Bewildering Stories


Nameless in a Faceless City

by Prakash Kona

Table of Contents
Part 3 appeared
in issue 150.

[Withdrawn at the author’s request]


part 4 of 6

Bombay is a city without past. It is a city on its feet. There is no time for recollection. Fragments remain as fragments. The narrator is a realist even as he deconstructs the city. The city was deconstructed the day it was given by the Portuguese as dowry to the English. The deconstruction took place in the bedroom of Charles II and Catherine of Braganza. That is a historical detail worth noting.

The narrator pursues a detail merely because it is not worth pursuing. He imagines a past since the past is dead. In sickness I dissociated body from mind. I left the mind to stand and watch my stupid body groaning with pain. My body was a character in a drama. My mind was the stage manager standing beside the curtains and watching the play. The objective narrator knows that nothing matters. Objectivity is becoming. Rain is the becoming of dark clouds. The city is the becoming of an idea.

My orgasms are purely heterosexual. They emanate when I watch the horizon dive into sea. The gap between horizon and sea is the abyss of becoming. In that abyss are eternities of beings. Death makes me poetic.

The city is an organized essay. I am not a poet. I am an essayist. Poetry is grossly inadequate because it consumes meanings at the expense of words. Words are pregnant and no one knows the father of the child. Moments of madness are permissible. The narrator subsumed the night of his soul to the intelligence of the sun. In the resplendence of an unmotivated cause that knew all other causes the truth is objectively measured.

Objectivity is a matter of truth and not words. The truth of orgasm transcends words. It is death. The narrator of orgasms rejects the murderous imprecision of words. One moment of extraordinary spontaneity. I define that as an orgasm. Poetry is a slave of the orgasm. The narration appropriates the poetic function in an attempt to produce novelty.

Bombay is a piece of fiction made of glass. Stones cannot break it because glass is invisible. Death makes me aware of the unreality of my bones. With women I loved I spoke of things as empty dreams and the need to experience things before they passed away. The girl I gave my heart to — her breasts were cute as sparrows. I was afraid they would fly away if I placed my face too close to them. I waited for the orgasm with the intensity of a hungry lion that waits for its prey. Orgasms deceive you the moment they come. They almost do not exist in the moment that you think you have them. Can life be imagined without the orgasm?

The city was born once men realized that economies revolve around the production of orgasms. This new economy with stock markets and corporations capitalized on the orgasm as the industry that connects with life. Men in search of an orgasm made the city possible. The Portuguese knew that Charles II would not be able to have his orgasms unless Bombay was given as dowry. I imagine Catherine of Braganza as a remarkably asexual romantic woman with thoughts of afterlife glowing in her heart. Bombay made the orgasm possible for Charles II. That’s when Bombay confirmed its status as a city.

In 1668 Bombay was given to the English East India Company. They traded in orgasm-producing spices. The palate had to be invigorated for lovemaking after food. Spiced tongues gave a dimension to sex and sexuality.

Around 1708 Bombay was the center of British authority in India. Colonialism is a discourse of orgasms. Bombay as a city proved to be immensely useful for the production of orgasms. Commerce and culture are siblings of one human family. Death is married to the orgasm. Culture is post-orgasm.

As a boy I burnt my middle finger in order to overcome thoughts of heat. In a vague manner I understood the justice of colonialism. They were men in the rage of heat. They were bored with wives who were products of a system they created. I felt the need to conquer when deprived of light. The need to see and come at the same time that I saw. The orgasm was the concept of life that gave meaning to reality of living. The attempt to be objective is absurd where the orgasm is not in view.

The sentence is in the heat of an orgasmic wave. Latinity is an aesthetic configuration of letters. It implies a latent respect for tradition. I was a Latinate to the extent that I respected the past. I recognize the past that takes away the possibility of a past. Bombay has no past because it is a city that thrives on the experience of orgasm. The orgasm has neither past nor future. It only has a present that is not a present. A timeless city never grows old because it was never a child. It was always young. It has drunk waters from the fountain of eternal youth. The youthfulness of the city keeps me young and going.

My voice is alive. I have the strength to fight psychological battles for years without end. I fought the battle of scars. For every scar I made another. My body is scarred with infinite lines from battles fought without swords. My body aches in sunlight. My memories of orgasms are memories of pastlessness.

Intimate love cannot be spoken. Bugs battle one another on the issue of bugging. Women that gave me their hearts did not give their bodies. I gave them my body without letting them into my heart. Symbols are attached. The sink in the kitchen is not the same as the one in bathroom. You don’t brush your teeth in the kitchen.

Bombay is a metaphysical city because it is constructed on the emptiness of an orgasm. That was a speculation. A man in an unhappy marriage is my life in this city. The frontiers keep expanding but every door that opens a new frontier looks the same. The outcome is the same as I am. The compulsive need to defecate comes from my craving for an orgasm. I want to leave silently like the day that never meets night but goes away with the fall of light. I cry when I cannot come anymore. I don’t see light. I leave the emptiness of my life to be filled by shadows of night.

The emptiness might give meaning to shadows that I chased all my life. They danced with a beat that caught the attention of the listener. My emptiness made them real. I listened to footsteps echoing in the wind. They were dying. Myriad evenings under the gaze of merciless suns. Heat syncopates vulnerable bodies. Syncopated.

This city is made of ghosts of shadows. I was ghostlier than others. If the word happiness was a bowl it was brimming with essence of the word. In the ghostly happiness of a man who got drunk with dew falling from heaven I described the life and times of an orgasmic narrator before death could make me forget. Was it death or another orgasm that left the mouth bleeding before the fall?

My body was a bag of cement falling on another bag of cement. I was a snake in the garden of eternity. Before that I was a pipe in the mouth of a thoughtful gentleman who felt the thousand splintered sentences in a narration of orgasms. I am caught between wanting an orgasm and not wanting to want an orgasm. Intimate love is an illusion of the intimate. Words are made of bells. Cities are made of noise. I must abstract Bombay because I cannot bear the thought that words are secondary to meanings.

Words permeate local contexts. The mouth evolved to serve the inner need of language and not as an instrument to gorge food. Passing time mourns for me. I mourn for nothing. When the world needs me I am a dog. When I need the world I am a beggar. The sinister ape was found fucking a watermelon. He sprouted from the seed of a watermelon. I am his other. Buttocks in the shapes of watermelons catch my attention. Breasts with the juiciness of watermelons make me go dry. Watermelons are emblems of orgasms. If a watermelon fell on my head the most likely possibility is that it would break into two pieces. I would not die for certain. The breaking of the watermelon would spur me into wild orgasms.

I am not the other of the sinister ape. I am the sinister ape. I lied to give the narration a glimmer of happiness. I could beat the summer of barren love with a few watermelons. I left because of an emptiness. I came back to fulfill another emptiness. Absence made all possibilities real as life. I was a hunter of orgasms because I could never wait. The energy with which I took the prey was a proof of my tenacity. Tenaciously I picked watermelons and took them to my bedroom. It was a bedroom of watermelons. In the red glare of the setting sun the city had shades of a watermelon.

A man’s face must be rough as pine needles. That’s how he becomes a man. He penetrates the watermelon with his head. A clean head is important. Does the man die? He only has orgasms. A miniscule part of the meaning of an orgasm is touched in the narration.

Bombay is a compendium of faces. They don’t interest me. I am interested in the contortions that one face experiences when it hits against the wall of an orgasm. I sat to reflect on the nature of one city. Does the prisoner forget the prison or the child the womb? Freedom means little to them. I am a prisoner of an orgasm in this city where I choose to live my life. A city abounding in ill-concealed dark ironies. The orgasm is not one of them. Neither is the narration.

The narrator is dark and hardly ironic. I find him comic. His life is the quest for narration . His times are all about an orgasm in a city. Sometimes the city is equated with the orgasm. Did I pursue a shadow when my body looked for the body of love in the love of a body? I am not obliged to a world that never obliged me. I wrote stories of hysterical fantasies with mad women waiting in shadows to pounce on men who curiously waited in light to be pounced upon. Stoking the fires of premeditated lust was my second nature.

My delicate attachment to power came from autumnal leaves that altered the color of sun. The smell of sun in Bombay makes the narrator puke with mercenary satisfaction. The flustered sun dispels white waves on the face of the narrator. The narrator walks through the present. Wandering eyes look nowhere. Heat liberates the body from incessant prodding of the soul. Heat cuts through iciness of heat.

Networking the society through contacts is the job of the narrator. I met a contact with a white blouse. My hands will be all over the place. The body of the other does not accommodate my hands. The moment my hands get close the body is invisible. I declare a war on this body. My hands are part of a system. The system declares a war on the body of the other. I don’t know her name. She wears a white blouse. If it was any other color I’m not emphasizing the tone of the color. I heard the dark strike a note of reminder in my bones. Death will come to me when I am thinking of a woman with a blouse. My eyes never close when I make love. I investigate the body of the other. The only slavery that I understand is that of a man to the body of a woman. It was slavery natural to my soul. Blankly I went into blankness.


To be continued...
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Copyright © 2005 by Prakash Kona

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