# 5. The Resurrection, Part 2: Old Monk & Thumbs Up.
...is this what writers do? Shuffle the deck they were dealt, put on a cape, and tell us to pick a card, any card? What a scam. The whole thing's making my head spin. Makes me want to vomit.
Jeet’s Amstrad CPC 464 has been at the back of my cupboard for eight years. I gave his clothes to Sara’s old Nepali watchman years ago which was a mistake because now every time I go to her place, I have to see Biraj in Jeet’s old crap. Biraj, hunched over a kerosene stove in a ratty pink T-shirt: Don’t Walk, Boogie. Biraj walking the Mirchandani’s rat-sized dog in a faded orange T-shirt: So Many Women, So Little Time. Okay, it’s funny. Except when it’s not. Like when he wears the David Bowie T-shirt. That’s just sad.
But back to the computer. I finally found a little creep on Lamington Road (also unknown as Dr. Dadasaheb Bhadkamkar Marg) to help me ressurect the old fossil and extract its data onto a single CD. I put in a floppy disc labelled Financial Statement 15.03.81, in Jeet’s hand, and on the dark screen glowed this text, dot matrix:
He touched the oil spill on his pillow that was her hair. It felt like a coronary infarction. Open your eyes, Lila. He rolled over so the bed squeaked. He got up, and threw a toothbrush into a ceramic mug. He let the tap run and even used the hairdryer. Eventually, she moved, flung her long hair out of her face, and smiled at him. She was saying something, but all he could hear was the rabid dog in his ribcage. Good morning, Lila says. Shiv is counting backward from one hundred very slowly to remind himself to keep breathing when she looks at him in that way.
I don’t know what's worse, that Jeet’s attempt at a short story or novel or whatever he was writing, wasn’t fiction at all, or that he knew Malini would fuck him up in the end. That she went full Juliet all these years later, hanging herself from a ceiling fan, blue in the face, and shit in her pants was unexpected. Quite a dramatic exit. For Malini, anyway. I mean honestly, I should finish writing the saga of Shiv and Lila. Pick up where Jeet left off. The ending is way better than anything that Jeet could have anticipated in his sad little head. Speaking ill of dead, but is this what writers do? Shuffle the deck they were dealt, put on a cape, and tell us to pick a card, any card? What a scam. The whole thing's making my head spin. Makes me want to vomit. Makes me want to burn down the house. I need to get the hell out of here.
Thank you for reading Wit’s End! If you are enjoying this, you can read Part 1 of The Resurrection HERE!
We’re in my car. Sara has no car. Sara doesn’t have much, really. I have too much. Too much money, too much time, too many words in my vocabulary. Sara’s re-positioning the air-conditioning vents. They have to be angled in a way that if she places her hands on the dashboard, the draft hits her armpits. She cannot sit in my car without doing this. After this, she takes off her shoes, sits cross-legged, and adjusts her right knee so that it’s not in the way of the gearshift. Reaching under her seat, she pulls out my box of mixtapes and puts one in. It’s ToxicShock, a compilation we made for one of the early road trips. Sara turns up the volume and leans the seat way back. Jane says, I’m done with Sergio! He treats me like a raaagdoll. She hides, the television, says I don't owe him nothing….
At the traffic light something dark splatters and trickles down the glass on Sara’s side. She sips the iced Old Monk and Thumbs Up in my flask, rolls down the window, and spits back at the man sitting at the rear of the Mercedes next to us. Rum-drenched, the man stares at us speechless. By the time he opens his paan hole to say something, we’re gone. His driver gives chase but they can’t weave like my little blue and soon we are off the highway, branches scratching our sides, moon lighting our way. The black ribbon gives way to bright sand gives way to dark water. Walking towards the ocean at Gorai, small things glow below our feet. Above, three dots glint at us off Orion’s belt.
PART 3.
I first met Sara at The Suck (Our Lady of Perpetual Succour College for Women). She was late on the very first day and flew into the chapel. There was just one place empty between Sister Tracy and me, and before sitting down, Sara dropped her keys and a pen from her pocket disappeared under Sister Tracy’s habit to retrieve it all. This made Sister Tracy, who possibly hadn’t had that much physical contact in years, squeal like a piggy. When Sara emerged from under all that cloth, Sister Margaret, Head Honcho, stopped singing, gave Sara the Hell Eyes (which we were to get a lot of) for sixty seconds, and then resumed. Franey Mistry accompanied on the Piano, stiff-fingered, knees together, toes together. There is a green hill far awayyy, without a city wall, where the dear, dear Lord was crucified, who died to save us all. Plink-plink, plonk-plonk. It was all truly revolting. Sara looked at me, rolled her eyes, and played the violin on her wrist with a penknife for a bow. It was love at first sight.
© Tara Sahgal
The Resurrection - Part 3, the rest of, Coming Soon! You could read part 1 in the archives, here if you like. Please scroll down to the end of this post to leave a comment - I would love to hear from you.
Have you seen my wig around?: Jane Says, Jane’s Addiction, Nothing’s Shocking, 1988:
I think I'm a bit in love with Sara :-D