One-Eyed Queen

This post first appeared here on the lovely The Monochrome Collective.

Dumping ground.

That’s how people described the area we first moved into. We moved to Thane (Mumbai's do-i-need-a-passport-to-get-there suburb) some 20-odd years ago; a place that was a reclaimed dumping ground.

Andhon ke shehar mein kaana raja – literally, in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. Sure, I stayed in a so-called-fancy 'flat' in the area among the sprawling chawls around, but once every year, I was made to realize where I really stood in the universe.

Every May/November, we would pack our huge suitcases and travel for three endless days in the train, to head to our native home in Kerala.

Once there, the days and weeks would be spent visiting first-cousins, aunts, grandparents, and do-you-remember-who-i-ams. I was a different human being here, an anomaly who spoke a weird mix of English-Hindi-Malayalam and wore 'fashion' clothes (I was 7 or 9, I have no idea why they thought I dressed well).

Here, the houses were bungalows. Every house I knew had a minimum of 3 bedrooms, a backyard, a frontyard, a car porch – all of which, was essentially our playground.

Summers meant getting pampered by everyone, seeing a snake or two, trial-and-error methods of figuring out the henna plant and/or discovering new species of itchy plants and insects. Want buttermilk? Stroll around your house for the herbs and spices. Want milk? Ask grandpa to milk the cow. Hungry? Look around and grab a pineapple, mango, banana, tomato or any fruit that was waiting to be picked.

Then, the inevitable happened. An uncle's family decided to visit us in Thane. I froze. We lived in a building where a mongrel frequently slept in the unlit corridor. There was no elevator. My neighbours didn't know a word of English. A calf was allowed to be housed in the corridor above ours. A whole calf!

Among the visitors, I was handed charge of 3-year-old Shankar. His Malayalam was better than mine so we managed to get along just fine. I took him out grocery-shopping, showed him the Kali temple, meandered around claustrophobic gullies… my version of Slumdog Millionaire. We were opposite the milk shop, and a long line of vehicles were piled up. I was an expert at running across roads, and was too lazy to wait for the vehicles to slink by. "Can you run?" I asked him.

He grinned and nodded.

We zapped across the street, just before the vehicles zoomed by.

He laughed so hard! The milkman was mildly amused.

We came back home and made custard. The little one loved it (his grandma had a no-egg policy, so he had never tasted custard, sheesh.)

I was slightly disappointed – now that my visitors had seen our shabby hovel, they would tell everyone in my 'gaon' how my house didn’t even have 24-hour water supply, let alone the 1+1+1+ yard. I would go back there and they’d realize that it was past 12, and I’m just a Cinderella with her goddarn pumpkin ("Make pachhadi with it," they'd say).

A few weeks after they left, the aunt called me.

"Shanku just can't stop telling his friends and everyone about you!" she giggled.

What? Is the brat manufacturing his version of poverty porn? That’s the problem with too much TV, I thought.

"Oh, is it?! What’s he saying?" I gulped.

"About how he and chechi (elder sister = me) swooped across the street and bought milk from a shop! The kids here can’t believe you can get milk in a shop!"

Then it struck me. Everyone I knew in Kerala would either have milk delivered from a neighbour's house or had a bovine output in their own house. 'Buying' milk was unheard of!


Well, well, well. Still the one-eyed queen, I guess!

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Sunshine

i see her falling.

Her hair flails around her head like a thousand tentacles.
Like the radiant sun.
Like a benign Medusa.

Her dress flutters in whispers.
The wind escapes through her fingers and her open arms.

Breath still, her eyes open in wondrous splendour capturing every glint of the sunlight.
The world reflects in her eyes.
In her fall.

And then i catch her.
The minx grins at me and says, "Let's do it again daddy!"

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How Kurtas Are Made

There’s a soft but desperate knock on the door. I don’t even bother opening my eyes, relying on my hands to find the latch. There he stands, huddled in the rain, shoulders quivering, shifty eyes… my gosh he is midnight poetry.

“What are you doing here?” I mumble, half worried, half amused. 

“I’m in trouble,” he squeaks.

“Really?” I lay the foundation for a small game of cat-and mouse, closing the door behind me, “What, what kind of trouble?”

“Umm, it’s not that big…” he says, not recognizing my mischief. I’m hurt. After all this time, even the smartest sponge would have caught on to that. “Not that big, but big enough to drag me out of bed at 3 am and bring me out in the fucking rain…”

Now I’m leaning against the frame, taking my own sweet time for it to sink in…

He’s looking at his fingers now, staring at the pathetic little creases that the rain has made on them. He slowly shifts his eyes to mine. Well played chap! “Come on in you cheap bastard!” 

----

"Good. Now you have my t-shirt, my pants, my coffee, my blanket, my Crocin, so do you mind telling me why you honour me with your presence?” 

He looks happy. Happier, I guess. He clutches the mug with both hands and I can see that his toes aren’t as white anymore. He smiles nervously at me and I feel like a schoolteacher. I sigh and drag my chair closer to him. “Hmm?” I ask. 

“She wants me to write poetry for her,” he blurts. 

“Okay.” 

“But I can’t write poetry.” 

“Okay.” 

“So what do I do?” 

“I’m sure there are plenty of fish in the sea…” 

“Nooooo…” he wails. “Poetry. For her. From me.”

“‘A rag and a bone and a hank of hair and the fool he called her his lady fair.’”

“See! You should teach me! You make up poetry like that!” he says, snapping his fingers.

I stare at the fool. I’m already the object of his admiration for rattling off an old bard’s lines. “You can’t learn or teach poetry,” I say with a touch of irritation. “Why does she want all this from you? Give her a nice card or flowers or candy or clothes. Why poetry?”

“She wants something unique, something that no one else has or will have.” One look at him and you know that he’s bought the idea as well.

“Well,” I say exasperatedly, “has she given you anything unique or, you know, a b…”

“A what?”

“Er,” he looks genuinely confused, so I decide to corrupt him later. “Anything. Unique. Ever?” I’m using his technique on him. I don’t feel so old anymore.

“Er…” his brain is working furiously now. I lay back and admire my handiwork. “She had my initial inscribed in her mehendi,” he grins.

“Wow, how original. I’m sure she’s the first person in history to do that. Let me call the Guinness people and tell them about this miracle here.” He looks hurt. I’m obviously treading the line here. No jokes about a piece of his heart. Nope, never. Unless we’re drunk. Maybe not even then.

“Okay, so how much do you love her?”

“This much!” he says incredulously, stretching his hands.

“What are you? Five? I’m asking whether you’ll die for her! Give her your marrow if she gets cancer. Sell your ancestral property for her. Rob a bank for her. Walk into the sea. Take an experimental drug. And you give me your fucking arms for measurement! Do I look like a fucking tailor to you? Kurta banaega apne pyaar ka?”

He looks pensive. Certainly 3 am lectures are not his thing.

“Will you at least Google some good stuff for me?” he says at last.

“I’ll mail it to you by tomorrow afternoon. Shut the door on your fucking way out.”

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Endless

Here walked the great man, with one leg. Don’t mistake him for those mendicants or beggars strewn on the streets of holy cities, smoking hash and showing off their proud members to equally pious herds of worshippers.

No, Tobar wasn’t among them. He was greater, closer to enlightenment than priests who groped their young apprentices in frenzied closeted passion, women who silently prayed for a little private time with their brothers-in-law and children who gleefully tortured little insects. The chewed out stub of his old walking stick was testament of that. It accompanied him wherever he went; places he didn’t even take his god: the bathroom, the quiet hours on the river bank, the empty-fog-filled nights that slowly treaded from his ears to his head and the groaning, sweating lonely unregretful love he gave himself. You don’t need, or want, your god in these places. Tobar didn’t.

Tobar had loved, and how! He loved his house; the little ramshackle excuse for a residence. He loved the birds that noisily fluttered to his courtyard every morning with their expectant, beady eyes. If he were ever late, he could see them crook their neck at him and blink with annoyance. He loved the misshapen trees that squatted in his backyard and bore fruit whenever it pleased them. Oh, and there’s also the mad mad MAD sex that he loved, but he wouldn’t miss it if it weren’t there.

Everyone knew Tobar because everyone seemed to be born after him. They nodded respectfully whenever they saw him and wondering about this ageless handicap over steaming cups of tea was one of the pastimes. He taught little boys to use their slingshots but they knew better than to use their newfound skills from him. One whack from his angry stick and they knew their smashed skulls would be buried somewhere in his lazy backyard; and who knows, among many others too.

Then one day, just like that, they realized that he wasn’t there anymore. That the birds didn’t miss him anymore and had found other generous seed-givers. Then someone noticed a tree. Endless at both ends. What was curious about the tree was that a part of the bark near the ground grew almost parallel to the tree. Very familiarly. Like a walking stick.

Too bad Tobar wasn’t around to see everyone’s jaw drop open or he would have had the laugh of his life.

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Gregory Medvenov

Gregory Medvenov was a small man
with crazy eyes that never stood still
and a constant mumble above his chin.

They stared and whispered behind his back
of the rich Count who lived with just a butler at home.
If only he were poorer, they could avoid this odd one.

But one thing they never wondered about
was why the Cinderella man who left parties before midnight
always had bruises though he never got in a fight.

There was no reason to be curious about this man,
unless, you saw between the crazy eyes and mischievous grin.
You see, Gregory Medvenov, was Batman.

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Murmurs

His house is large and airy.

Adorned with gold and zari.

Winds blow through arid lands.

As it does through his empty backyard.

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BOXES

Little Raju found a spare box

Empty, brown: not much to talk of.

He stared wide-eyed at the flaps on the side

Just like wings on an airplane ride!



He wore those broken old glasses

With an upside down bowl on his head

And just like that Raju was flying

Across continents and three heavens.



The wind flung his hair and dried his mouth

The cape on his shoulder fluttered wildly about

Left, right, tumble around

Life ought to be seen upside down.



Then came Violet: big and strong

Not the protector-of-the-weak sort

One look at his little flying machine

And the evil cogs in her head spun crazily around.



A kick and a blow

One-two-three-four

A bucket of water

No plane no more.



Two and twenty years have gone

Little Raju has moved on

To computers and cameras and games and girls

Oh, and he’s not little any more.



Sober clothes he wears

A funeral to attend

To pretend to regret

Death of an old acquaintance.



He wasn’t surprised

To find a big brown box

With Violet inside

Oh, and she’s not strong anymore.



Memories trickle in

Like a leaking cardboard box

But he can’t ignore

The flaps on her side, like an airplane ride.

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Priceless

I scratch your dogs’ chin indulgingly
Late night joggers smile at my benevolence
“Lover-Boy feeding the dogs at this hour?
An assured brownie from Lover-Lady. Tee-hee!”

I glance to your room to find you still glued to your phone
Cradling it to your cheek – so soft, so porcelain.
Mischievous winds tease your dress
as curtains beckon with waving fingers.

A heavy sigh to mourn my discontent
while your dogs reply with low grumbles.
A pat on the head there ol’ boy;
at least one of us is having a good sleep tonight.

One click and your room has ushered in the night,
What a pity! You could have troubled me to do that!
You strut and prepare for the promise of a night fulfilled
All it takes is half-a-glass of water and two sleeping pills.

Fireworks, Oh! Trumpets and violins
My heart can’t withstand the joy within!
A quiet little dance to your door under the moonlight,
soundlessly covering the separating trajectory.

The fireworks dim and the trumpeters blink
What will you notice first thing in the morning?
The drugged dogs?
Or the missing pearls?

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It was a dreamy night, almost opiate with trees swaying lazily muttering sweet nothings to the mellow sea. His crooked gaits sunk occasionally, finally strewing sand on her. She DirtyLooked, “Dikhta nahi hai kya bevde?”

He squatted next to her offering to help her dust off the sand. This time DirtyLook graduated to LoudSlap. He could take it no longer and burst into tears describing his WorstDayEver with the milk getting stolen, missing his bus, and not getting a seat in the train. Oh, and his wife had decided to go on a world tour – with his money and another man.

She told him that there were WorseThings in life.

Like?

Not being able to eat pavbhaji, being stuck to seafood, no bus/car/cycle rides.

Haha!

She slapped him again and flopped back into the sea. He stared: she was one queer mermaid.

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Steps

The choice we made was all ours

To let go

and float onwards.


Then you beckon

Away from the light

Into the oblivion

Only to awake

Reborn - in someone else’s arms.

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Orwellian times

It had stopped raining outside. I looked at them inside, cheering wildly as if Armageddon had just been avoided.


Sandesh poked his head inside, “It’s a girl!” he announced. I flung the pen-stand at his empty head, wishing that the pen-stand had fulfilled its raison d’être.


Yes, not like she jumped out of my womb! There was absolutely no reason for me to get concerned or overwhelmed.


For the past 9 months, yes N-I-N-E, I had refused to join the revelries of their distorted modern life. I slinked past whenever the topic was teased. I shredded newspapers announcing welcome. I groaned in despair whenever I passed yet another hoarding.


Even the retards at work discussed it: at the coffee machine, water-cooler, Xerox machine, in the elevators, whispering during Monday Morning Meetings…There were people guessing names, gender, date, dress and every inhuman nonsense possible.


Friends admonished me of my indifference towards the hullabaloo. My snide remarks didn’t help much. Neither did mouthing ‘I-hate-you-ALL-you-pre-historic-hairballs’ at random intervals. Nor hate-graffiti. Nor message T-shirts.
I lay down on my bed staring at the fungus that was stealthily creeping across it in patterns. Maybe it was finally over.


That’s when I heard the TV announce, “WE’LL BE BACK!!!”


Just when I thought it was all over…but…its going to start all over again!...I
..


Argh! I hate reality shows!

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Talkative Strangers

He’s lying here next to me.

His parents might just barge in.
Or they’ll just be glad they had him insured.

Maybe a truck hit him.
Or a freak cricket ball.
He might have just ignored the instructions by the quack.
Maybe his bastard son decided to drop in and say Hi. For the first time.

He might have been planning a picnic next month. Kids, pretty wife, ugly pug, SUV et al.
Could have been too freaking high.
Might have been envying the girl on a guys arm.

So, what did he have for dinner?
Khichdi?
Wine and Caviar?
1 ½ egg sandwiches?
A banana and a glass of milk?

Perhaps he was watching a boring soap on TV before that.
Or was at the movies with friends.
Or struggling to scratch his nose in the sardined train.

Maybe he was saving countless lives with his doctoral skills.
Or smoking off RichDaddy’s money.
He just might have discovered the solution for an alternative fuel.

Might be a Sagittarian.
Agnostic.
Billionaire.
Masochistic Paedophile.

55?
27?
63?
20 years, 11 months and 364 days?
Birthday boy?

His name might be Arun.
Albert.
Abul.
Chinkabawook.

A gazillion thoughts must be flooding his bewildered mind right now.
The Last One being why he’s lying next to me in the morgue.

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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.

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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…”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!"

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Colors

A dry leaf falls
On the weathered carpet of corpses
The pale sun dries any sign of life
And the cruel wind tears all webs of connection
A little child skips
Among skeletons
A dreamy poet remarks
The soft colors of grey death.

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