Is as does.

Bangalore Mirror, 18 January 2016, page 1

(Note: please see the post-script for a happier ending!)

It takes a special kind of stupid, I thought, after reading this article about a new luxury tax on hospital Intensive Care Units.

No, I'm not trying to insult the politicians who came up with this novel idea to fill coffers (and coffins). All they are guilty of is a large helping of greed, no doubt, sprinkled liberally with India's favourite condiment, corruption.

Stupid is out here, among all of us -- who will read news like this, tut over it for a while, and then at election time, do what we always do:  simply hand back the keys to people whom we know will do little more than drive our city/state/country into the same old rut, again and again.

Bangalore Mirror, a couple days later (forgot the date!)

A Happier Post-Script!

An angry Chief Minister makes me happy - was glad to see in the news a few days later, that our Siddu lost his cool when he heard about the new tax, and ensured that it was thrown out! Good for him.

Banging doors is better.

Words are wonderful weapons
and words my special skill
so when I'm passive-aggressive
be glad my tongue stays still

A door slammed twice
A teaspoon flung
into a kitchen sink
a cigarette
some Valium
a syringe
another drink

These are the ways
people try to tell
express the pain
of their personal hell
I know these ways
I knew them well
so I'll say it just once more

Words are wonderful weapons
and words my special skill
so when I'm passive-aggressive
be glad my tongue stays still
my actions will only piss you off
but my words
would shoot to kill.

Please don't break the children.

The family that makes you
will be the one which breaks you.
They'll torture you
but that's not all.
Then they'll get mad
when you stumble or fall.

Just shut up and listen.

A lot of people don't know how to listen. When they're family, you can't do much about it. If they're friends, well, you know you won't be calling them back any time soon! There is an art to conversation, and if listening is not a part of it, then there's nothing beautiful about it, nothing to make you want to return for more.

So why do we do it? Because,  life, and everything that goes with it, starts in my head and expands around me. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in your head and expands around you. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in his or her head and expands around him or her.

What it boils down to is this:  at the centre of the universe is me. But what it REALLY boils down to is this:  at the centre of MY universe is me. At the centre of YOUR universe - well, it's not me. It's you.

We forget this, especially when in a conversation. So we do it all the time. Talking, I mean. Replying, answering, commenting, advising, informing, sharing outwards from our universe to yours.

None of these are bad things, except that a conversation is a shared process. In between all the talk, replies, answers, comments, advice, information and shares, there need to be spaces. These spaces are quiet spaces. They are not there for us to plan our next words. They are meant to be listening time.

It is not necessary to fill in all the blanks. The more attention we pay to our listening time, the easier this is to see. When someone tells us they are sad, sick or grieving, they do not always need an answer. They do not need to hear that your problems are worse than theirs. They do not need to know what they "should" do. They do not need reassurance that things are not as bad as they seem. Unless they have asked. Have they asked? If you don't know the answer to this, then perhaps you weren't listening.

The Mysterious Case of the Unresolved Anger

Where does it go?
Nobody sees it, not even me.
I feel it birth and swell and rise and disappear.
I think it is gone, but I should know better.

Here it is, in my blood, spitting such words of poison to the cells around it
that they cling to each other, dig their nails into walls and hold on for dear life.

There my anger is, in my arteries and veins hardening me inch by inch
all the way to my heart.

And not just in my blood, I feel it in my bones eating through and wearing me thin.
Here it is in my knees, hurting me so bad I cannot climb the stairs to an open terrace,
or sit cross-legged to play games with a baby.

Here too in my eyes, holding back the tears so the pressure builds and builds and one day
I will have to give way and be blinded by the flood of anger that sucks me into its darkness.

Here is my anger, in my stomach burning acid.

Here on my skin, erupting in tiny volcanoes of rage, breaking out across my flesh like
a rampaging, molten mob.

Here - and there - in my kidney, in my hair.
My anger is invisible, nowhere and everywhere.

I can fool myself for a while, say it's gone and smile and ignore all the clues

but my body will snarl out the truth.

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