Sunday, January 1, 2012

A Cure for Answer


‘You may have been a devil-fearing, hellfire-believing, Sunday-schooled child, you may have tended tadpoles in a bottle aquarium—that doesn’t matter’, she said, grinding a sliced bunch of apricots.


‘You question—what you need is cure, not answer’, she went on, pushing a roll into the mug.


‘Tear the last chapter of Ecclesiastes from its binding, you cross it top left to bottom right, do so then from right to left, sellotape it where it belongs—you put the Book back in the oven. Go tell mom you did do nothing wrong that day—you mean it.


Soak The Origin of Species in hot herbal tea, soak it really well, drop it in a plastic envelope, you mail it to the lab, marking it: For Meticulous DNA Analysis. Go home, you say hello to dad. In case, he isn’t home, you only see the pup, why, say hello—the same.


Open Discourse on the Method to a random page, in the corner of your option, with a fountain pen, you scribble: What makes a man think up infantile thoughts? Before you put the pen back in the stand, you’d do well not to drink that peg of ink.


Hold The First and Last Freedom against the mirror, in its reflection identify the tongue it’s printed in, doing so think of three four-letter words, you chew on them, thought bubbles and all.


Spread the delicacy of chop suey on a silver platter, resist the instinct to grab it with a fork or spoon, you read it instead—like a Book of Wisdom. As time-consuming the task may turn out to be, you grab a pack of Tao Te Ching—for a homemade snack.


Visit the Pupa in your backyard, sit by the shade, you study its everyday metamorphosis, against boredom if you must, micro and macroscopically. If the thought of hastening its evolution with your lens crosses your mind, pluck it—you eat that thought.


Pet a Mongoose kit if you will, when it’s grown up and agile, leave it loose upon open field, sneak behind it—you follow its trail. Chances are one of you will be lost—if not, you will have at least had a minor adventure. Get home eventually, will you, it will be too late for a full course meal—you make a salad of Midnight’s Children.


Don’t you try—but, you may improvise’, she said, at long last, lapping up on a dribbling, juice-soaked roll of blank pages.


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