Wave after wave
bodies lay in the dust
dried blood they were draped
As the crimson sun did finally rest.

The tired monk’s feet shuffled
feeding the damned with water
as they cried and moaned
on their way to the Maker.

Wizened, his eyes rose to meet
the Warrior: laden with metal and medal.
The sword spoke menacingly in its keep
Tales of scarlet on metal.

The kind eyes imploring
the massacre he wished undone,
pitiable lives that lay writhing
No more to receive a hero’s welcome.

The Warriors eyes spoke to the Monk
of a wisdom parallel to frayed parchments,
when evil flails its tyranny unjust,
Silence weighs sin on the righteous.

And thus with the darkening heavens above,
The saints knelt to quench the dying-
One dressed in ascetic robes
the other in armor and shield.

WINKING STARS

"Agar aapki beti hoti, to aap usko bhi ‘raand’ bulate? "

Drunken people have the knack of making sense ever so often, and I was soon to learn how much. Seven shots of whisky and a not-so-womanly gait (ok, she walked like a giraffe on skates) had made the taxi driver address my dear Aseema as a prostitute.

She stumbled away from the taxi as I trotted next to her.

“Let’s walk. I wanna see the stars tooooonite…” she crooned.

Wise of her, wasn’t it? Like the smartass had a choice.

She looked up at the velvet sky and remarked “So many stars!” I looked up to find the dark horizon staring back at me; the girl had an amazing imagination to create universes and galaxies to her whim. She began, “You know when I was in the seventh grade I made a project for the science Exhibition where I placed a pea next to a football to show the comparative sizes of the Earth and the Sun.”

She grinned. “I won second prize!”

Her face darkened as she continued. “And that bloody Jay showed his fancy temperature controlling shit and he danced away with the first prize. He probably Googled that fancy idea…rascal thief…”Generally I support Aseema even if I were threatened to have dinner with (for) Dr.Hannibal Lector but the fact that
A)Google had not been invented then,
B) Our heroine herself had stolen the idea from a lesser known beat-up weekly and
C) She was an incredible liar, made me give my unquestionable integrity a rest.

“Even Dad had that fantastic addiction to Google. Yeah, Dad loved Google more than his little daughter.” She sniffed,” Oh! I remember the day he almost threw me out of the house and chose the computer over his baby of 18years.”
Yes, you see the ‘baby’ had considered her father to be a drooling brain-dead antique (with all due respect) and tried to bluff her way that the computer had apparently accessed his Credit Card and purchased fancy shoes and jeans which (according to Miss. Einstein’s love-child) was a sign that robots(?!) were taking over the world. The fact that her patriarch was a software engineer didn’t encourage her to strain her grey cells a tad bit more but by mercy of my prayers, a really really long wail by her mother and the Indian Penal Code against murder she continued to receive free food, shelter and love for the next couple of years.




“Dad even hated all my boyfriends: Raj (a class 4 dropout who addressed her father as ‘Yo!’), Mrigesh (his scalp is colonized by an alien multi-colored life-form that he still has the habit of calling ‘hair’), Wyomesh (he cried while watching the last season of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Period)…” Her friends, family and I could do nothing more than watch a star explode time and again with colorful trails; but I loved her all the more ‘coz at the end of the day she always came back to me.
“You know Tanmay was the only one who came closest to being The One, but I suppose it wasn’t meant to be. I mean his with his wife, kids and everything; it wasn’t exactly the kind of adventure I was looking forward to. And then I found this perfect job to get over him and pay that big-mouthed, mustachioed landlady of mine. I mean, can’t a girl live decently and call some friends over once in a while? No! She has to ask the name of every guy who wears a skirt, question every carton that comes in, wonder why the parcel they carried out ‘looked like a corpse’, why two female friends were snuggling etc etc.” She looked at me, “Arey, you drive her insane at times but my love is your protection.” She winked. My poor lame heart skipped, hopped and jumped many a beat. The most beautiful things in life can’t be named or explained. It’s also a very good excuse for my pathetic vocab.

The first time I saw Aseema was when she had stomped out of the car in her killer boots, swearing at her car dealer on the phone and turning her key every wrong way possible in the key-hole (I know there are only two ways but she can be a tad ‘overwhelming’ at times). I waited for her at her door almost everyday after that: to see her drive like the Axe-Murderer on substance, watch her rip important documents to shreds and wail like a banshee in hindsight, see her desirous eyes pop-out when she discovered she had lost yet another pair of keys, the horror in her mesmerizing face when her car was stolen, sitting with her on her doorstep on warm nights and nibbling on Parle-G biscuits, her dainty hands smashing into a cousins face when she told her she was in love with her (yes, ‘she’ & ‘her’).

“So what’s up with your bitch?”She broke into my thoughts as I shook my head. Not well. My gal didn’t understand the enormity of the responsibilities I had, for her I was just wasting my time bothering people who didn’t know who I was and didn’t believe in me either. But we still made out and had a good time with common friends. Just last night I was telling her about…“You know, yesterday I went to office and I saw this really grotesque vase on Swaroop’s desk.”

I thought we were talking about me.

She continued unashamed, “It looked like it had come from the backside of a constipated beast that had eaten my cooking. And compared to the sophisticated stuff that adorns his Oval-Office like room, I thought the Al-Qaeda had threatened him to exhibit there as a symbol of their tyranny or something.”

It’s never about me is it?

“Anyways, turns out it was his wife’s little pottery labor that had churned out this bastard monster. So I decided to take my chances and I started praising that ugly ‘whatever’—I think it really talks about the Existentialism that has started to govern our lives these days and how ephemeral our lives are has brought a divide amongst those who live like life is mere tool in the hands of a greater being…”

Selfish brute.

Swaroop doesn’t fall for that kind of tripe. He’ll never offer her a raise with that kind of shameless kissing-ass. I think the disgusted expression on my face said it all because she sighed and said, “Oh! I know he doesn’t fall for this kind of trash. He’ll never offer me a raise if I talk like that. And he gave me such a dirty look during my sermon; it was like I was like his granny was doing a striptease or something! Ugh! ”

Serves her right! Doesn’t she ever think about me? I mean I’ve seen her through thick and thin (not like I could do much about it), and she can’t even listen to me continuously for 15 seconds! Of all the people I could go to, I came to her to help and she behaves like a drunken fool! Why I should have…
“You are my hero, na! You can always find better ones around the corner! And with mind-blowing looks like yours, you won’t be in the single bracket for long; even if you don’t like it!” her hand moved gently across my spine and rested there for a while. She straightened up and fiddled with the keys before unlocking the door. She stood awhile between the door and its frame with her back towards me. Then she turned, gave me an incredibly grateful and innocent smile and cooed, “Good night handsome!”

I stared at the door for a few moments before I gathered my wits and trotted off to meet some cronies. Neither of us could explain what went on between us: a mere friendship or some absurd bond. Whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn’t be explained.

* * * * *

A woman with a caterpillar resting on her upper-lip (oh sorry! It’s just her facial hair) spied at her tenant through her blinds, “Look! Look! Aseema is back at 3! I told that scallywag not to come late and that useless…She’s talking to that dog! Why in the world does she talk to that rag? Oh and she’s patting it now! It keeps waiting for her EVERYDAY! Oh it’s staring at her door! Wretched dog! And she feeds him biscuits! It always pees on my car, never did anything to hers! Once I get enough money I’ll write a book on all the rascals who’ve stayed here and send it to their parents. Oh the look on their faces when they know what their precious kids are up to…”

SHINE

Cold, white & designed
for a perfect life anew.
Insert & you’ll understand.

Where did you get the idea
of earth meeting flesh
& become blessed & dear?

A new life we would both live:
I held my pacemaker
& she her wedding ring.

Ripples

I’ll wrap you in my blanket
Kiss your blushing cheeks
Worship your tiny fingers

My tears stain
my tainted face.

I tiptoe to the river
Wade
to the reeds.

My weak hands
release you
The stifled wailing
ends
with strangled bubbles.

Swirling hair with style unmatched
A dark canvas with twinkling bends
Breaking hearts as they unfurl

Slender legs that scorch where they stand
They never walked more than a mile
Worth a glass shoe of a fairytale.

Death defying contours
That every girl would starve for.

A dazzle in her eyes and sparkle in her smile
Serene Forehead, no worries to bear
They talk of a life- pampered and loved

What they don’t know is that smiles can be faked
And those blessed eyes have bidden many a tear
That those slender arms have held someone departed and dear.

That those feet have shuddered
At a childhood iced with fear
That those hips once held
A tiny life and many a broken dreams.

Behind that creaseless forehead
Lies a cryptic maze
Of sorrows untold
And a beautiful face.

Wishing to Lose

I count to ten and begin to search
whether you are hiding dear.
I hear the cow moo and rush near,
to see your prints near the birch.

My roving eye catches the rustles
of the bush near the fence.
I walk over in the sense,
as I hear you struggle
with the thorns on the path nearby,

As you free yourself from that momentary gyve,
I hear the sound of a goat's cry,
moments later, their herd passes by.

I hear a faint giggle
and slide through the trees,
The forest now seems demonic
blowing without a breeze
I hear you anklets tinkle
and comb the foliage.

The river has silenced the sun's rage
I hear nor see any signs of you
My wrinkles begin to catalyse my age
Tears won't dry and the lamp goes dim
and the fishermen come with a tale.

The men tell me that you were found
entangled in their net
I know you were trying to find
A better place; to win.

I wish I had never played
that silly game of hide and seek, for fun,
Papa would have accepted defeat
As I see your wraith saying you have won.

Begotten

Dad takes out some colours. I begin to paint the newspaper.
Why do newspapers seem so Gothic? The phone rings. The colours simply emerge out of your pencil. They stream forth and make patterns so alive and wild they seem to have a life of their own, going straight, meandering, laughing, stumbling, thinking, resting. Flawless as they skim above the surface and life blooms at the contact point. Indecisive, impulsive; the crayon manipulates the fingers, the hand, the Body to movement and acts as Controller. The throbbing veins and webs of nerves tangle but seem sick and lifeless as you view them from afar- nothing but a doodle on dead wood.
Mom stares at me. I notice the spider web on the clock. Spinning the web of time. It's 5:30. I wear my shoes and walk out of the door. Dad follows me and we go for the Long Drive. The wind escapes my fingers. They always do that so I taught my mind to do the same, but we do it together at night in the comfort of my bedroom. We're at the park.
Seasoned sun setting on the tired grass. Meghna looks at me. Her eyebrows jump, her eyes go wide and her lips turn upwards.
Lips upward="Smile".
Ok.
So I should do the same. I manage to "smile" back. Dad moves away while she takes my arm and we stroll around the park.
She speaks. Collage of words. Govind, work, plane, tired, Sakshi, paper, blue, dress... paper? Paper! I tell her all about my colouring spree at dawn, about life in crayons, their incessant laughter, their thoughts...Enough. She's looking at me. There's a tiny pimple on her left cheek. A dry leaf falls on my shoulder. She asks me to say more. But the chunk of slowly rotting wood on the tree is too alluring. The wood has ridges and signs; wrinkles of ages seen but unspoken. History in gnarls and knots. Unshared wisdom.
I can see her lips moving, and then it begins to loop downwards. Her eyes glisten and her mouth continues to move. She gesticulates with her hands and rubs her eyes blotching the black eyelids.
Ok... um... upside down smile="Unhappy".
Tears="Happy/Unhappy".
So she must be unhappy or sad. That means I must try to pay attention to what she's saying. Say something nice. Umm...she looks at me. I say, “You’ve made my life miserable Adi!" She stares and her eyes open wide as her mouth forms an "O". She blinks, kisses me on the cheek and leads me back to Dad.
Mouth open wide as an "O"+eyes wide open=?
We get into the car. The question remains, I raise my eyebrows and shape my mouth into an "O" then call Dad. He looks at me, then at the road. He does it quite a few times. Then he says, “Surprise. That means the person found something suddenly or unexpectedly." I hope she understood what I said.
We're back at the house. I get my medication and listen to the walkman.
Its 9.30. Bed-time.
I hop on one leg and tell Mom, “I think its time for you to go to bed."
I crawl into the covers and the warm ocean engulfs my thoughts and muffles my movements from the dark hours of the night.
Dad comes, kisses me, says he has some emergency work and leaves in a hurry. No. He has to read 'Lord of the Flies' for me. No.
I get up and yell. My throat resonates the house. I can hear the door slam. Mom comes and looks at me. She holds my hands in an excruciating grip. I start my trance movement.
My head bobs- front, behind, front, behind, front, behind. My brain seems motionless like it has managed to vaporize and escape from its cranial tormentor. She lets go my hand and holds my head. I start flapping my hands like a wild bird. I hit the bed hoping it would hurt and bleed.
No. Dad must be here. He must read. This must happen. I don't go to sleep without him reading. It must be him and no one else. He must sit on a chair, wear his spectacles and read from the book.
No. This wont do. I stand up and go to the living room. I run around in little circle. The circle moves faster and so do I. I yell again. Yell, run. Run, yell. It's the same. Dad must read. Chair, book, spectacles.
No. My foot stumbles and the floor becomes more vivid. My chin oozes blood. So what. But I'm feeling tired now.
Mom takes me back to my bed. She neatly tucks the covers. I look at her face. Eyes glistening, smile upside down. I've done this. Before I can calculate, Mom cries, “You’ve made my life miserable Adi!"