Category Archives: Personality

The Magic Girl

It was a gray cool, cloudy day with nothing to do and nowhere to go and no one to do anything with or go anywhere with.

So she took out her coloring book, and her crayons and began to color.

She colored a house, with two stories, and two porches, and four bedrooms, and a beautiful kitchen full of new pots and pans and plates, and full of beautiful fruits and vegetables and grains and sun flowers in vases, and a big bedroom with a king sized bed and easy chairs and walk-in closets, and she colored a big backyard with a lily pond in it, and shade trees and flagstones and a swing and picnic table.

And then she got up and walked into the house and sat at the table in the kitchen nook and took out her colors and began again.

She colored a cat, black and white, with long hair, very beautiful. And then the cat got up, and stepped out of the book. She put her hand on the cats head, and sunk the tips of her fingers into the cats velvety soft fur, and rubbed the backs of her knuckles up into the cat’s cheeks and into her ears. The cat looked deeply into her warm eyes and began to purr. Then the cat lay down beside her on a kitchen chair and took a nap.

And then she colored a boy, her age, with smooth skin, and dark hair and deep black eyes. And when she was done, he got up and walked out of the book and sat down at the table besides her. He took her hand in hers, and said, “I love you,” and kissed her gently on the lips. She put her hand in his hair and looked into his eyes. And then he sat beside her, and she began to color again.

Then she colored her soul, it all its detail, her lively personality, her fun spirit, her generous heart, her quick mind, her strong will, her gracious dignity, her glacial irrationality, her magnificent diffidence, her supreme anxiety, her overwhelming lack of confidence, her flappable existentiality, her her within the her of the very essential her.

Then all of her was there, in vivid colors, rising off the page and encircling her with bright shades and hues and tones, the colors glittering like water in the sun, sparkling like diamonds under stage lights. Then the colors curtained and rippled and pulsed like the Northern lights, and then they fell upon her even as she kept coloring, more and more, and the shades and hues and tones radiated into her skin like sunshine, rubbed into her skin like moisturizing cream, soaked softly into her skin like sugar dissolving in tea, soaked deeply into her very core like water dripping into an aquifer.

And then the house and the cat and the boy all disappeared and all the crayons rose up out of the box and out of her hands and ribboning themselves in a double helix, they descended into her head, and you could see them even through her clothing, diving into her very core, into the essence within the essence of her very quintessence, shimmering inside of her, flashing, pulsing, blowing up like the sun in ribbons and arches and flares within her.

And then she quieted, and glowed softly, and the colors subsided within, now occasionally flickering out of her eyes, now sometimes appearing at the ends of her finger tips.

And then she got up, and walked back through nowhere to where she had come from, ready for — anything.


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The Love Marriage

Once there was a woman living in Hyderabad who thought winged and feathered thoughts immeasurably fast.

If you asked her how she felt, she would apprehend her interiority as fast as instant curried rice. “I felt sad at precisely 9:14 am yesterday and it lasted ten minutes. I felt ebullient at 3:10 today, immediately following my first Chai. I will be feeling about 93.3 % maniacal tomorrow at 7:05 pm when I ride the elevator down to the parking lot after work.”

If you asked her what she thought about something, anything, she told you instantly.

“I think that the partition was a horrific rejection of community. I think that Indian women should demand what they want and believe that they deserve it! I think that everyone should fly somewhere far away at least twice per year.”

Her parents arranged her marriage, as had been the custom in her family for generations, and thus it came to pass, that decked out in gold, one Saturday evening during a monsoon, she married a nice Indian man.

He was known in both his family and hers to always think turtlish and carapaced thoughts immeasurably slowly. The families thought him solid.

During their first year of marriage, as with all couples everywhere, they kissed and they missed. During their second year, they began to list, then to subsist.

If she asked him, “How do you feel?” he would say, “I don’t know.” If she gave him a week to figure it out, he still didn’t know.

If she gave him a year, he would muse philosophically and pause for a bit pacifistically, like Ashoka, and come up with nothing that she considered to be a good come-back.

One day, after a cup of Darjeeling at a sea-facing terrace in Goa, he did hold forth.

“Violence stems from poverty, inequality and addiction,” he said, “and mostly from the lack of love.” She was astonished.

He was silent a while then spoke again.

“Women,” he said, “might do well if they continued to nurture others while yet leaving them alone from time to time and moving forward with their unique interests and goals.”

“Well and good,” she said. “Now that I’ve got you talking, let’s get to the bleeding heart of the matter. What is going on inside of you right now? Tell me about your feelings Tell me how you feel. Today, I felt moody, happy, quizzical, intense and relieved. How do you feel? How do you feel about me? I’m worried, frustrated, anxious and concerned about you. Your turn. How are you feeling this instant about me?”

He looked at her, started to speak then stopped and rubbed his chin.

“I feel …” He began, but he couldn’t get there and so he paused.

“For God sake,” she said, “Say anything.”

“I can’t think when you are pressuring me,” he said.

“I don’t want to know what you think,” she said, “Tell me what you feel. Just spit it out!” She paused for a sip of tea.

“I feel … I feel … I feel … a deep love for both of our families,” he blurted out and looked down.

They raised 3.1 children, enjoyed six grand children, and lived to hold three great-grandchildren.

In the end, everyone said about their marriage that it was a model of true love and devotion, despite the well-known laugh the families often had at gatherings over the fact that in sixty years of marriage he never said anything.

At her funeral, her sister said, “Her sweet husband never did get a word in edge wise or even on an angle, except that one time when she paused for a sip of tea.”

And everyone who knew them well laughed.

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