Cartoons

The beanbag in the living room is his throne and every afternoon aftere school, he reclaims it. Ian turns on the television and tunes to the only channel he watches, Cartoon Network.

He will sit there for an entire four hours until I call him for dinner and that too is scoffed down in mere minutes before he shuffles off to watch more cartoons. His life revolves around it, and I would not be surprised is he dreamed in technicolour as well.

That plastic box is at the same time, a cursed and revered object in the house. It is ridiculous to call it evil, but it is. I have lost my son to it, and my son has lost himself. Is it all my fault? He hardly talks to me and teachers have reported that my dear son, the once talkative and rambunctious Ian, has become withdrawn and reclusive. They ask me why, but I am never sure what to answer.

………………………………

My eyes are dry and tired from the unblinking stare that I have been giving the buck-toothed Bugs Bunny. Nothing interesting today, it is a rerun that I have watched do many times that I know the exact tauntings he says to all who chase him.

I mouth his lines. My lips curl into words that have no sound and hence, no audience. A bit like what I want to tell my mother really.

She thinks I sit here all day watching the slapstick antics of these running and talking animals. That is not what I do though, there are only so many time that a falling anvil can be funny and that novelty has left quite some time ago.

What’s up doc?, the rabbit asks.

Well, not much mother. I still resent you for leaving us, you know. Three years is a long time, I don’t think I can just let it go.

The lines on the screen go blurry as I sink into myself. I do not hear dialogue, just mufled sounds. No moving scenery of the Western desert, just washes of colour. Finally, peace. I have lost myself in the predictability of the cartoons. I am not really here. I am somewhere else, away from the tangles of the convoluted theads of my mind.

………………………………………………

He is still sitting there, catatonic. The television blares kitschy Western music. The Roadrunner is still running running running, he is a blur. No one will catch me!, he beeps.

He is running away, My son speeds of into the chrome sun of the desert, leaving me in this trail of dust. He refuses to talk to me and I sadly, do not know what to do. After three years of absence, I have forgotten how to be a mother. I reach for an apple in the fruit basket and wash it under the tap, The water feels cool against my tight skin, the thing that makes me feel trapped. I am uneasy in this new skin of mine.

The knife cuts the apple into neat slices. The apple is no longer whole and its juicy flesh is exposed for all to see and devour, vulnerable. Did I do that to him when I left?

I did. My heart wrenches in guilt. My hands feel the smooth skin of the ruby red apple, and I remember him, my child. Sitting in my lap, we were watching Snow White. How he squealed in delight at the glittering jewel mines and cringed at the ugliness of the transformed queen. Was I too like the queen to him now? Once beautiful, but now forever ugly in his eyes. He refuses to look at me.

The slices are on a plate, I walk over to his throne, wary. Silly of me to be afraid of my own son, but I am. I sense his animosity and ut does nothing but pain me. I am afraid that he does not love me.

That is my fear. My nightmare, that I probably deserve. After all, vilains must be punished. I set down the plate beside him. He will not touch it till I go away. I know your habits, my son.

I go back to the kitchen and look at him. He takes the apple, he bites. A smile creases my face.

…………………………………….

The apple is sweet and the juices run down my throat. Sometimes she gives me oranges, or pears. But I like the apples best. I would never tell her though.

I will not tell her that I still remember the first tome we watched Snow White. I loved it, and I think she did too. Popeye is playing, he is annoying I think. Spinach is disgusting, apples are much better.

I wil never be able to tell her that I wanted Snow White to eat the apple though I knew that it was poisonous. Surely an apple so red and saturated with colour must have tasted so good.

Bruto asks, how you doing?

Still angry, I reply. I still resent for leaving so suddenly. Why did you go? I wondered and pondered for those three years. You were unhappy with father I know, but did you not know that things will always end happily ever after? That was what you taught me with the Disney cartoons.

You left and I was alone with father, and he was alone with himself. We were sad, I think his heart broke the way Cinderella’s glass slipper did. Shattered into a million pieces. I hope you heard it. I did, in every second of his sullen silence.

And then, you came back. Father called you, you said, he told me that he had cancer. Suddenly, you were in our lives again and I did not know whether you were the villain or the hero. I wa still flummoxed, overwhelmed by your return, his illness and soon, his departure form our lives.

I am still very much confused, mother. I do not know what to do, and I think you feel that way too. When I see you, I do not know whether to run to or away from you.

Which is why I stay silent and watch cartoons, mother. Things are easy and simple here. Everything is defined by a clear black line. One day, I too will have my clear black line and these monologues will stop because then, I will know. The cartoons would have elucidated me, and things will be all right.

I will talk to you, and yes, that’s all folks.





















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