Friday, August 31, 2007

Hate them Cats

There was a cat.

Since I hate cats, I was pretty sure. Its funny how quickly, and with how much alertness, we tune into the presence of that which we hate. While those we love waste away, wating for our attention.

It's possible to ignore what you love so completely. Maybe I should just learn to love cats.

Trust my luck, it had to be an ugly, mangy, dog-eared Tom. They won't even throw me the cute ones. Spring them on me, like. And watch the hate dissolve. No chance.

As much chance of that as of a terrorist meeting a back thumping violence worshipper, who'd reinstate his basic faith in human wickedness, and therefore maybe return him to his family. No sir. A terrorist will only meet people who abhor violence.

I will only meet ugly cats.

Malevolent. Staring beady yellow eyes. Growls and arched backs. And sudden streakings which unnerve. No cute ball rolling at your feet, no dignified saunter across the lawn that may teach me to respect, if not like them.

No. The ones I encounter jump from the garden wall on to tables laden with food. Streak across window grills and brush horribly against legs as you sleep. They are big and dirty. And totally fierce looking.

So when I shifted my plastic chair next to the swimming pool and reached for my kebabs, I knew by the rustle from the bushes, that there was a cat.

And of all the evening drinkers and diners by the pool side, it would chose us. To prowl around.

One of us - certainly not me - chased it around the tiles of the pool. Unfortunately it didn't fall in. Beastly. Though, then again, a bedraggled wet yowling cat? Maybe not.

Naturally it returned. Nobody at our table noticed it, except me. I suspect it noticed nobody at our table, except me.

It was mutual then.

This hateful fascination. This fascinating hatred. How often, it turns out to be mutual. You'd almost think it was such amazing luck. Invariably who you hate, will hate you back.


Considering the abysmmal accuracy rate Love has in the same regard.

Unrequited hate. Now, wouldn't that be something?

Have a Bath

If you could bathe in songs,
What texture would Peter Gabriel be?

Something thick.
And smooth.

Sometimes slippery.

How would Ghalib feel against the skin?
A bit grainy perhaps?

If you could bathe in a song
Would Asha come with her own bubbles?

And how much lather
Would Bhupinder be?

If you could bathe, bathe, soak, sink, shower, mist, scald, singe, tingle, chill, sputter, drink, drown in a song

Who would your bathing partner be?