Monday, September 19, 2011

A Famished Life

Unemployed for months, skint as a stray dog on a leafless tree, Rubin was making himself a body without organs. You ask him why he was making that and he will act puzzled and say ‘Making what?’ Tell him you know, as well as he, exactly what you’re talking about and he will say ‘Making tea’ and then say ‘Making a gear’ and finally before he shuts up for hours say something like ‘How can a machine know?’

West of Nede, parallel to it, in the best of all plausible worlds, Rubin was unmaking himself. There was no one to tell him, if he was doing it the wrong way, he wasn’t doing it right. In a stroke of dexterity, he intersected his uppers and opened the bust. Absence of blood did not necessitate electrocautery. Save for organs of the head, they were isolated. Hands gathered heart and lungs and sewed them up. Likewise it was for liver, kidneys, intestine and testes. Hands put them back together en masse and closed the bust and the waist.

In a non-drug-induced trip, being an egg of intensities, he went cataplectic and ceased to exist. There was no deus ex machina for it wasn’t a necessity. On the other side, in “one” piece he stayed albeit a bit emaciated. All he’ll need to do, if he wanted to, was let out of his cage there a duplicate of himself and unmake that self all over again this side of the world.

The day after, he had an interview. Now, he felt hunger on him. Chest aching, throat choking, head spinning, he contemplated on the benevolence of what’s between his thumb, index and middle fingers before he very patiently, consciously chewed on the crumb. Then he sipped, again consciously, on the sugarless, insipid-to-bitter tea. For the next twelve hours, this will be all that he ate and drank.


  1. Saru Singhal That's, yes, indeed the case it seems

  2. Finally some peace with his body...


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