Aneesh lay in bed and watched the ceiling fan turn. Every turn a day, and every day alike, except this one. Sunday meant a visit to the grocery store for his zone, a chance to look up and see the sky and not a fan. He rolled out of bed, and lay on the ground for effect. He liked to think he was the star of a show the world watched. He waited for the taped laughter to roll in his head, stood up, took a bow and walked into the shower. 42 degrees, the precise angle mixed the right…
It announces it’s arrival and then plays coy. The more you try to ignore it, the louder it gets but it’s hard to pinpoint the source.
So you eventually give chase, catching it is the most you’ve ever wanted anything.
It slides down the curve of your neck. Runs deliberate slow circles around each shoulder blade. You follow it nervously, as it saunters across the bridge of your spine, does it know it’s being followed?
You get closer, this is chess but with higher stakes. The mere anticipation make your hands quiver
You pounce talon first, your prey is cornered, it’s pupils tiny, surprisingly, it submits, to your progressively more frequent, unbridled scratching
It quivers, and then finally dies with a smile across its face. You wonder, albeit, for a second, if it was you being hunted all along.
I want someone to blame, don’t you?
To point a finger at
Not this sinister envelope
Is it dead? Is it alive? Is it an Austrian cat?
A missive of wicked prose
Breeding as fast as a yawn or a rumour
I want someone to grab hold of
To strangle, choke and punch
Stomp it till it’s pearly whites
Lie in a puddle of bloody sinew
I wish it would admit to being evil
That it enjoys the destruction and death
So I could blame it
But it just sits there
Shamelessly basking in collective fear
Killing without glee or remorse
Perversely, as just as the blindfolded statue
A virus I’ll forgive
But you, you smug bastard
You, I’ll remember
Her name was Lakshmi
Carefully braided hair, wound up so tight
With two tiny red bows
To let the hair know
Where to start curling upward
The bows were always red
Perhaps to match her shiny name badge
Which pinned down a handkerchief
With the letters L S in cursive
Bordered with floral motifs in a soft purple
She had a raspy voice
Like chalks on a blackboard
Less mellifluous, more tortuous.
But I liked hearing it
I didn’t want to kiss her or say I love you
Or have her say I love you back
I didn’t want to…
You wear the clothes they give you, the snazziest, funkiest, most ridiculous pieces of clothing ever made, with more pockets than buttons, zippers that lead nowhere, and abstract swathes of neon, a cross between a cowboy, an astronaut and a highway signboard.
Balloons everywhere, deflated and tied together, one kid starts to jump on them till they pop, all the other kids join in, the mob has arrived.
As the kids enter the hall, in eyes wide shut fashion, they’re given a mask (not N95), Mickey or Donald (not Trump), held uncomfortably close to the face by a size zero…
In the beginning there was
Nothing, zilch, nada, 0
Now you’re all alone with 1
Packet of Maggi
But 1 is always too little
And 2, is always too much
So you find a friend
And make 3
Goldilocks concurs, it was just about right
Happy us, high 5?
I should stop now before it’s too late
You’re probably hungry thinking about
All the Maggi I just 8
Dream a little dream of me
My favourite recurring dream as a young adult (both an oxymoron and a regular type of moron) was discovering that I could jump really long distances, distances so long that you could squeeze it into the flying category. I wasn’t much of a flapper, but I’d glide over surfaces with ease, and could will myself a little bit farther with impressive resolve. The best thing by far, was that I was pessimistic enough to consider if I was dreaming, I’d quickly conclude I wasn’t, like taking the red pill.
I stopped flying when I…
This is not a political post, any resemblance to this government, the last vote you cast, or the one before that, is purely coincidental
Your old car is rusty and has more scratches than paint, in some ways it’s scratch coloured, with paint marks? It runs okay, but it’s old, and change must be a good thing, you figure, as you trudge over to the nearby dealership.
The sales guy has an overbearing shiny moustache and a Mickey Mouse power tie, he smiles too much and compliments your jawline (you’re pretty certain you never had one, but that’s a minor…
He closes his eyes and repeats the words to a prayer his mother taught him. He knows exactly three and a half minutes of it, because that’s the time it used to take from getting into the car to reaching his school gate every morning.
He then picks up some vibhuti (sacred ash) and applies it on his forehead, pops some into his mouth, a dash on his neck, and lifts out his perfectly tucked in shirt, to dab some just above his belly button. …