I'm coming home.

It's Thursday night, my last day of work in Bahrain. I'm sitting in front of the Managing Director's desk, the boss, sitting right across of me, eyeing me sternly, even his glass eye, yes, demanding an explanation of my departure, me, fumbling nervously for the right words, simpler words that could somehow concretize the abstractions, and perhaps, the absurdity of my reasons for quitting the job that I was basically shackled to for about 7 months more.

It's a whole compendium of rationalities that has been stacked on and on from the first day I stepped into the workplace some 16 months back, see, and the guy is pressing them all out of me, again, as though we haven't sat through this already that day five months back when I first handed in my letter of resignation.

How do you explain burnout, emotional and psychological exhaustion, depression and inner emptiness to someone who does not even know basic business management principles, including human resource and fiscal upkeep, as reflected by the lack thereof in the company? It'll be pointless. There was my personal shit, which obviously only I could sort out. There was the company shit, the internal bickering, the hiring of totally unqualified persons - a slap on our professional qualifications, the shit of a pennyless company that overprices but have workers who haven't been paid for five months running already, and no cash for some things as basic as petrol for the vehicles and materials for projects. It'll be pointless.

I did utter some sort of explanations that I had to stop mid-sentence because the absurdity of it all just wouldn't stop tickling me, I ended up chuckling at every phrase, like the last time I prayed. It's all pointless.

We parted ways without closure. Think it over, he said. No, you think it over, I said. We'll talk again. I'll call you or you call me. He didn't. I wouldn't. And that's that.

I've made up my mind.

I had to leave or I'd forever be trapped. I had to leave as a matter of principle, a statement of my dissatisfaction, a protest, a walkout, if you must.

There's no time for proper goodbyes. There was little pending jobs, what's left, we were just finishing up. To fend off explanations, the official statement to clients was that I was going on vacation. It'll be easier this way.

I'm running away.

I'm coming home.

*** Even all of this is absurd. This is published late (but dated as it should be) because nobody at home knows of me coming home. Or of life in Bahrain. This was my doing, it'll be my undoing.


My Name is Sea

Because I've got nothing to say, but too much to say. Because the Maestro Pablo Neruda could say it way better.

Ode to the sea
Here surrounding the island,
There΄s sea.
But what sea?
It΄s always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Says no
And no again.
It can΄t be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks
And when they aren΄t convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.

With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don΄t waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you΄re our foe.
Don΄t beat so hard,
Don΄t shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day our daily fish.


Ralph Fiennes reads this fine in the Il Postino soundtrack. Text here. The music can be Googled, or Bingd if you may. Listening to the tracks at times gives me the 'daily fish' I need, sometimes.