plucked a leaf from the tree beside him. He tore it slowly with relish. It was Mukund, he had kicked him at school.
Mosquitoes were swarming over his head now and they darted again and again to strike him and then flew back away from his reach. They're Mongols, he thought. He'd read about Mongols in a book in the library.
A man cycled past him at a furious pace, lost his balance and fell. He got up swiftly, hot with embarassment and kicked the ground and his cycle angrily. 'Fucking slippery road'.
'Khashayarasha!' he exclaimed. He had read about Xerxes in the same book.
He was very hungry now. He got off the scooter and walked toards the door, each step taken with utmost reluctance. On the stairs he was Perseus and he slew the Gorgon Medusa. The stick broke when he hit the column.
With a final, heavy sigh he walked to the door. He was Theseus in the dungeon. He walked in to be greeted by that familiar strong, fruity and pungent smell and curses slurred in inebriation.
A Sort Of Homecoming
'Out!'
'Not out!'
'You're out!'
'No, I'm not!'
And it went on for the next fifteen minutes, Darkness had descended and both teams saw preferentially. The bowler saw the ball hit the concrete slab which they used as a wicket. The batsman saw the ball go past him for a wide. His teammates were equally convinced that the bowler's foot was out of the crease.
'I'm going home. It's getting late.' the bastman announced. He picked up his bat and ball and trudged off home. The others began drifitng homewards in groups of two or three. Vinay sat on the wicket with his face cupped in his palms. Darkness awakened a quesy sense of dread inside him. He couldn't stay in the park. No, there were too many mosquitoes and Harsh had heard from the watchman that foxes came out from the woods at night. No, he had to go home. With a sigh he got up and set off from the park.
He took the longest route he knew with street lights. He cut across the lawn to a clump of bushes and high ornamental plants. He crouched low among the plants, brandishing a gnarled, termite ridden branch in his hand. He was a hunter. He was stalking the Savannah lion. He creeped among the bushes, signalling quietly to imaginary companions. He was no ordinary hunter. He was the huntmaster. He was the best of all the tribes. But huntmasters were old. He didn't want to be old. No. He was a lone hunter trying to make his mark. Yes, that was it. He imagined a movement in the bush and hurled his spear which splintered promptly upon impact. He lapsed into a self invented 'tribal dance' to celebrate the kill. He heard something move for real and ran as fast as he could to the road where the lights blazed and everything was visible.
He stood in front of the building, reluctant to go in. He was hungry and tired and itchy from playing in the grass. He crossed the courtyard to the corridor and peeked in. The door was open and he could see the shoe rack across the room. He could see his school shoes, now coated with dust; his white canvas shoes which were slowly turing a pale brown shade due to youthful carelessness on the playground; big black seude shoes but no sandals. He was home. She wasn't. He sighed and walked back to the courtyard. He sat on the neighbour's scooter and idly plucked a leaf from the tree beside him. He tore it slowly with relish. It was Mukund, he had kicked him at school.
Mosquitoes were swarming over his head now and they darted again and again to strike him and then flew back away from his reach. They're Mongols, he thought. He'd read about Mongols in a book in the library.
A man cycled past him at a furious pace, lost his balance and fell. He got up swiftly, hot with embarassment and kicked the ground and his cycle angrily. 'Fucking slippery road'.
'Khashayarasha!' he exclaimed. He had read about Xerxes in the same book.
He was very hungry now. He got off the scooter and walked toards the door, each step taken with utmost reluctance. On the stairs he was Perseus and he slew the Gorgon Medusa. The stick broke when he hit the column.
With a final, heavy sigh he walked to the door. He was Theseus in the dungeon. He walked in to be greeted by that familiar strong, fruity and pungent smell and curses slurred in inebriation.
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