North East is so cute yaa!
I have said this before and I say it again that for now, I am glad to be back from the land where everything is “so cute yaa”. “Hey, look at that kid, he’s so cute ya!” “That dog is so cute yaa!” (The localites would surely find this amazing – people from Mumbai calling their breakfast cute.) It wouldn’t have been long before every hill, every tree, every fern and every sparrow began to look cute.
Imagine a father sparrow coming home one evening and telling his kids, “You %$@^%!! How many times have I told you not to drop your droppings all over the floor of the nest? And you have the cheek to do this on the very day when some stupid tourists call me cute, you…”
Every place we went to had a sinister cuteness hovering about it. All of a typical Mizo village in Aizawl was cute, including where the head tribesman kept his water bottles, where he shat, where he kept his women and chicken and the names of each of these abodes. One of them read Lal In – which an ignorant Malayalee would think is the abode of Mohanlal.
Well, despite the excessive use of the word ‘cute’, everything in the North East was cute in a way. There were many things that one couldn’t imagine seeing like trees laden with purple flowers. There were amusing sounds to hear and giggle. Then there were amusing names of people and of places.
Mizoram, it seems, holds an unofficial record for the maximum number of funny-sounding names. So it wouldn’t be surprising to run into people named ‘Everfriendly’. A weary member of the trip lamented that she would love to marry someone named ‘Never Walk’.
The term Mao means stone. So there are these triplets intellectually named Mao, Patthar and Stone. What is more interesting is that these names often come from random English words they caught from someone’s conversation or some English word they caught in a film, that they liked the sound of. (Which takes me back to a show by Russel Peters who once wondered how to react if someone called you ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’) So, there are funny names like Stormy Weather and Bhavya.
With due respect to the sentiments of my North Eastern brethren, I add that the names of places in that part of the country sound like they are filled with phlegm, like comedian Jeff Dunham's dead puppet terrorist Achmed. There are places named Hmawngzawi and Khliehriat. Wonder if they colloquially use abbreviations for these names. “Hey, where you off to?” “Aw, me…ah…no…awww…ya…go to…aww…ya…K.” Or “Hey, you wanna run me down to the H-Wi?”
Name, place, animal, thing just got more exciting. String a few letters together to make a completely random word that remotely sounds like an organ off the human anatomy and you are in a village in the North East! No kidding. Get a map of the region and catch Pynursla, Lakadong, Lumding and Lungding (could be distant cousins), Haflong and Longpi.
Meanwhile, in other news, dhinchak dhinchak has become a standard entity on treks small and big alike. For those who came in late, or never came in, dhinchak dhinchak is the story of how some guy called Shivaji gatecrashes a party being hosted at the Le Malvan (the only underwater hotel in India) – used as a teaser to dedicate a song to a person, situation or an object.
And it so happened that these dedications last only for 15-20 seconds and then fizzle out to make way for the next dedication. The game never ends as ceremoniously as it begins. It only fades out when the people who know the lyrics come to know of their might and pull out or drop asleep. The alternative is that something interesting happens right when a dedication is happening, like a flat tyre or an accident.
These so called dedications are also sung as stand-alone songs in antakshari style and rapid fire style for approximately six hundred and seventy two times. Remember that if you change vehicles…you’ll also have to sing those very songs in the other vehicle…that will make it one thousand three hundred and forty times! Then you go about humming all of these songs to yourself for the next fortnight. Bah! Whoever thought of making these songs so catchy surely knew what he was doing.
I might sound like I have had enough of the northeastern states but I am going back there to steal their folk songs. I think they are cool with their throaty + nasal vocals, earthy beats and homemade stringed instruments. Think I’ll make that my mission number two.
Hey, this article is so cute yaa!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Mumbai Guhwahati Express S7 31 - All Alone
I had the opportunity of travelling alone from Mumbai to almost Guwahati, baby sitting a seat, protecting it from 500 others who would kill to sit were I sat. I was amidst strangers who did not seem to like the fact that I wanted to sit with a little space around me. So, there I was baby-sitting my luggage like mother sheep guarding her lambs from the very bad wolf.
I spent a good half of the first day cribbing to myself through clenched teeth about the lousy situation and why I couldn’t be part of a group that would crack up at my wisecracks and not so wise cracks and play OHNO with me. Why did I have to be stuck up with a bunch of losers so bored that all of them watched goggle-eyed as another guy stood up on his seat and placed three very interesting guavas into his bag on the upper berth in slow motion – one by one? Each movement of the man was like breaking news. “Dekhiye kis tarah ek aadmi NE apne seat par chadhkar ek nahi, do nahi, balki teen amrood apne bag ke andar ghusaaye…”
The TTC, I bet, feels more important than Pratibha Patil feels inside the Rastrapati Bhavan. This lanky guy wearing black clothes is suddenly God for my fellow travelers. They want their tickets confirmed and give him looks that range from pious-innocent to smug-bribey.
And thus, interesting traits of people around me began to ooze out, which is when I decided to stop cribbing and make the most of the situation. Who knows, one of these could be characters in my first film.
A couple sat to my left. The man spoke a mix of what seemed to be a mix of Bengali, Hindi and Awadhi. His female partner looked obviously Nepali and even spoke like Bollywood’s caricatures of Gorkha watchmen. Though not too much into PDA, I was of the opinion that they were all set to star in the next controversial mobile clip that people around the world would download for $ 50. What the woman had to tell the man had to be very important stuff because she yelled every word of it. I wonder why the guy wanted to know about how the woman had hit another woman (who was washing utensils) for staring at her. The man kept chewing sachet after sachet of Kolhapuri gutkha and the woman kept pulling at his hair for this habit. Wonder if the man was putting up with all this because he thought she would make up for all of this later? (Wink wink).
Their eating habits psyched me out. The food from the railway pantry car is akin to the food Raveena Tandon feeds her pets. Ya, so there are a couple of things in the dal that you cannot really eat like long pieces of fried chilly, pieces of the foil etc. so the couple took out all of this and placed them on the seat while they devoured their food with all possible limbs. Post lunch the woman raked off the residue from the seat with those very hands, leaving dal tracks all over the seat. Aur phir Bhagwan Ramchandra ne us nanhi gilahri ko apne haathon mein uthaayi… aur apni ungliyon se uske peeth par teen reshayen banayi… The guy then wiped the wet dal with a gammchha (towel) and proceeded to sit on it.
Remnants of the dal could still be seen on the woman’s saree a day after that particular lunch session. The man switched from Kolhapuri to another locally available gutkha brand. He also developed a rare mental condition where he would get down and run to the water faucet with at every possible railway station.
On my right sat a bouncer in a dark blue Sando vest. He could give Yoko Zuna a few tips on muscle toning. Besides entertaining the broom that grew out of his armpits, his occupation throughout the day was to rile salesman, interrogating them with pointed questions about the price, quality and quality of their wares. He even volunteered to sit on a plastic torch after its salesman claimed that it was unbreakable. When he wasn’t playing CID with them, he would squeeze out his mobile phone out of his tight pants and make calls to people inquiring about the number of sacks of cement they used to build their new house and the shampoo they put on their head.
A whiny kid sat in front with his mom who looked so much like Shashikala that I almost asked her for an autograph. The 8-year old whined for everything from his toothpaste to his right to sit at the window. The whining was beginning to get to my nerves and I would’ve stuck my only black pen into the imp’s ear if it wasn’t for redemption that came in the form of Anish who asked me to join the rest of the gang in a compartment across seven seas.
Not that the rest of the journey was uneventful…but all of that is another story.
I had the opportunity of travelling alone from Mumbai to almost Guwahati, baby sitting a seat, protecting it from 500 others who would kill to sit were I sat. I was amidst strangers who did not seem to like the fact that I wanted to sit with a little space around me. So, there I was baby-sitting my luggage like mother sheep guarding her lambs from the very bad wolf.
I spent a good half of the first day cribbing to myself through clenched teeth about the lousy situation and why I couldn’t be part of a group that would crack up at my wisecracks and not so wise cracks and play OHNO with me. Why did I have to be stuck up with a bunch of losers so bored that all of them watched goggle-eyed as another guy stood up on his seat and placed three very interesting guavas into his bag on the upper berth in slow motion – one by one? Each movement of the man was like breaking news. “Dekhiye kis tarah ek aadmi NE apne seat par chadhkar ek nahi, do nahi, balki teen amrood apne bag ke andar ghusaaye…”
The TTC, I bet, feels more important than Pratibha Patil feels inside the Rastrapati Bhavan. This lanky guy wearing black clothes is suddenly God for my fellow travelers. They want their tickets confirmed and give him looks that range from pious-innocent to smug-bribey.
And thus, interesting traits of people around me began to ooze out, which is when I decided to stop cribbing and make the most of the situation. Who knows, one of these could be characters in my first film.
A couple sat to my left. The man spoke a mix of what seemed to be a mix of Bengali, Hindi and Awadhi. His female partner looked obviously Nepali and even spoke like Bollywood’s caricatures of Gorkha watchmen. Though not too much into PDA, I was of the opinion that they were all set to star in the next controversial mobile clip that people around the world would download for $ 50. What the woman had to tell the man had to be very important stuff because she yelled every word of it. I wonder why the guy wanted to know about how the woman had hit another woman (who was washing utensils) for staring at her. The man kept chewing sachet after sachet of Kolhapuri gutkha and the woman kept pulling at his hair for this habit. Wonder if the man was putting up with all this because he thought she would make up for all of this later? (Wink wink).
Their eating habits psyched me out. The food from the railway pantry car is akin to the food Raveena Tandon feeds her pets. Ya, so there are a couple of things in the dal that you cannot really eat like long pieces of fried chilly, pieces of the foil etc. so the couple took out all of this and placed them on the seat while they devoured their food with all possible limbs. Post lunch the woman raked off the residue from the seat with those very hands, leaving dal tracks all over the seat. Aur phir Bhagwan Ramchandra ne us nanhi gilahri ko apne haathon mein uthaayi… aur apni ungliyon se uske peeth par teen reshayen banayi… The guy then wiped the wet dal with a gammchha (towel) and proceeded to sit on it.
Remnants of the dal could still be seen on the woman’s saree a day after that particular lunch session. The man switched from Kolhapuri to another locally available gutkha brand. He also developed a rare mental condition where he would get down and run to the water faucet with at every possible railway station.
On my right sat a bouncer in a dark blue Sando vest. He could give Yoko Zuna a few tips on muscle toning. Besides entertaining the broom that grew out of his armpits, his occupation throughout the day was to rile salesman, interrogating them with pointed questions about the price, quality and quality of their wares. He even volunteered to sit on a plastic torch after its salesman claimed that it was unbreakable. When he wasn’t playing CID with them, he would squeeze out his mobile phone out of his tight pants and make calls to people inquiring about the number of sacks of cement they used to build their new house and the shampoo they put on their head.
A whiny kid sat in front with his mom who looked so much like Shashikala that I almost asked her for an autograph. The 8-year old whined for everything from his toothpaste to his right to sit at the window. The whining was beginning to get to my nerves and I would’ve stuck my only black pen into the imp’s ear if it wasn’t for redemption that came in the form of Anish who asked me to join the rest of the gang in a compartment across seven seas.
Not that the rest of the journey was uneventful…but all of that is another story.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I am tired of the cwap people adorn their Orkut profile names and status messages with. One I recently read reads – Life is a virtue. Earn it. It is all the more irritating when people who have such profile names scrap you on Orkut. The email notification in your inbox in such cases reads ‘WHO LET THE DOGS OUT has sent you a scrap’ or ‘BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMZ has thrown a Huckleberry Fig at you.’
The next half an hour is spent in identifying the owner of the dogs and calling up a dream analyst. Now this is another wild goose chase because where I expect to see the face of the person who scrapped me, I see the picture of a semi-nude John Abraham or a depressing image of a blade inserted into the tongue. So much for the warnings Orkut gives you before you upload pictures. It’s proven. No one really reads the T&C while signing up.
(Oh and among my other friends are R. Madhavan, Eisha Koppikar, Raj Thackeray, Anil Ambani, Rani Mukherjee, Brett Lee, poster babies, the Khan khaandaan, the Bachchan family including the downloaded Tulu codec and Baba Ramdev. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my friends’ list.)
I admit that I don’t know the exact purpose of status messages. The ideal purpose would be to put in something that you think is amusing out in everybody’s face so they could have a chuckle. But I am sure about one thing and that is that using the status message space to put up stuff like – ‘Enjoy life today yesterday is gone, Tomorrow may never come’ is a heinous crime. People doing this must be sentenced to three months in jail and/or fined with three thousand rupees or at least tattooed with such a warning.
Another punishable offence reads – ‘Life is an ice-cream, enjoy it before it melts.’ Someone else’s status message tells me he is ‘enjoying the nuances of life’. The same someone was yelling “Life is a play and I am an extra” last week. When will life cease to be such a STMC (Shit Status Message Creator)? Life this, life that. It’s either life or the other extreme.
‘Till death do us apart’ has asked you to kindly fill in your personal details including credit car number and DOB so she could buy you a birthday gift using your own money!
‘Death is a calamity’. Dude. *Looks for the number of the local asylum*
‘Death is a catastrophe’. Ya, you go with that guy. *Points at calamity*
‘I’ll die in my love for you’ You sure will, especially if you say that to more girls.
The next half an hour is spent in identifying the owner of the dogs and calling up a dream analyst. Now this is another wild goose chase because where I expect to see the face of the person who scrapped me, I see the picture of a semi-nude John Abraham or a depressing image of a blade inserted into the tongue. So much for the warnings Orkut gives you before you upload pictures. It’s proven. No one really reads the T&C while signing up.
(Oh and among my other friends are R. Madhavan, Eisha Koppikar, Raj Thackeray, Anil Ambani, Rani Mukherjee, Brett Lee, poster babies, the Khan khaandaan, the Bachchan family including the downloaded Tulu codec and Baba Ramdev. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my friends’ list.)
I admit that I don’t know the exact purpose of status messages. The ideal purpose would be to put in something that you think is amusing out in everybody’s face so they could have a chuckle. But I am sure about one thing and that is that using the status message space to put up stuff like – ‘Enjoy life today yesterday is gone, Tomorrow may never come’ is a heinous crime. People doing this must be sentenced to three months in jail and/or fined with three thousand rupees or at least tattooed with such a warning.
Another punishable offence reads – ‘Life is an ice-cream, enjoy it before it melts.’ Someone else’s status message tells me he is ‘enjoying the nuances of life’. The same someone was yelling “Life is a play and I am an extra” last week. When will life cease to be such a STMC (Shit Status Message Creator)? Life this, life that. It’s either life or the other extreme.
‘Till death do us apart’ has asked you to kindly fill in your personal details including credit car number and DOB so she could buy you a birthday gift using your own money!
‘Death is a calamity’. Dude. *Looks for the number of the local asylum*
‘Death is a catastrophe’. Ya, you go with that guy. *Points at calamity*
‘I’ll die in my love for you’ You sure will, especially if you say that to more girls.
Bag(h)ban
People who travel in trains have a platonic relationship with their bags. There are people who love their bags a little more than their spouse.
This species gets into the train, hands you the bag and waits till “the guy in the ugly black t-shirt” has kept my bag safely on the shelf.” It is this species that asks for the bag to be placed on his lap, when he sits, so he could take ample care of it himself.
This species has a strain of creatures that are a bit superior to it. These creatures keep the bag with them, come what may. “Darling, take your most precious thing and rush out! It’s an earthquake!” *rumble rumble* *CRASH* “Well, well, let’s see, I got my bag. Honey, the kids are with you right?” Get the drift? Somehow, I think I fit into this species. I like to keep my bag to myself.
Then there are those with an obsessive-compulsive disorderly behaviour. They prefer their bag to slant at an angle of 67.85 degrees- nothing less or more. These people often ask others to maintain the perfect tilt of their bag or give up their seat so they could do it themselves with a pocket protractor.
There are a few others, who would rather leave their bags in the train and tell their wives how the Al Qaeda stole it during a mock hold up session at the office. This tribe of people likes to stand 50 feet away from the luggage rack and throw their bag making sure that it hits the guy in the window seat and gives him a spondilytis of the neck. One would think it is an accident, considering the profuse way he apologises after the fiasco, every time. But the number of times I have been witness to this game of basket-bag tells me that this is the kind of story he would tell his grandchildren. “…and then I aimed the javelin at the lion and broke his neck!”
Some people are strict parents, even to their bags. Wherever they go, their bags need to follow them. They let their bag rest on the first empty spot in sight. Then the guy thinks, “There’s another spot there. May be my bag’s future will be more secure if I put it there.” The bag is moved from here to there. But then the guy has to get down soon and the previous spot was closer to the door. So the bag is moved back to the previous spot.
So which one of these is you?
People who travel in trains have a platonic relationship with their bags. There are people who love their bags a little more than their spouse.
This species gets into the train, hands you the bag and waits till “the guy in the ugly black t-shirt” has kept my bag safely on the shelf.” It is this species that asks for the bag to be placed on his lap, when he sits, so he could take ample care of it himself.
This species has a strain of creatures that are a bit superior to it. These creatures keep the bag with them, come what may. “Darling, take your most precious thing and rush out! It’s an earthquake!” *rumble rumble* *CRASH* “Well, well, let’s see, I got my bag. Honey, the kids are with you right?” Get the drift? Somehow, I think I fit into this species. I like to keep my bag to myself.
Then there are those with an obsessive-compulsive disorderly behaviour. They prefer their bag to slant at an angle of 67.85 degrees- nothing less or more. These people often ask others to maintain the perfect tilt of their bag or give up their seat so they could do it themselves with a pocket protractor.
There are a few others, who would rather leave their bags in the train and tell their wives how the Al Qaeda stole it during a mock hold up session at the office. This tribe of people likes to stand 50 feet away from the luggage rack and throw their bag making sure that it hits the guy in the window seat and gives him a spondilytis of the neck. One would think it is an accident, considering the profuse way he apologises after the fiasco, every time. But the number of times I have been witness to this game of basket-bag tells me that this is the kind of story he would tell his grandchildren. “…and then I aimed the javelin at the lion and broke his neck!”
Some people are strict parents, even to their bags. Wherever they go, their bags need to follow them. They let their bag rest on the first empty spot in sight. Then the guy thinks, “There’s another spot there. May be my bag’s future will be more secure if I put it there.” The bag is moved from here to there. But then the guy has to get down soon and the previous spot was closer to the door. So the bag is moved back to the previous spot.
So which one of these is you?
Saturday, February 07, 2009
A supernatural drama in the building
I won’t claim to have seen all possible events that are disturbing for mankind but I think I considered myself a little stronger than most when it came to feathers of the supernatural kind. The idea could have been ‘seeing is believing.’ Have I been a witness to an incident of the supernatural kind recently?
I don’t know. I have been witness to a disturbing incident but would ponder over it for a long time to come before I would term it ‘from outside the world’ or otherwise.
A young neighbour’s wife eight months knocked up has been trying to run away from home at odd times – in the middle of the night, in the dead of the afternoon and so on. Her husband and her father in law tried to restrain her but she objected with such frenzy that according to me, an average human is incapable of. She pulled herself and her two supporters down the set of stairs screaming her lungs out, flailing her arms, kicking her feet back and forth, hitting her engorged tummy with her hands and banging herself on the walls. She managed to get her mouth bleeding somehow- whether she bit herself or if it was the result of some impact on the walls, is still unknown.
Somehow she was pinned down on the floor in the middle of the staircase. ‘Holy water’ from a durgah was brought (they had a stock of it at home) and poured into her mouth and sprinkled over her head. The frenzy ceased. I put it off as rehydration, she was possibly thirsty from all the effort she had put into screaming. But her arms and feet were still alive and kicking, literally.
Incidentally, a family on the floor where this person now lay believe in the miraculous powers of the Son of God. They swiftly brought out the Hindi translation of the Holy Bible and placed it gently under the moaner’s head. Surprise, she was quiet but still moaned and muttered.
Considering that she was now fine, her relatives tried to pull her back to her feet but the power was back again. They let her lie there making way for people to pass by over her legs.
The head of the believing family meanwhile propounded the theory that this phenomenon was nothing but ‘hawa’. The ‘patient’ had recently got back from her native village and surely might have gone to a nearby water body where the ‘evil hawa’ had gotten into her. (It seems, it’s inadvisable for pregnant women to venture anywhere near water bodies even when remotely pregnant.) And according to him, the only way to field this hawa was to call ‘Uncle and Aunty’.
I wondered if this pair was Bunty & Bubli. Uncle and Aunty soon arrived. Uncle looked like a darker version of Alan Tudyk and Aunty looked like the caretaker of a rural church in Kerala. Everyone stood up in reverence of the holy couple. They themselves stood looking at the patient, probably trying to judge her symptoms. They let out a disclaimer that they have been doing this for the past 10-12 years and that they only pray for the interference of the Son into matters of evil activities.
Uncle and Aunty soon began to call upon their deities with such fervor that I couldn’t help but record a part of it. The patient who by had found some peace lying on a mat in the believer’s flat, suddenly found it impossible to lie in such noisy surroundings and sprang up. Everyone gasped. The evil spirit is trying to get out because of the power of the prayers! A few curses and spits later, the patient lay down again to be fed a little more of the water- this time from some other place.
She slept again, giving in to exhaustion (or exorcism as many others would like to believe). Now it was time to talk about why the Son of God was more powerful than the others and how he had miraculous powers. The others in the room were requested not to feel offended, for Aunty was talking from experience. They asked the patient to be brought to their place the next day, where a powerful pastor was coming to preach and assured that he would surely relieve the patient of all her qualms.
What brought relief to the half dozen people in the small flat was that the patient was now responding to whoever talked to her instead of the curdling swears and gibberish that she spewed earlier.
What is wrong with her? I don’t know. What I gather is that she is a patient suffering of severe depression and might also be delusional. She has attempted suicide a few times including one recently when her family found her on top of the building’s water tank considering a leap a 100 feet downwards. I also understand that things like this happen to people when being pregnant.
Why am I writing this? I seem to think this will help me get rid of the habit of re-enacting the violent scenes in my head. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know yet if prayers help achieve anything. I don’t know…
I won’t claim to have seen all possible events that are disturbing for mankind but I think I considered myself a little stronger than most when it came to feathers of the supernatural kind. The idea could have been ‘seeing is believing.’ Have I been a witness to an incident of the supernatural kind recently?
I don’t know. I have been witness to a disturbing incident but would ponder over it for a long time to come before I would term it ‘from outside the world’ or otherwise.
A young neighbour’s wife eight months knocked up has been trying to run away from home at odd times – in the middle of the night, in the dead of the afternoon and so on. Her husband and her father in law tried to restrain her but she objected with such frenzy that according to me, an average human is incapable of. She pulled herself and her two supporters down the set of stairs screaming her lungs out, flailing her arms, kicking her feet back and forth, hitting her engorged tummy with her hands and banging herself on the walls. She managed to get her mouth bleeding somehow- whether she bit herself or if it was the result of some impact on the walls, is still unknown.
Somehow she was pinned down on the floor in the middle of the staircase. ‘Holy water’ from a durgah was brought (they had a stock of it at home) and poured into her mouth and sprinkled over her head. The frenzy ceased. I put it off as rehydration, she was possibly thirsty from all the effort she had put into screaming. But her arms and feet were still alive and kicking, literally.
Incidentally, a family on the floor where this person now lay believe in the miraculous powers of the Son of God. They swiftly brought out the Hindi translation of the Holy Bible and placed it gently under the moaner’s head. Surprise, she was quiet but still moaned and muttered.
Considering that she was now fine, her relatives tried to pull her back to her feet but the power was back again. They let her lie there making way for people to pass by over her legs.
The head of the believing family meanwhile propounded the theory that this phenomenon was nothing but ‘hawa’. The ‘patient’ had recently got back from her native village and surely might have gone to a nearby water body where the ‘evil hawa’ had gotten into her. (It seems, it’s inadvisable for pregnant women to venture anywhere near water bodies even when remotely pregnant.) And according to him, the only way to field this hawa was to call ‘Uncle and Aunty’.
I wondered if this pair was Bunty & Bubli. Uncle and Aunty soon arrived. Uncle looked like a darker version of Alan Tudyk and Aunty looked like the caretaker of a rural church in Kerala. Everyone stood up in reverence of the holy couple. They themselves stood looking at the patient, probably trying to judge her symptoms. They let out a disclaimer that they have been doing this for the past 10-12 years and that they only pray for the interference of the Son into matters of evil activities.
Uncle and Aunty soon began to call upon their deities with such fervor that I couldn’t help but record a part of it. The patient who by had found some peace lying on a mat in the believer’s flat, suddenly found it impossible to lie in such noisy surroundings and sprang up. Everyone gasped. The evil spirit is trying to get out because of the power of the prayers! A few curses and spits later, the patient lay down again to be fed a little more of the water- this time from some other place.
She slept again, giving in to exhaustion (or exorcism as many others would like to believe). Now it was time to talk about why the Son of God was more powerful than the others and how he had miraculous powers. The others in the room were requested not to feel offended, for Aunty was talking from experience. They asked the patient to be brought to their place the next day, where a powerful pastor was coming to preach and assured that he would surely relieve the patient of all her qualms.
What brought relief to the half dozen people in the small flat was that the patient was now responding to whoever talked to her instead of the curdling swears and gibberish that she spewed earlier.
What is wrong with her? I don’t know. What I gather is that she is a patient suffering of severe depression and might also be delusional. She has attempted suicide a few times including one recently when her family found her on top of the building’s water tank considering a leap a 100 feet downwards. I also understand that things like this happen to people when being pregnant.
Why am I writing this? I seem to think this will help me get rid of the habit of re-enacting the violent scenes in my head. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know yet if prayers help achieve anything. I don’t know…
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