The conversation is a tale

The conversation is a tale

I

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"There was not a photograph of truth
in the image you saw. My lips
were whispering over his cheeks like strangers.
His arm chained my waist with ties
I never desired. We came close only for a snapshot."
Her new testament was unfolding in my hands,
her neatly written letters composed to belie
what I had seen in a folder she forgot at my house.

II


(Freemont, Sukumar and Abhiruchi)

"See this photograph, for example. She loved me.
She had doubts, (who hasn't?) was afraid of failure.
I didn't imagine that after I entertained her from such closeness,
she wishes to walk out with a straight face clean slate. Bitch!"
He announced to a correspondent, who acted on my behalf,
though never revealing that the secrets were being shared with me.

III

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"I had to see him. He showed up at my door. What could I do?"
She pursed her lips, her nose twitched, and she frowned to affect
an apology from me for doubting her. He had flown across the continent
and stayed at her house for four nights. "He was a guest. He isn't half as bad
as you make him out to be. We went for para gliding one day, and the helicopter
ride the next day. I was late for dinner that day, as he lost his sense of direction,
and instead of reaching Princeton, we found ourselves about twenty miles from Atlantic City.
So I thought, might as well see the gambling houses. Don't give me that look,
I had fun, and that is what you want me to have. Don't you sweetie?"

"Thats not the point. He never gets lost. I have known him longer than you have.
He showed up this time, he will show up again. Why shouldn't he, if he knows
how much funnn.... he has when he is here." Fun was stretched mimicking her style.
"Now that he has got a well paying job, he is trying to win you over with his money."

"He didn't pay for anything we did on this trip. I did.
I told him that he can pay when I visit him."
We both were hushed into silence that instant by a lady in next row.
The sonata allegro of Beethoven's fifth symphony was about to begin.

As the cascades of music fell, my blisters fell soothed, though I was thinking:
"The woman who never paid a penny more than required, who never bought me a gift
except on my birthday, had spent all this money, on an undesired guest. Hmmm!"

IV


(Freemont, Sukumar and Abhiruchi)

"My trip was awesome. She was pleasantly surprised.
First evening, I took her to the Comedy Club in the Village in New York City
We went for para gliding next day, and helicopter ride, the day after.
Of course, I had made advanced bookings. I was giving it my best shot.
After the chopper ride, I pretended that we were lost
and took her to Atlantic city, ha ha, by mistake.
My gamble worked, my friend.
She cooked on the last evening. Four dishes, candlelight."
My correspondent relayed these words to me, and also told me
that a return visit was planned for a fortnight later.

I cursed Beethoven heartily, and went off to an uneasy sleep.
I had bought season tickets (for two) for the symphonies that year.


V

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"Arizona is so pretty,"she announced when I picked her from the Airport.
I was angry and yet I was driving her back. She chattered,
lively as always, choosing to ignore my grumpiness, telling me
of treks they both took, the dinners he bought for her.

"Lets stop for ice-cream on the way."

"I have to get back to lab, after dropping you off."
I was driving faster than usual.

Her chatter had died down

VI

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"Where have you been?" She asked me.

"I am graduating next month. I am leaving for Singapore soon after."

"Yes, I heard about that. It has been six months
since we sat down for even a coffee. If you can spare
a few minutes, give me a buzz. I'll like to see you."

"Sure," I said. "How about tomorrow?"

VII

(Princeton, Ravi and Vidhya)

"I always liked you," she said. "I don't know what went wrong.
Ever since I visited Phoenix, you changed. I guess I did too.
If I ever hurt you, I did not mean to."

"I just got busy. A man must do what he must do.
I have had plethora of tasks to finish for graduating,
and I chose to focus on them. Thats all."

"I know you never liked him much. Anyway, we separated last week.
The long distance thing wasn't working out." She lied.

My correspondent had fallen in love with him.
I had found it out a week back myself, when after months of silence
she announced it in her bombshell bulletin.
My correspondent was my confidante since childhood,
and I had been hers. "Didn't I tell you once that we women always fall
for men who are already taken? I'll spare you the details, but my friend,
your long cherished enemy has been ambushed and removed by me.
As always, I have come to your rescue." I did not find it funny,
and I did not feel any relief.

An Autumn and a Spring had passed in those six months.

Meanwhile, she honestly lied as she handed out the tea.
"Doesn't the distance make a heart go fonder?" I said, with a smile.
I, a cynic saw that she was willing be convinced about my unabated affection.
Only, things had gone too far this time, and I felt no emotion, but pity for her.
In fact, I was amused. "Distance is bad, bad, bad!" she said, with a pout.
An year ago, I lived and died at the first trace of it,
now it seemed too comical, too artificial. "Is it so?" I sung song
She nodded, in her affected style, pout still suggesting, that a hug,
and an awww.. from me, could cure it all. I faltered. I rose and I walked to her.
Her open arms rose, body followed, and on my cue,
I gave her a peck on the forehead, and then pushing her gently away,
managed to say, "Thats why my dearest,
I am putting an ocean between us."


August 2005 & April 2007

Love packed in green duffel bag

When I left town, I packed your memoirs in a green duffel bag,
I intended to trash.
'Just do it' the bag said, and I agreed.

That was four years ago.
Your son wasn't born yet, though his father
had arrived to dazzle you with his French accent
and ability to concoct desserts
unknown to mankind.

My afterthoughts have determined that my case was lost
even before I first talked to you,
but by blaming him, my passions can slurp
my bitterness with relish.

Reminders loomed every month,
as dates associated with your birthday,
engagement, his birthday, your son's birthday,
your wedding date, anniversary of our first rendezvous,
our first kiss, that night of Kama, of passion,
our last meeting that had passed without an event,
and of details, that every holiday, every festival
had admitted in your name,
as dates, with their fangs and forks,
raked the dying embers of my lost cause.

I have a confession to make.
I am opening the bag today,
not because I wish to relive my memories.
My pursuit is unholy one,
for in those relics, I wish to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

So many words and feelings,
that sound cliched or my own,
have surfaced from her lips.
So many words, once my own,
seem to have so little effect.

A human heart stands like a mountain unfazed-
unfazed by whispering winds and wailing rain.
You were once a mountain, which I am now.
I am opening the bag today, to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

First cut, uncut. (A Short Story)

I felt like a car backing out of a driveway. I rather felt like a car that was parked in the garage of a stranger, had overstayed there and was making its escape. Her nails had clawed multi-laned freeways in my back, my teeth had plowed fresh pink wounds on her pale yellow Chinese flesh, and yet as I backed out like a car, my only though was to accelerate away. I felt like my ancestors, the notorious Japanese assaulters who had raided Mainland China and left as many corpses behind as their abacus counters could visualize.

Our escape from the Far East, from the tyranny of Japanese customs for me and from the Communist China for her had thrown us into the misty city of Amsterdam. We both had met just two months back, when she joined as waitress in the same Asian establishment that I worked for. Our Korean boss hated us both, her because his first wife who cheated on him was Chinese, and me because my grandfather's generation had bred more bastards in his country than his generation could in a lifetime. He was a bastard himself.

Xialong was a carrom-board breast; I, Hiroshi was a dwarf centerpiece in this city full of Redlight district display bodies. I am not certain what drew us together, maybe it was the sushi odor in her kisses that always made me hungry for her, maybe it was the soya sauce stains on my shirts that resonated with her memories of Nanjing. Our meeting or union was, as if, coming together of two exiles, two rejects, and of course, a limping horse and a blind mare can take the carriage only so far.

I pulled out, exhausted by the realization that I had ventured beyond the shutters that opened only for the privileged. "I wish to hold you so tight that you crumple like a paper," she said, while I made my retreat, as if on the percussion of my pounding heart.

"Seong Lee will kill me if I don't get there in six minutes," I said, waving my hand as I scurried away. Outside, the fog fell in thick plumes, while smoke from my lips dissipated like my thoughts about her.

Xialong wasn't expected till four. Right from the moment I got there, right from eight in the morning, I cursed the hackneyed slowness of the clock. I nibbled my finger flesh in joyous perplexity, from a spring of kissing blossoms, I had traveled to the monsoon shower of fleshy mangoes. Smiles flared on my lips, and in my eyes at every memory of my dark delights. "Hiroshi, don't work too hard today, for the evening may not arrive in peace," she had said in a cryptic sentence that made only half-sense to me. Her straight hair, lips that pursed every time she drifted into her fancies, the palms that were crisscrossed like canals on the map of Amsterdam, her voice that I had always thought of as funny and scratchy, all seemed as pleasant as was her nibble on my ear and breath was on my neck. Xialong did not come at four.

Xialong did not come at five, did not come at six, or seven or eight or nine or ten. My smiles scuttled away, Seong mouthed more curses than I could allow for my girlfriend. I figured that she would be introduced my girlfriend from that day, and I had responsibilities lined up for me. I was ready to break his jaws but for Hannah who cajoled my anger away. I wiped the dishes with all the temper, and cleaned the floor with more ease than I could use to sweep away my doubts regarding the absence of Xialong.

I reached her house at eleven. A bullet through her forehead was as fresh as my memory of her morning kisses. Cops came. I was arrested. Two days later a letter was found at Seong's restaurant. It read as follows:

Hiroshi,

Like a filament in a bulb, that appears brightest before like flickers and fades away, I wanted to kill myself, but only after tasting the glamor fruit of Eve's sin. My dearest friend, you supplied me with the joy that I wished to be mine before I bid goodbye to this dead world. I had deduced that my efforts to survive in Amsterdam were no different from my struggles in China. I was the undisclosed daughter of a family, who had a declared son, as their only allowed offspring.

I was a shadow being, who was declared dead at birth and raised like a parrot in a pigeon coop, a parrot who must act and behave as if it was a stuffed toy. I mean I did not exist for the world, and I lived with my family as a secret, safe as long as I wasn't found out. I had escaped in earnest, hitchhiked my way into Tibet and then Nepal, and was smuggled into Amsterdam with the contingent of Hashish by a Maoist woman, packed into sacks of that were supposed to be carrying Tea, with hidden Hashish and instead supplied me. A letter that she had given to me, provided me my first few days of residence and food, and you know my story after the time I started working, which was when I met you.

The gang who had smuggled me into Holland, now wants me to work with them. In two months, I have repulsed their attempts with a failing strength. My passport is fake, and they have announced that they will turn me in if I don't cooperate. Life holds no pleasure for me besides you. But you are too precious to be risked, and my friend, I say goodbye, wishing you well.

Let your optimism keep you afloat in tempests of all kind. My ship has designed to sink, and so it must. Remember me sometimes, and remember me well.

Love
Xialong

Seong carried this letter to the Police Station. When I came out he shook hands with me. He sounded as corrosive as always, but he made me a sign to follow him, and took me into a pub, and bought some whiskey for me. I gulped my bitterness while he asked to me in all seriousness. "Son, did you, or did you not, kill her?"

"What? Of course, No!" I was flabbergasted. "How can you ask me that question? You have seen her letter."

He lowered his voice, as he touched my hand, and said in a whisper, "Soon after you were arrested, I got a phone call from the Police Station, asking me if you were at work that day. I said you were. Then I was asked to appear at the police station the next day."

He drank his vodka glass neat, and continued, "When I went there the next day, the cops had found the revolver used for the killing, and there were no fingerprints in on the revolver. Since you were found on the spot, they had arrested you on suspicion first. There was no alibi for you, for you had left my shop precisely twenty minutes before the gunshot, and it usually takes only ten minutes to get to her house. They told me that they found your fingerprints at various places in her house, and everything pointed to the fact that you had killed her.

I told them that you had left my shop in temper, and that the reason for your anger was my complaining and cursing about Xialong's absence. Somehow it did not make sense to me that you will kill her after the tantrum you threw at the shop that day. The cops argued that maybe you over-dramatized things as it was a premeditated murder. All in all, I figured that you would be implicated for her murder. I had noticed how you both exchanged glances at work. Since I suspected you to be too much in love with Xialong to kill her, I sat down and concocted that suicide note and its story myself. I took care to post it from a post-box close to her house. It took a day for the post to arrive, and here you are, out in two days."

"Mother of hen!! If it wasn't a suicide, who killed her?"

He hushed me, and asked me to watch what I said. I understood.

For a few months, I was as morose as a car, dumped into a used car showroom, parked in a corner, unused and unclean. My attempts to find what really happened were as unsuccessful as Dr. Watson's guesses, and there wasn't a Sherlock Holmes around to deduce what happened and who did it. Then one day you arrived, or Seong, like a shrewd salesman, led you to me, and within a few hours, I was fueled and full throttle again. Xialong, like a dent in a wrecked car, remained embedded in my being somewhere. So what do you say to this story of my past? My first cut, uncut.

I love women as blossoms love the spring

A sonnet written in response to some comments on Pillowtalk, where some bloggers thought the protagonist, who they confused with the poet's self, hates all women.

Many a muse, wise or ruse, with benevolence,
give me my ardor, my color, my fragrance.
And wouldn't I be just a stem or a tube
if I weren't I, by their cares pursued?

The young like morning, like dew decorate me
and the old, like evening shawls lovingly drape me.
I waltz in their gossips, till they go out of breath,
and bathe in their torrents of sorrow and wrath.

Each season they bloom fresh fancies as me
and praise their ideas, they represent as me,
calligraph with my limbs, Rangoliyan reverent,
and present me to friends, as trophies gallant.

I love the women as blossoms love the spring,
Ah! my lonely winters make them more charming?

The Hunchback of Notra-dame by Victor Hugo

Victor Hugo, the French poet and writer, who wished to change how novels were written and read, wrote The Hunchback of Notra-Dame in the beginning of his career. In contrast to Les Miserables, which is his more celebrated work, and was written several decades after the Notra-dame novel, the present piece is not only laced with more humor and romance but also stands out as a piece where the young poet in Hugo pours out a ravishing range of similes. Just for the pure magic of his metaphors and similes that make all his descriptions so poetic, so powerful Notra-Dame is worth reading.

The story itself reads like a fanciful movie, an ugly hunchback, Quasimodo is brought up by a Priest Frollo, the archdeacon of Notradame. The hunchback is hence attached like a dog to his master to him. The English title of Hunchback of Notra-dame is a misnomer, for the original is called Notra-dame de Paris, and English title lets us assume that it is the story of Hunchback as hero, while the original title asserts it is story set in Notradame and has charaters who reside in it, or live in its shadows. The Priest Calude Frollo, leaving his pursuit of science and philosophy meanders to a path of unrelenting lust for the gypsy dancer, Esmeralda. A writer, Pierre Grigorne, gets into a set of bizarre circumstances, where a token marriage attaches him to the gypsy. Phoebus, captain of King's Archers is the object of the affection of Esmeralda herself.

Besides these characters, there is a madwoman who lives in confinement, pining for her lost child, who was carried off by gypsies, and hates Esmeralda. There is the goat Djali, who performs tricks with Esmeralda, Jehan who is Claude Frollo's irreligious brother, King Louis IV - who interacts with Claude on issues of science, and the most important character, who lurks like an existence all though, is the Notra-Dame itself. The romances criss cross through a series of interesting episodes and drama, and that forms the crux of the story that I won't divulge here. Readers will benefit by discovering surprises and mystery for themselves, in process getting enchanted by a story that has been a popular read for centuries now.

What makes this novel a masterpiece, besides the poetic descriptions, is Hugo's description of the cathedral of Notra-dame and the city of Paris, and his discussion of how the arrival of printing press signaled an end to the importance as architecture as the expressive art of intellectuals. The views of the author expressed in these pages and pages of delightful reading provide the reader not only with historical and architectural prespective on the buildings in Paris, but also gives us a word image of buildings, roofs, rooms, carvings, modernism, and more. In his commentaries and comparisons between writing and printing as form of expression in contrast to architecture, Hugo unmasks a wide array of issues that arrival of every new media (TV, Cinema, Internet, Digital Photography) bring. How existing precepts and concepts are revised, how adaptations occur, how each age has its own expression through any of these means- and all Hugo says so passionately about architecture or literature allows us to feel the essence of why we make monuments of stones or words in the first place.

Victor Hugo had great skill in developing characters, and describing their lives over an extended period of time, capturing how situations and people led to certain choices, behavioral changes and thought process of each. His ability of doing this, in a very detached manner, where narrative is like a camera floating into a room, and staying long enough for a distant observer to watch and identify traits of every person present there, makes him a great novelist. The novel, like all classic reads, looks formidable in size, but can be read at a formidable pace, especially after the first half of the novel is over.

Besides the merits of the novelist, and the beauty of his wordplay, the story itself is a charming one, and has been brought to screen versions many times. Reading Hugo's two major works allows one to get the same keen insight into French society of the respective times, as does Thackeray and Dickens novels for England and Tolstoy in Russia. Reading any of these masters takes time, but trust me, it is worth the patience and the effort. Recommended highly.

Maila Anchal by Phanishwar Nath Renu (Review)

Renu's Maila Anchal is one of the finest novels ever written in Hindi. The landscape of Bihar, the caste divide, Indian independence and changes in its aftermath, Maithali folklores and poems and multiple love stories painted on a canvas with highly perceptive descriptions of village life make it one of the most important novels written in and about rural India.

The novel was first published in early 1950s, in the post Prem Chand era, at a time when young, independent India was trying to redefine its identity as a Nation. The novel is set in Bihar, and incorporates the regional contexts and references into its theme, making it into a perfect example of Anchalik Upanyaas (Regional Novel).

A short synopsis of the story reads as follows (I won't serve you the details or the surprises for I wish you will read the story and enjoy the unfurling of events): Tehsildaar babu, by the virtue of his position in local administration, has acquired large tracts of land, and turned into a Zamindaar (landlord) himself. His daughter Kamla suffers from some disease that results in fits. Doctor babu (Dagdar babu) has left his city-life to work in these hinterlands. This is the realm where Malaria, Kalazar and numerous such epidemics run havoc, where people trust tantriks and pandits (witches and priests) more than they trust Western medicine, where poverty itself is the biggest disease affecting people, and besides the lack of basic amenities, people lack education and faith in government as well as in the doctor himself. The character of Doctor Babu is based on the life-story of Dr Alakh Niranjan, who was alive (and 100 years old) in 2003. The doctor babu makes special effort to fight disease as well as lack of belief in medicine, he battles both the ailments and the superstitions of people around him. Kamla, who is one of his patients, perhaps the only rich patient, falls in love with him.

Lakshmi lives at a Matth (a kind of monastery), serves an old Mahanth (a priest) (they have a scandalous relationship, for the Mahanth is supposed to stay away from all pleasures). The Mahanth has a servant, who bears all the insults from his master, and eventhough he is of low birth, is admitted into the Matth, as he is adept at playing the Khanjira (a musical instrument). A freedom fighter, S (I forget his name), comes in contact with Lakshmi, and is attracted to her. After Mahanth's death, the servant assumes office with help of Lakshmi, and because of her scandalous position, several people's lust after her, till she gives up her position in Matth.

The novel describes a whole bunch of characters who get involved in caste-based politics. Apart from S, who is a strict Gandhian (and makes speeches in pure Hindi, that most villagers admire, but never understand), there is a dwarf, who has had correspondence with Mahatma Gandhi himself. After Mahatma's death, the dwarf wanes away like a candle, celebrated in the darkest hours, flickers away unnoticed, once the power supply is restored. The village hooligans are lured by the Communist party, and the hooligans care about neither social justice nor communism. The novel describes division s between different castes and groups, the divisions become harsher as politics promises power and money. If you wonder about the genesis and the consequences of caste-based politics, Maila Aanchal has a perfect script that will assist you in tracing its roots. Renu in a manner of great story tellers lets the events speak for themselves: the episodes in the novel shed light on how Gandhi was revered in even these remotest villages and how his death was mourned by most who had no inkling of what difference becoming "free" would to make to them. For them the simile of being like a free bird meant nothing, for they were like wingless birds who knew not what wonders a flight entails, what sceneries lie beyond the horizons. The events reveal how Gandhians and idealists lost hope and direction after Independent India thrust itself into games of corruption and caste-based politics. The events prescribe the socio-economic condition of the villagers, the unequal sharing of crops, the inherited hierarchy of caste and money, and the family values or lack thereof.

Be it gossip or folklores, songs of tribals or cures by the Doctor; be it drama (nautanki) enacted on stage or the Akhara fights (the wrestling matches); be it dresses and ornaments of womenfolk or the idealism and corruption of men; be it the bhajans (hymns) in Matth or the lust of men who sought Lakshmi; be it the harvesting season or description of monsoon rain; Renu presents a masterpiece where each description comes with a perspective and perception as keen and humane as of Tolstoy and Chekov, as astute as of Maugham and Lawrence, as rich in local flavor as no English novel written by any Indian has ever managed to be.

If Renu were an author in any other language, in other country or tongue, he would have managed to be read and celebrated a million times better than he is by us Hindi speaking Indians. He shares this fate with Prem Chand, Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Harivansh Rai Bachchan, Dharamveer Bharati, Ageya, Yash Pal, and Jaishankar Prasad, to name a few. His story Maare Gaye Gulfaam was made into a movie Teesri Kasam, though Maila Aanchal seemed to have been ignored by our Bollywood (they are most obsessed with copying Hollywood, and often ignore literature written in India).

If I were to suggest a series of books to any Indian about his country, I would, apart from epics of Ramayana and Mahabharata, go on and hand this list (Hindi/Urdu): Anand Math by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, Gora, Geetanjali and Ghaira Bhare by Rabindranath Tagore, Godan, Gaban and short stories by Prem Chand, Maila Anchal by Renu, Short Stories in Hindi by Yashpal, Ageya and Renu, Short Stories in Urdu by Manto, Panchatantra, everything by Kalidasa (Hindi versions are not too hard to find), and Gunaahon ka Devta by Dharamveer Bharati. (The titles missing from this list (except for English fiction and Sarat Chandra) are a measure of my own ignorance, and hence I'll be delighted to get any recommendations.)

Language flourishes when people speaking it celebrate its richness, honor its bards, recognize the need for its evolution and admire scholarship. Hindi as a language needs more authors like Renu. But more important than that is the reader who can savor the delights offered by our language. Maila Aanchal, apart from its numerous merits in being descriptive and its range and depth of narrative, is a celebration of spoken Hindi language, the khari boli. The language as we hear and live it is brought to the page by Renu. While he talks about social change, and issues closer at heart to reformists in undertones, he also springs at us a well written marvel of the language, freely indulging, romancing as if, with local words and variations, and at times, openly mocking the bookish Hindi, that is the bane of our classrooms, certain newspapers, and self-styled authors. By the emphasis placed on the use of highly Sanskritized, defunct words, and due to importance of English as language of knowledge and erudition, Hindi literature and language have suffered enormously. Perhaps those among you who read the Russian authors or even the classical British novelists, perhaps you will notice how our approach to Hindi (or our Indian languages) is similar to Russians or Brits had for their mother-tongues in comparison to French. Perhaps likewise, an array of brilliant writers, a free dose of nationalism inspired by a new Napolean, is what we need for our language to flourish as it must. While Renu waits for you to admire his contribution, I urge you to pick Maila Aanchal, and enter his world and characters from not so long ago, from our own land, our own country. Maybe, like always, you will learn something new about yourselves, about us. Read it and you will find Doctor babu, Kamla, Lakshmi, S, Mahant, Tehsildaar, Socialists, the dwarf, the Panditji and other characters will live etched in your memory reminding you of one and many you have known.

Pillowtalk

The pillow talked to me through the night.

It said that it liked soft faces -
full of petty lies
and fragile, dreamy hair.

The problem with pillows is that they are full of fluff.
They are like middle-aged woman -
asexual cotton-bags, over-prized sacks of lethargy.

Of course, I only thought this to myself, and sighed aloud,
"I need a replacement," and I meant, I needed a silent pillow.
It agreed, conjuring an image, announcing, "an American one."

It continued, "I hate the coconut oil stains,
plus your South Indians always smell of Fair n Lovely;
North Indians of Ponds or Charmis, and Dabur Amla Oil."

"The Chinese and Korean breath rinks of beef and pork,
Middle Eastern, except belly dancers, are too exotic
and the Europeans use their foreign tongue too much."

I cut its monologue short, accusing it of racial discrimination.
I reminded it of its roots. The cover was Bangladeshi, cotton Indian,
and it came packaged in polyethene bags imported from China.

Just one travel across seven seas, and a position of privilege,
had converted it. It wanted to dust off the past, and wear the skin
of an alien sensibility; edging to extreme, to prove itself reinvented.

My head, heavy with thoughts and Indian spice, crushed it,
and grumbled into its wrinkling face. "Who was it talking about?"
I groaned. "Maybe my promiscuity. Maybe my alienation?"

We resent them the most who are an image of us, don't we?
And aren't they the ones that we find most easy to befriend?
The pillow warmed up to me, my compunctions sunk into sleep.