August 7, 2014 Comments Off on Between Here and West of Nede By Ahimaaz Rajesh
Skint as a stray dog perched on a leafless tree, Rubin was making himself a body without organs. You ask him why he was making that and he will act puzzled and say ‘Making what?’ Tell him you know, as well as he, exactly what you’re talking about and he will say ‘Making tea’ and then say ‘Making a gear’ and finally before he shuts up for hours, say something like ‘Would a machine know?’
West of Nede, parallel to it, in the best of all plausible worlds, Rubin was unmaking himself. There was no one to tell him if he was doing it the wrong way, he wasn’t doing it right. With a certain stroke of dexterity, he intersected his uppers and opened the bust. Absence of blood did not necessitate electrocautery. Save for organs of the head, they were isolated. Hands gathered heart and lungs and sewed them up. Likewise it was for liver, kidneys, intestine, and testes. Hands put them back together en masse and closed the bust and the waist.
In a non-drug-induced trip, being an egg of intensities, he went cataplectic and ceased to exist. Absence of god did not necessitate deus ex machina. On the other side, in one piece he stayed, albeit a bit emaciated. All he’d need to do, if he wanted to, was let out of his cage there a duplicate of himself and unmake that self all over again this side of the world.
The day after, he had an interview. Now, he felt hunger on him. Chest aching, throat choking, head spinning, he contemplated on the benevolence of what was between his thumb, index, and middle fingers before he very patiently, consciously, chewed on the crumb. He then sipped, again very consciously, on the sugarless, insipid-to-bitter tea.
© 2014 Ahimaaz Rajesh
Published lately in places such as Spork Press, theNewerYork, and Apparent Magnitude, Ahimaaz Rajesh has his writing upcoming in H_NGM_N and nether. He was, but is not on Facebook, is on Twitter and Goodreads, places where he’s as good as not there. Currently based in India, previously he was based in India as well, and while it’s uncertain he’s barcoded, he is certainly pincoded (like for instance 6 8 1 ), and blogs at http://minimalust.wordpress.com
March 25, 2013 Comments Off on To Dust A Man Off by Ahimaaz Rajesh
He remained where he was left — the chair in the drawing room — and now, there he’s been well past two weeks. He’d get up and go every now and then to take dump and to pee. That was it; otherwise, he remained where he was left. She’d bring him food from time to time, and snacks & tea. That was pretty much it.
“You don’t feel the need to come fetch him?” she once asked a friend on the phone. Her friend, she comes to visit now and then, and every time when she leaves — or most of the time — she leaves something she brings along behind. It could be a feather hat, it could be an empty wallet, or it could be a pearl stud —just something she’d leave behind, taking with her the left behind.
‘I don’t really know,’ the friend answered, failing at her reminiscing, sounding reasonably honest. Every time — or most of the time — when the friend would come back the following week, she’d find what she’d left behind right in the same spot she’d left it, and it would — most often — be clean, dusted. You know how swiftly the dust settles on any and all things, especially in cities.
‘This thing, it gathers dust awful swift,’ said the moving man from Dusters & Movers. It would be prudent, she’d thought then, to have him moved back to where he belonged. She’d be leaving home for a while, and this thing isn’t like other things. You know how a ball or a book, when left in one place for too long, never gives you a look when you return home. This thing isn’t like those things, not at all like them. It looks at you, like there’s something terribly wrong with you.
‘I would’ve dusted it myself were it a pen or a notebook,’ replied the woman just so the moving man wouldn’t feel the brunt of the task at hand. For the mover man, though, nothing about the situation seemed strange or in any way unique.
She smiled and thanked the moving man in earnest, and then he was gone, the wheeled casket-basket fastened to that chariot called truck. The thing inside of it, dusted and wrapped, was to be paid for by the recipient.
© 2012 Ahimaaz Rajesh
Ahimaaz Rajesh lives in India, works for bread, writes to breathe. Visit him at his blog: minimalust.wordpress.com