The Confessions of a Quinquagenarian

"Dont worry pumpkin. Apply for divorce. You deserve better. I am there for you always. I will take care of you."

I might be assuming here. But this is an underlining thought in quite a few men like me. It is never a question of whether I can provide for her. Of course, I can.

Being a 59 years old does not necessarily mean I can't have my wishes and desires to long for, in my life.

She is my only child. And these traditions have made me marry her off early to a puny little coward and separated my dear one away from me.

When she was five years old, my hands would spontaneously cover the table's sharp and wicked edge to avoid her head getting hurt. There is a part of my soul that lives for my daughter. Always. It is with so much affection that I brought up my girl child.

Anyone advicing me would have told me to make mends in the small fight my daughter had with her husband and to urge her to continue the life. But I might be selfish here to encourage her to take the divorce and come back to live with me. For no one, even her husband, would take good care of my daughter like I would.

It is not a big fight that she had with her husband. But I could not control my cunning self-centred urge to use this chance to separate her from her husband. This would mean she could live with me forever along with my grand children.

No matter what you might think of me. I am still a hero to my daughter. She would still hug me with love and warmth murmuring how I am the greatest dad in the world. You might think I am selfish, crooked or sadist but she would still attribute all these to how much I love her.

While I sit at this rusted steel bench in the busy yet lonely park and run all these through my mind, I have to remind you that there are quite a few fathers who belong to my breed. I might have company in many fathers of daughters. Some express it like me even if what we wish for doesn't happen. And some others might bury the thought deep inside, labelling it the devil. Others don't have to understand.

And anyway it is difficult to explain my last thirty years of life to you, who is ready to judge me in less than thirty minutes of conversation. By the way, I forgot to mention who you are: you are the seasoned side of my already wringled brain.

After all, I just chose to break the taboo and to vent out.

Vishy
29 Mar 2017.

See Five Sicily.

Act One:
In the theoretical Winter of 1989 at Madurai, Vel remembered vividly the nine-year-old-mediocre-self learning the game of chess. The regular knowing of another game. It was a mere coincidence, he learnt it. There wasn't much to it apart from saying 'I know to play chess'.

At the same time, in another unassuming town Rajapalayam, 85km Southwest of Madurai,  Sri was completing his school and preparing to enter college to study Physical Education. Perceived as another arguably ordinary major in college. When he went to the college, he didn't know that he and his field of study is going to changes lives. Many lives. Forever.

Four years later, the magician Sri joined the school as Physical Education teacher in which Vel was studying eighth standard. Sri believed in Vel equally like many of his other students and nurtured the chess skills of Vel. Later he would go on to inspire the whole school to play it. It had become a little movement among schools and talking point among many parents in the town and popular in the district.

Act Two:
1.e4 c5. On that sunny afternoon, Vel replied the opponent with Sicilian defence in the hut classroom of the school where the district chess competition was being held. Everyone including Vel himself knew that he was a substandard player paired against a reputed one. At the end of the middle game, Vel placed a knight fork for the two 'reputed' white rooks. Such a move was considered half won during those times showing such dominance on the opponent. The advantageous exchange-up was soon nullified to losing the pawns.

If that was a fork, in the next game, Vel was paired against the top seed and was chasing the top seed's king to take his Bishop to enforce a stalemate. It was indeed a thorough spectacular series of moves.

Hours later. After the games, Vel came out crying. He had lost both the games. Sri took him to the petty shop and bought him a chilled locally made Cola, paying from his thin wallet and consoled him.

Act Three:
Since then. Even after many years, Vel never knew why he cried, which was mistaken for losing. But it was just that he found himself. He never thought that he could do something like that until that day.

Be it finding himself, or be it the inspiration called Sri, or be it the Cola, Vel's life changed forever. He was even offered his college admission for his average chess skills. It was one of the many lives which was changed by Sri.

It all started with the Sicilian defence.
c5.

Vishy
6 Mar 2017.
dreamvis.blogspot.com

Folded and Untold

Today, I was picked up for a change after a long time. I felt the touch of your skin. That sensuous touch. Felt a little melancholic to be remembered after a long time.

It is surprising sometimes to be a victim of racism even though I am white. I have been around for ages and, been the true and only representation of what comes out of your mind. I have gone through abuse, crushed and thrown.

May be, I am replaced as much as possible. But I will never be extinct.

In the most intimate and difficult times, I have seen your blood and lipstick.

I am the Paper. And this is my monologue. I have carried several of your stories all through my life, and this is my story while I battle my depression.

Imagine this. Just before every award function, the anticipated notes with names to thank gets written on me and kept folded in the chest pocket. Only one wins the award and rest bites the dust as nominees. Four out of five times I never get opened. I remain folded and often end up abandoned.

Vishy
27 Feb 2017.
dreamvis.blogspot.com