Black White Pearls

The ice and Scotch spin round in the glass in unison. The sound it makes as the ice hits the side of the glass echoes melodically through the room. Frances plays the black and white pearls without effort. Her father watches and scowls. He places the glass on the side table and continues reading his paper. It is gray outside.

“Stronger, child, stronger. Your playing lacks courage.” Marven remains a stoic, hardened single father. Similarly, his Frances remains his fragile, porcelain child, one that gives him great comfort coupled with seemingly unending frustration.

The music, Chopin no less, rumbles from the mighty Steinway. Marven knows that Frances puts others her age to shame at the piano, but that matters little. Frances continues to play stronger and stronger. The ambient temperature in the room begins, it seems, to rise. Suddenly, she stops. Cold.

“Father?”

“Yes, dearest.” He lowers his newspaper to look at her. She seems quite annoyed.

“Father, why do you always seem so perplexed and, at the same time, indifferent to the world?”

“Dear Lord, Frances. How old are you?”

“I am 11 years Father, complete and never to be seen again.” Frances mistakenly plays a single C-note.

“Well, my dear, I do not begin to understand where you come up with such perplexing questions, followed by such philosophical meanderings, but I shall owe it to the brightness that emanates from your dear, dear mother.”

Frances’ mother passed away some two years ago. It was quite sudden and it left both Frances and Marven hollow and lonely. Their mother remains a beacon of hope and energy for both of them. There is no stronger bond. But, the loss of her presence weighs heavily on them both, not yet extinguished by time’s endless march towards finality.

“Why, Father?”

Marven, caught seemingly without a word to offer back, simply smiles, looks at his daughter, and sighs. “Dearest, it is not I who am so perplexed and indifferent. No, it is the world.” He picks up his newspaper and keeps reading, the tiniest smile forming on his face. Frances shrugs, sticks her tongue out, and continues playing her Chopin.

The music comforts Marven. As Frances attempts to play Nocturne, Marven slowly closes his eyes, recalling the moment when his dearly departed wife informed him of their impending good fortune. It was a quiet night in Bristol, 1935. She danced around the room, holding up a bonnet in one hand and a football in the other, claiming the world as her very own oyster. That was thirteen years ago, and yet it beguiles him still. Dance, sweetheart, dance.

“Father? Father? I am not happy with this piece. I don’t think it suits this piano.”

Marven, anxiously awaiting the coming twilight, again puts down his evening newspaper. He looks directly through his daughter and out to the lawn past the confines of the parlor. Gray turns to black. “It doesn’t suit the piano? Is that what you just said?”

“Yes, Father, it doesn’t suit the piano. It appears to be giving me some fight. I don’t want to play it anymore.” Frances suddenly rises from her position at the piano and looks directly at Marven. “I’m done for the day, courage or no courage. I’m done.”

“Well, alright then, I guess you’re done.” Marven sits in disbelief at the immediate nature and burgeoning maturity. He is, simultaneously, forlorn and prouder than any father in the land. Had he missed something in these many years of commerce and appeasement to his many overseers? Had the momentary pursuit of life’s finer things drained him of this wonderful accord with his daughter, and in days past, with his precious wife? Had he been so foolish?

“Father?”

“Yes, love.”

“Why are the piano keys black and white, Father? Why are they not different colors, say blue, yellow, or tangerine? It seems so melancholy that they are simply black and white.” Frances walks over to the chaise and plops down upon it. She looks like a curious, but tired, cat. “I should think, Father, that if the colors were different, my music too would be different. My music would radiate, but do so effortlessly.”

“My, Frances, you have grown up quite quickly. The world is not always, my child, as we would have it be if we were the designer and the engineer. I guess this is the way I look at it, my young butterfly. Black is the essence of nothing and white contains all the colors of the rainbow. There is order in having only the two. It is up to you to know when and what to play to mold them into something more than just, as you say, melancholy black and white.”

Frances looks at her father. She struggles with what to say. She knows he has to be right. Mum told her that Father was almost always right, unless he were talking with Mum. “Then, Father, gray can’t be so bad, right?”

“No dearest, gray can’t be so bad.”

Marven takes a sip of his Scotch. Frances plays and plays. He again closes his eyes and witnesses one last dance, all in black and white.

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Mumbai Dusk

“The Captain asks that you please fasten your seat belts as there is turbulence in the area. We will be landing soon. Thank you.” The female flight attendant’s voice rings out over the travelers, perky and bright.

All the amateur travelers hurriedly snap their lap belts in place as others tug theirs tighter. I have become accustomed to keeping my belt fastened, in place, throughout the duration of a transoceanic flight. The Atlantic is an unforgiving ocean. Even at nearly seven miles above sea level, she keeps her careful watch over you, plays with you, and even tickles your body and soul. No one is laughing, I assure you.

“Are you awake, Raj?” asks my lithe, slightly drunk travel acquaintance, Ansha, as she awakes gracefully from her slumber.

I never sleep on planes. There’s something about defying the laws of physics that keeps me mesmerized for hours on end. The anticipation of reaching my destination also has much to do with it. Perhaps, my friends would suggest, it is my nervous energy.

“Yes, I am awake. I see that you’ve been sleeping comfortably for some time.”

Ansha, whom I’ve only just met, is a consultant with an Indian IT concern. She cannot be more than twenty-eight. She holds two degrees - one in IT and one in business. She is single, but that makes no difference to me. She also likes German Riesling, which can be had, again and again, here in Star Class. I’m a red wine aficionado. She will make some bastard very happy one day.

“Raj, I do not understand you. I am a single, some say beautiful, woman and yet you have only spoken to me about the collapse of modern capitalism, the fact that businessmen suffer from irritable bowel syndrome of the mouth, and have only, in passing, stared at me.” Ansha exudes a level of discomfort that her prized beauty had only somewhat been exhumed.

I look at her without emotion, as I am prone to do, and the plane rocks violently. She grabs my arm, and pulls herself close. Without a glimmer of hope, and after the tremolo ceases, I release her. It is interesting how the inside of an airplane can provide catalysts for emotional and sexual tension. Ansha turns away from me and beckons for the shore below. She is clearly not very happy.

“The Captain indicates that we are making our initial approach. Again, please fasten your seat belts. Your stewards in the sky will be making their final passes, collecting cups and glasses. Once this is done, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position.” Poetry in the sky. I like that.

I look over Ansha’s shoulder, seeking some sign that we are indeed close to landing. She looks at me, briefly, as if to say, “fuck off.” I deserve that. Still, there is no ownership up here, and I continue my wanting gaze out of the window. Like small, rough-cut jewels, the lanterns of small fishing vessels shimmer on the water. As we made our way across the Arabian sea, I had seen many different lights on the ocean’s surface. None more important than the next, all keeping a man’s labor steady, directed, and productive.

We make a gentle left turn. The turbulence ceases. The statuesque stewards of the sky amble through the cabin, collecting our cups and such. All very ordinary, all very important. I can feel the plane sinking ever so gently through the clear night sky, with nothing but faith below us.

“Why? Why did you not say anything?” Ansha finally asks.

With the Gujarat coastline to our left, I wonder what type of life Ansha must have had to feel so betrayed by a total stranger. Not in a million sky miles can I make it up to her. There is no amount of love that can erase one’s past hollowness and I can say nothing to rid the pain today, though I am willing to give it a try.

“Why?” she asks again, this time with tears, like a strand of broken diamonds, streaming down her face. I gently wipe her tears away. I do so without passion, but with a desire to help ease her pain, superficial or otherwise.

“Ansha, you truly are a lovely lady. There is no room in my life for this right now. I know no love, no hate, and no emotion beyond what I do for my company. I’m sorry.”

She looks relieved. The whir of the flaps signals the pending arrival. Mumbai hangs in the distance, with the glow of the sun cascading over it. Right now, the sun is a bright orange rind, leaving the mighty subcontinent behind. Ansha dries her tears and kisses me lightly on the cheek. Now, she is the winner and I the loser. More flaps, followed by a new set of lights above us. And then darkness pervades as the landing preparation is complete. We can hear the gear engage and see the ocean below us, dark and murky in the morning wake.

“So, where do you go once we land?” Ansha asks. The winner is now composed and ready to do battle with her bharatiya colleagues. Body armor engineered with a Donna Karan suit, Prada shoes, and, organic vegan lipstick mask a treasure not meant for mine eyes. Definitely not the typical desi lady.

“Home, I go home.”

***

“Welcome to Mumbai. The time is now 20:10 IST. Please set your watches forward to Indian Standard Time. Our Captain and his entire crew welcome you to the jewel of Asia and hope that your stay is a pleasant one, whether it is here or at your final destination. Sukriya.” Final destination? Do we ever reach our final destination?

The outside vents are now open, letting in that world renowned Mumbai musk. It immediately attaches itself to me, like a think blanket made of years of neglect, shame, and fear. It is now gingerly laced with the smell of hard currency, the scent of a successful middle class, and the air of a motion picture mecca.

I find this aroma in many places in my travels, but those cannot rival this original. Life and death hang in this humid, gray veil of India. Lives lived and lives yet to come, be it now or forever, swirl in my mind. I am now in its midst, sheltered but yet fragile. One final ding and Ansha stands up. What a fool am I? Oh well, you win some and you lose some.

Before standing, I gaze out of the airplane’s starboard side and see the sun plunging into the horizon. The bright orange rind has turned into the flesh of a newly cut grapefruit - pink, hazy, and, I’m sure, a bit sour - filtered by Mumbai’s smoke. Regardless, before me, welcoming me home, was the one thing I will never miss - a newly minted Mumbai dusk.

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi