Sunday, May 14, 2006

dirty linen

Four months pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a hurry. Home. Again. The concept of eternal return. Nietzche smiles. "I told you so".

Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."

For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?

"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.

The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.

The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.

***

The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.

Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.

Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.

****

The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?

The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.

And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.

Exit stage left. Curtains fall.

9 comments:

i hang like a star; said...

you write so beautifully.

i have half a mind to take you to rangashankara and watch some good theatre.

just muttering said...

a hug ...a squeeze really tight!
your writing is really captivating

blindside the goldfish said...

"One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury..." oh it will.. and a good thig too i feel...art imitates life..at first...

Anonymous said...

is it possible to have two identical families in the world?

i could swear you spent your life as a fly on the wall of my house, just observing.

melon collie said...

starry, then, pray, what are you waiting for?
oh, i forget, exams.

disco, why thank you :)

just muttering, thanks , i appreciate it :)

goldfish, perhaps it will, who can say.
and nice to see you here!

natalie, ah well, i suppose it is possible.and me, a fly on the wall?
voyeur that i am, you shouldn't bet against it.

The Cat said...

Hmm.. why do I always comment in the end when Im the first one to read?
Oh well. Madness.
Youre the best writer in my world.

melon collie said...

thanks, aaki :)

ubergeek said...

That was written amazingly well. And hvng been there myself, I can empathize. Sometimes you wonder if that air of detachment is just for self-preservation

Sonia said...

you are me. only male. and a helluva better writer than i will ever be!

About Me

a recluse waiting for salvation