Monday, June 18, 2007

Red pudding

And as I wait here beneath the heavy roof carved out of a single rock supported by 24 pillars (as if it's a holy number!), you will think that a shade of serenity has been painted over my face. Don't be fooled because of my posture, I stand still only because I am made to. I can wait here for eternity and yet not make a move, but that is not going to happen, soon a green man with a white shining blade and a black and white beard would come near my neck and slit my throat open and you the 108 men with white clothes and saffron caps will exclaim and exhaust yourself. There are far less white hair on the beard than black. Some say this is worse than Halal, the others say this is better, in both cases I die so it doesn't make much of a difference.

In there, the blade is kept on my neck, the almighty himself comes down as a bloodthirsty vulture. He slides his tongues one by one in the differential opening of the throat, his 666 tongues acting as suction pumps inside the main 786 veins of the body. With each drop of blood which falls on the ground or vanishes inside his mouth, I die small amounts, big enough to kill me completely in the end. But here, it's novel. Since the 108 men are not allowed to kill me, the man with the beard takes the position. The 108 men are screaming, to the ugly female statue in front of them. They are all saying the same words, but it's beyond my comprehension. I feel dizzy, but I do not want to lose conscious, I do not want to miss the moment and the way Antoinette felt, or Lavoisier or the King Luis himself. Now you 108 have gathered around me in a circular shape, I at the center. The man with the beard looks at me through his beard and blade, a wicked grin on his face. He knows, this is what he's best at. "Blood, blood", they scream, "The red pudding" . And silence prevails in the void of my body for a moment.

This is where, I stop talking because I am already dead. The blood pours on the floor. You 108 are in a hurry now, "Collect it, don't let it go waste!". There are clammering sounds of steel and aluminium plates near my neck, but thankfully, the head has flown quiet a distance and I am saved of the noise of metal and the smell of sweat. I can feel my essence being poured onto the shallow plates, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, they are getting filled, it's unstoppable. You the 108 are getting filled at the same time, with anxiety, hunger and humble devotion to god, the purest feeling of them all. The plates are collected now, the flesh goes to the ladies camp, 108 men with their 216 wives. There shall be prepared the feast, the spicy mutton curry. Here, the 36 plates of raw blood are waiting for further processing.

Now is the time the coagulation cascade kicks in.



The cranberry juice like liquid in the 36 plates starts thickening because of the process shown above. The colour changes from fresh red to dull brownish red. The viscocity increases. Spices are added, "Don't add that much salt", "Give me jeera", "Where are the chillies?". And finally it is done. The plates are kept under the heavy roof where I was standing once. The job of the green man with the blade and the beard is done and he departs. You 108 now gather around once more, to offer the final holy procession to the ugly black lady statue. There are in total 7 different chants. You scream them one by one in maximal possible dissonance. Perhaps that is the only way the blood-sucking-kind-hearted almighty can hear your voice!

Now the cranberry juice has turned into jelly. "Perfect", you cry with joy. The plates are sent to the ladies camp too, 36 of them, the jelly is cut into isochoric pieces, 24 pieces. Each man gets 4, each woman gets 2. As you put the red pudding onto your tongues, it melts and becomes liquid again, just blood like. I feel as if this is a step backwards towards my reconstruction. But it is not. Now I am inside the throat, stomach, esophagus, tongues of you all, twice as much inside the men than the women. I feel like forming a continuum, inside you all, connecting you through your vigorous passion and humble devotion. I, through my weak jelly like fibrotein network, have been proven to be successful in connecting you more strongly than any force could have. The humble devotion of god.

13 comments:

Sumedh said...

you are good. ("thauk aahe", "i know", etc saarkhe faaltu replies deun maaj nako karus).

Roger Waters said...

It ain't as gory and hideous as I had mentioned it to be. I have read this in Anil Awchat I think. They call it the blood cake (raktachi vadi) but red pudding was much better a name. Still, it isn't as horrific as I wanted it to be.

Mandar Gadre said...

excellent !
not too gory, but has the right effect i think.

Anonymous said...

But why did you have to draw the pathway?

-ks

Roger Waters said...

I thought that was the coolest thing. Everybody who read it protested against it :-)

Anonymous said...

well, maybe...but the way it stands now,lone and dissected, it doesn't add or subtract anything in and out of your story in anyway.

-ks

Roger Waters said...

As long as it doesn't subtract it's okay!

Pritam said...

fundoo! :) That drawing in between is too cool :)

Roger Waters said...

Exactly, that was my point. I like its redundancy :-)

Anonymous said...

fundoo!!(too late to comment i guess)

-od

priyanka said...

is this the story u were talking about!! What all have you been reading you idiot? What has gone inside your nerdy head. I am depressed x-(

Rajeev said...

bapare mala nahi kalat asa kahi!!

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