DO NOT HARASS THE MADMAN!

"Do not harass the madman!"

He crawled deeper into the winding cavity, clawing desperately at its slimy squirming wall...The oxygen-mask hung helplessly on to his prespiring mouth...his mouth, the putrid rim of a century-old bottle of vinegar. He retched several times...Several times he had to quiten his heart as a silent scream burst out from within, on feeling a sudden terrifying pull at his booted feet...The feet were but ensnarled in a mesh of leathery cords.Yet the clip! clop! of the menacing scalpels continued, scavenging through the crimson marshland- a glistering set of earnest gardeners out on an 'extermination spree'...Out with all cheeky rodents!

The sudden smell of alien air had startled him...he had re-coiled without knowing why.

Yet he had been pushed out...pushed out in struggles of rythymic breaths..."Push! Push!" He heard them chant...and pushed out he was.

There were party-hats and confetti bursts, blaring music and dance...and all this, interspersed by misplaced soppy kisses dealt with a hilarious cordiality that is the pride of all overtly-sober minds!

His journey had begun- first, a spirited wide-eyed sprint...then, a more tedious uphill climb...and finally, a cynical stroll on all fours....And they called him a 'madman'.

He stood at street corners, proclaiming that the earth is round...He promised that men could fly...He shouted himself hoarse tring to persuade marching men in arms to buy his potted plants...He wrote on peeling paint- 'love is what makes the world go around'.

And they called him a 'madman'.

Pelted with stones, bruised with malevolent kicks, beleaguered by fist-blows, he scrambled back...Up! Up! Into the winding cavity he crawled....

"Do not harass the madman!" He shrieked!

Yet the scalpels followed him...hot on his heels, sensing him out, smacking its lips in gastrnomical delight.....Aha!

Deeper and deeper he pushed himself, "Push!" "Push!", He egged himself on....

The womb quivered with the chilling desperation of his silent prayers...."Do not harass the madman!"

SOARING...SEARING...

On nights like this one...restless summer nights, there would be the listless flipping through magazine pages, the impatient tapping of fingernails on polished glass table-tops, the loud sighs...The blades of the ceiling fan would scoop up bundles of hot oppressive air in a bear-hug...huffing and puffing in the act. Dry throats would drain the water tanks dry...Soaking wet shirts and blouses would lie face-down on prespiring backs, clinging on helplessly, refusing to let go...The nagging whine of a neighbouring air-condition would make the mercury level leap and dance...Plastic chairs cooling on the balcony after a searing afternoon in the sun, would glow a menacing red and black- a challenging glint in the eye inviting bravehearts to have a seat! The stench of burnt earth would overpower...Burnt Earth...Burnt foliage...Burnt flesh...Burnt All ! Water would break in refridgerators; a blinding flash of pain followed by silence...Metal pipes would melt, slithering sliding slipping down the sides of buildings, scraping off sheets of cement and paint with their scaly bodies, bubbling and frothing at the mouth, emmiting final exhausted hisses of defeat. The moon would turn a fine shade of orange, the spots on its face erupting into chagrined craters of seething anger....The world would gasp for water....buckets and buckets of water....Fire-engines would come charging down the streets...tubes of Burnol would be squeezed on with theatrical immediacy......

And yet....

At the end....

The industriuos Cook would still think it much more palatable to shove the platter containing the Earth swimming in red wine, into the steaming oven....!

IN THEIR SHOES....

It felt oh-so good slipping my feet into the woman's shoes!

She bunched her fist and kept shoving it deeper into her mouth- a desperate attempt at civility, giving way to sudden unguarded snorts and sneezes....

A steady stream of tears issued down her eyes. She did nothing to wipe them away...as long as they maintained womanly propriety...so be it.

Yet, i could sense Hope retreating...the soft retracing of padded feet....

And then...Euphoria!

Out of the operation-theatre rolled the stretcher-on-wheels.

The ride was over....The woman choked on her fist as a loud scream exploded out of the corners of her mouth....

Ah! It felt oh-so good slipping my feet into the woman's shoes!

And then, the sudden tap on my shoulder...."Son, we tried our best, but we just couldn't save your father..."

The discomforting silence, the shuffling of feet, the strategically-misplaced 'Welcome' sign on the door of the operating-theatre wanting an immediate shift....it all pierced through me till my brain lay scattered in a million jigsaw pieces....i made no effort to put them together....

All i did, was smile....

i smiled as my eyes started scavenging for fresh squeaky shoes...Shoes that would hold my bare feet.

GROWING OLD....

You burn incense-sticks before Me...every single day...with frightful earnestness.

You scavange stealthily among the neighbours' rose-bushes, throw open your shameless blue umbrella to the deluge of their insults, and finally, place that single white rose at My frozen lips...And, I still smile.

Then you cry a little, wipe the redwood frame girdling my face vigourously, in a childish attempt to prevent nature and its cobwebby creatures from gnawing at Me....I am yours...You still hold that true.

At the end, you shuffle your feet free of the slippers, take off your glasses, rub your forehead slowly...uncertainly....

And then, you throw up your hands in defeat...The dialogues of your character, forgotten, you now scurry behind the comforting balck wings of the stage, breathing in wisps and sighs....

Slowly softly your head touches the pillow....My lap.

Even as you cringe and cry in your sleep, as that four seconds of horrific Life blasts through your dreams yet again, like a sheet lightening- the screech of tyres, the thud of flesh against steel, the dull bump, the suffocated screams of hellish pain muted all too suddenly, I rub my palm comfortingly over your prespiring brow.

You feel Me not.

You never will.

And yet will I stay...in the unruly folds of your handkerchief, in the dark tunnel-like spines of your wordy books, in the very centre of the palm of your hand, couched contentedly behind the petals of the white rose.

Yet will I stay, with you....

Even as you choke gallantly on your tears when garlanding me with fresh white wreaths on my birthdays, evan as your hands shake uncontrollably as you strike matchstick after matchstick to burn the incense-sticks before Me, even as you avoid the mirror for fear of painful Lonliness blinking back at you, I would surprise you now and then, when counting the proliferating grey hairs on my skull, I would wink slyly at you and say- "So my old man, are we not growing old together?!"

THE COMB...

Three days later, they were unearthed from beneath the debris, their faces- upturned bowls of pale china clay, with cracks snaking their way out from the corners of their parted lips, a dried string of blood stretching form the forehead to the chin, the eyes, two polished glass mirrors stitched to perfection, reflecting the clear blue sky....

the comb lay split in half in her stiff hand...flies buzzed around, piercing her, drawing no blood, withdrawing in dismay...

the foolish fastidiousness that Death demands!

comb your hair! brush your teeth! iron your clothes!

and off you go!

the first tremor made her irritant...it made her hand shake, and the sharp-teethed comb bit into her scalp maliciously...drawing blood in glee.

the next tremor pulled her in....

Ah! The foolish fastidiousness that Death demands!

THEIRS....

Sometime between their seventeenth or twentieth visit, they let slip from their velvety pouches, tiny rabbits, and held up stiff-backed menu cards like protective walls, as the little rodents went about their task- nibbling furiously, artistic frenzy gleaming in their blood-shot eyes like headlights, employing the left limb to sweep back wood shavings...that too, in perfect unision, like a troupe of ballet dancers. The task done, prespiring foreheads were wiped, all the ten and twenty cannines tapped for assurance of their durability, papery dust and shavings puffed away, the artisans- escorted back to their velvety burrows with thought-balloons of plump carrots and walnuts inflating before their eyes....

Now, the seigh seemed complete.

The table was theirs. Their name would spit back at intruders of every shape and colour, the deep incisions on wood would glare menacingly, sometimes glowering, making diners uneasy, making them avert their eyes. The slender legs of the table and of their chairs, would graze against the intruders' legs, death-cold...hostile...making a million goosebumps erupt.

Finally, they would change seats.

The waiters would scratch their heads in confusion- hungry diners willing to wait it out in the lounge till another table emptied out, but not daring to occupy the one with the ugly scars on its face!

Those who dared to seat themselves at Their table, returned home with crimson gashes and scratches on their bodies which only they could see.." Can't you people see these! Look at this- the bloody scar! Why the hell is it invisible to you?"

Young spirited boys, with a hairy Tarzan hanging from the arteries of their heart, challenged each other to graze their hips against the demented piece of furniture...They had fantastic stories to recount- " I felt a spark! Like a high voltage electric shock!"...." What grazed againt my hip was not wood but the edge of a knife! See...see the deep cut! Maybe then you would believe me!"

Some heard groans..others, high-pitched shrieks.

Some swore to have heard a low deep voice...like a drum-roll, beating out a warning for all.

A few heard roars...felt jolts and kicks...

A man had put his palm against the wood, a sharp splinter flew into his eye. He could see everything, but would remain blind for the rest of his life....

So, the table lived.

It collected dust, ants, pecks from rosary beads and curses thrown from afar...

Yet, it lived.

Its owners never returned after that day, the day that they sealed their names on the table-top.

Their job here was done...they need not return.

Now, for the rest of the world....

They remembered in hazy snatches, words of their fifth grade teacher...He had told them once- 'Make the world your home.'

Thus, now....for the rest of the world.

HIDING PLACE...

In his own shadow, he finds a hiding place. Clawing desperately at its edges, he attempts to pull it tight around himself...hopes the black cloak would pounce on him and devour. Not a trace of him would be left then. Just a figure in misty black, rubbing its paunch contentedly, belching rhythmically...

But it seems as though, the monster never swallows him...it just pushes him to the side of its mouth and keeps him there...and when the celebratory arson begins in the east, the monster spits him out. There he lies, defenceless and weak, the cloak having slipped off from over him, leaving him shivering in his sleep...

The world flashes torches on his face...rudely, mockingly. The stones roll over stealthily to his side of the road and wait to make him stumble. His habits they know well. His comical gait they ape when they gather for their nightly ritual of ale-drinking and merry-making. He walks with his eyes closed..this they know. Thus, he never notices the lean lamp-post striding puposefully across the street, egged on by the enuthusiastic clamours of the stones, pillars and flower-pots, as it posts itself innocuously just where it is sure to collide with him. And their plan succeeds...like always.

His letter-box bears no ruddy roses with shy pink ribbons clinging on to them with the committment of a lover who has been sentenced to indefinite exile, and for whom, these fragile red petals are the only carriers of the agony in his heart. No. His letter-box bears no token of love. It shifts laborously all the way to its owner's door and knocks angrily...a pregnant blue letter-box bursts with irritation as he opens its door. Unpaid electricity bills, letters of warning, rejected resumes...each battle with the other to reach him first, not to be wisked off their feet in a bear hug, but to be torn open and done justice with.

Euthanasia they beg for. And he begs for it too....

he searches for corners to hide in...but realises, that the world is but, round.

LOVE...IT WILL BE

Bangles i like, and their sound too....the way they clank and cry, giddy with happiness...the little rascals!

And oh! The pinch of vermillion...how the red dust snakes its way coquettishly along the parting of my hair, and having completed the journey, look up innocently in denial of the carnage they have caused!

Yards of brocade in peacock blue scale my frame, twisting and turning, contorting, bunching up conspiringly at my belly and then diving in. Almost instantly, twisters of intoxicating sensuality ravages through my being. Wholeness consumes me.

I smell fresh jasmines...feel their soft pulse under my finger. They embellish my tassels with surprising feminity. I close my eyes and dream of soft satin sheets and polished four-posters..of the deep breaths of insense sticks and of slender hands pulling at the strings of the sitar...also, of urgent explorations on a moonless night.

I want to blush....to feel the heat rising like the sun in my cheeks...

I want to gaze at my reflection on the mirror through kohl-ladden eyes, and lower them abruptly as you enter the room....

I want to see love settle contentedly, on my bangles...on the lids of my eyes...on the parting of my hair...

Flecks of love it will be, billowing out before me, caught in a trance in the light falling through the shutters of my window as i wipe the tops of cupboards and dressers....Yes, love it will be.

THE WAR....

they fought all night till their eyelids drooped in protest.....
the next morning she rose early to continue, but he never woke...
there he was, pushed to the extreme left of the bed...had thrown up his hands in submission and let her claim that coveted side of the bed that ensured sweet breezy dreams....
now, his submission seemed eternal...complete.
the upper edge of his lip seemed to have pricked itself up just a bit...the grin never had the leisure to assume its full form, but there it was, jeering at her- 'which side of the bed will you sleep on now?'
it never struck her that this sudden elimination of her rival called for celebration...burst of confetti? popping the corks of campaigne bottles? three loud cheers?
now, after all those tiring nights of epic warfare, why was she sitting by his side, wiping away the quivering pellets of sweat lining his forehead? the pellets he had gathered meticulously through the night...a temple-ful of evidence to bring under the glaring scrutiny of some imaginary Justice, to expose before all, the hegemony of his wife. now, she wiped them away...softly, lovingly, longingly...'destroying evidence!', he would have barked, but in that room of controlled breaths, wispering voices, mournful sighs and a general oppressive air of reverence, his voice passed through the sieve of silence...and melted away...
the war has ended. peace unfurled its pristine white flag, mockingly.
they carried him away in a glass box, leaving her with sweat on her palms...and nothing else.
the bed looked massive at night, it seemed to rise and expand before her eyes...she could attempt to swim across it, and give up midway in fatigue. ..
her throat hurt...irascible words scratched against her voice box...'let us out!', they screamed.
but the nightly rituals were done with...words and thoughts has been burnt at his funeral pyre.
now, she sat picking at her own ashes, while shooting jealous glances at the left side of the bed...

OF LIGHT....

Patches of light, moonlight...

click! click! goes the knitting needles, steel striking steel.

The patches quiver painfully as they are made to twist and turn, loop their hundred-and-one tentacles over each other, stretch till they whine.

Two bony figures, one shorter than the other, crawl on all fours to reach the twelveth hour. Once there, they sigh, joyful for the brief respite...their temples dripping senility....

The Hour....has been reached.

The knitting done.

'i am safe..', she murmers, the iron claw gripping her throat, slowly loosening its hold...

' another night...will Pass..'

Wrapping herself up in the newly-made cloak, she sits at her corner.

The singular cockroach marching resolutely towards the warmth of her bunched-up frame does not stir a single muscle on her face...

She keeps sitting at her corner...the blazing cloak, clasping her, tight.

She sits...two blind spots distended mercilessly over the hollows that should have been her eyes.

She sits...

gathering wisps of courage to brave a world that she can not see....

THE GIFT....

I put her to sleep with a snorkel in her mouth, held on resolutely as her pink rubbery lips tried in vain to push back the intruder from storming its portals, and having finally succeeded in my seigh, kissed the two faint eyebrows good night....and waded out.

The brown envolope lay on the shelf, i had read and re-read it, memorized the obese words spattered across the page, till they had started to do somersaults around me with surprising perfection. Now, i stood ready for my oration....
He, my singular audience, sat on the couch, dispassionate eyes tracing the trials and tribulations of a terrified treadbare duce ball as savage men hit at it mercilessly with bats and still others, chased it to the farthest ends of the arena. I could hardly see him, the world swam before my eyes, like looking through a curtain of smoke....he, knitting the curtain with a deftness that shocked me, still....
Finally, my cue...the comercials came on...
"Thank you for giving me this...", said i, and threw down the X-ray report before his eyes.
Two over-cooked brinjals with their stalks sliced off, stared back at him, glumly...
"What the hell are these?!", he exclaimed....
"My lungs", i replied.

Trudging through heaps of ash, diving through giant smoke rings in an act of mock celebration of my fate, i turned back and looked at him for the last time...
"Don't worry..i havn't told her that she has it too...not that i wouldn't have, only, it would have been a tad difficult explaining the beauty of cancer to a six year old..."

DARKNESS....

The Night gathered strength, forming ominous dark puddles at the foot of my bed. Where the rheumatic street-lamp offered its last bleak services to the world, the coconut tree, reclining against its quivering net of light, rose to a menacing stature against my wall. Moonlight there was none...just wisps of greying hair gliding indifferently in a bucket of inky black. An eclipse formed over my eyes, disturbing shades of darkness waltzed around me...every single object in my room seemed draped in black...draped and sashaying about, their feet barely touching the ground, or so it seemed to my blind eyes, for not a single noise did they make. The Night walked barefeet, painting my oh-so familiar world with the shades of unfamiliarity....'What was this place?', I wondered aloud...a timeless, formless space...a space that escaped the clutches of definition. This space i knew not...this place was not Home.

Do not forsake me at the tentacles of rabid Supposition.
Love does not dress in mourning black, but, in pristine white...in shining yellow... in rippling blue.
Our childish little plastacine world i have carefully built...the walls against which, many a times i have rested my tired head and dreamt...dreamt of petty squables over the logic of hanging a Chinese fan on it's face!
When your boat hit the side of mine, the wound was mortal...my boat sank, but my heart...you saved. After years of dormancy bordering on death, my heart finally gave a little leap...a tiny, elusive jig...and the world unfurled before my eyes.
Finally, i could see where Life would travel from here...the ports it would visit, the inns it would put up in...the inconsequential feats of greatness it would perform in public reading-rooms. Finally, i could build...build and make indomitable Hope the skeletal framework of my creation...
So, having lighted up the candles along my way, do not snuff them out now.
The darkness will raze down my dreams....it will trample over the candles, make them moan in pain...our plastine world will melt into nothingness....Armies of Doubt and Fear will march in, lay seigh...
All will be lost in the hot frothing claudron of Darkness...of death before dying...and my heart will stop breathing...again.

WATER-SHOOTERS!

The world seems weary of soggy shoes….of papery gondolas bobbling up and down in murky puddles, holding up traffic…of wet widow-seats of public buses, enticing yet unaccessible.
Something must be done….and so be it.
‘Government calls for a state of emergency! Hike in all prices…umbrellas and raincoats will come free!’
Free! Free! Free!
Sticking out defiant tongues at bundles of pregnant clouds above, military helicopters zoom across the sky, dropping carters of raincoats and umbrellas at the sneezing, coughing, shivering world below…Where they drop with a deafening thud on the soil of Iraq, men, women and dogs alike, scream in terror till their lungs expand and burst…phut!
Around the world, water-proof mushrooms blossom…like a Mexican Wave they pop-up…from west to east, south to north. Skyscrapers button themselves up in the massive raincoats, streetlamps look grumpy in their comically oversized cloaks…their gumboots like empty flower-pots, humoring the balancing act.
‘The Government is satisfied…all seems dry with the world…the battle has been won!’
But what of the clouds?
‘Will you not rain?’, I ask them. A shadow passes over their countenance, darkening them further. ‘We are not needed anymore…’, the tears they shed fall Plink! Plonk! on the stupidly grinning umbrellas below….
I grind my teeth….
Something must be done…so be it.
Bleary-eyed, slumping, swearing, the sun emerges from behind the moping clouds…A frothy toothbrush in mouth, it tightens the string of it’s night-gown….grumpily.
‘Eh! Disturbed sleep last night sir?’…My cheeky question flares him up…angry spits of burning flint coupled with specks of white froth dart out of his mouth…I hold up a woolly cloud in self-defence, and my shield deflects the raging arrows….down down they shoot….towards the earth…and phisss! Singe the leathery skin of the umbrellas….
‘A hole! A hole!’ I shout in glee…
The clouds they scream in ecstasy…do cartwheels across the sky…and then with loaded water-shooters, advance…..
Rain! Rain! Here they come…
Here they come…Again!


But I, have other jobs at hand….scaling slimy water-pipes, evading the watchful eyes of the wise, cynical world, I would have to make my way to the printing-room…
For, without me, who else would ‘Forecast’ the weather?

THE SEA?

Life marches on...I drag along.
"Lift your feet and walk!"- Life commands.
The logo on my coconut-oil bottle promises a wristful of sand...
I long for the sea...for the insolent pinpricks of salt in my eyes...
Crows I wish to seize by the throat and dip in pools of white...
Look! Look! Seagulls in disguise!

The man who translates life for me...is dead.
Now, I sit on my haunches, chewing on my nails, biting my lips...tasting salt...salt? ah! the sea?
The Sea! The Sea!
I run wildly down the streets, slipping on my slippers, bumping, shoving, kicking gaping coconut shells out of my way...Coconut Shells!... ah! the sea? again!
The Sea! The Sea!
Thoughts challenge my feet...they run...neck-to-neck, eyes set resolutely on the finish-line...
Tiny drops of sweat join forces at my forehead...a murky threadbare curtain falls over my eyes, blurrs my sight...i tear it away, with all my might.
The Sea! The Sea!
'I can read life!'....Relief runs a omforting hand over my head....
I run on....
I run towards Life...
But Life...
Life scowls down at me...I, the defiant foreigner, finally brought to my knees...made to pay for scoofing at the Language of Life.
"The Sea it is not"...Life smirks this time..."The One is Blood...the other,a rotting Coconut-Shell...The Sea it is not!"
I walk back in the dark.
In an incomprehensible world, the barring cannines of the garbage-bins seem to bark at me- "It's all Greek and Hebrew to you...is it not?!" and the streetlamps blink in appreciation of the joke..."Cheers!", shout the signposts....All great scholars of a wise old world.
The tears...they came, as they had to come....
But wait...the tears...the salt! salt?...
The Sea? Yes,the Sea!
The Sea! Here I come!

YOUR JOURNEY...

Shoelaces tightened in a solemn bow across your feet...

Over-stuffed mouth of your leather suitcase, stifled with a loud snap!

Halting before the mirror, your image makes you jump...a comical red bindi sits smugly on the clearing between your brows...but on a closer look...ah! the red rogue is not on your forehead..it is on the glass!

The otherwise dispassionate man-in-the-radio, chokes on his words everytime you pass by him...you hit him angrily on his head, twist his ears, make them go red. The 'roads to avoid' section of his narration becomes gibberish...a messy concoction of clogged lanes and roads holding rude sign-boards screaming 'no entry!', with the teary man-in-the-radio standing in the midst of it all, the clueless traffic police.......Sniff! Screech! Phut!.......and you pull him out of the socket. Silence...complete.

Hurried bites on the toast as the untouched cubes of butter stare at you...hurt, again...you ignore them everytime...why?

" Because i have no time", you say...

Time! Time! You remember then....strap the black ticking appendage to your wrist...wind yourself up...a human time-bomb...ticking away....

So you leave, your squeaky shoes rolling in dust like naughty children, the wind shooting arrows through your well-combed hair...arrows that burst into grains of dust and rain down on your head.

You board a bus...no place to sit....a tight fit, you are. Again and again you bring your hand down to your pocket...the bulge of your wallet assures you- 'im there!' A stranger in grey and white makes a pillow of your shoulder...you do not complain...maybe the man's formidable snores frighten you into submission.."it doesn't matter"- you console yourself...

You walk on and on...

On and on...you walk.

Through overflowing vats of concrete and sand, metal and man...you walk...

Finally,you arrive...

A tired sustained ring on the bell......

I open the door....

You smile...for the first time in the day....

' I would like to believe that this is what you prepare yourself for every morning....that this is what you travel towards...this where your journey ends...'

I close my diary...the only recipient of these loud thoughts- my red bindi sitting smugly on the face of the mirror....tomorrow, it will make you jump again...

THE LAST CUE....

Raised voices, fingers and flying plates of bone-China nudged the night awake...Sleep slipped down slimpy water-pipes, heaving a sigh of relief...He swore, dramatically and with eloquence...they, the three-and-twenty ancestors framed into captivity with steadfast devotion, wished and prayed to be devoured by termites or be felicitated with cobwebby wreaths...She, wrung her heart dry...not a single drop of tear left to be spared....

And then...the Silence, counting its breath.....She, combing her hair, tapping her feet to the dull rythym of the breaths...waited for her cue.

Her cue..it came...and she walked away with appreciative pats on the back...flicking jealous glances off her shoulder, smiling at the camera...waving at the stupefied world....a world that had dragged Her by the collar and dumped Her into the reeking box of 'the sufferers'...'She would be wipped and caned, Her eyes gouged out..and yet She will stay, rising for gasps of breath from the sea of self-inflicted grief...'

But look!

Look how the puppet hangs by the strings from the gnarled fingers of the ceiling-fan! Look at Her!....See how she hangs....Defying the desperate pulls of the infinite strings, She hangs motionless...

A puppet that would dance to the tunes of her puppeteer no more....

BEAUTY OF BRICKS!

Ah! The beauty of the bricks! Of the motar...of the sands...and of the Dreams!

Their enticing nakedness, making a thousand hopeful blueprints errupt in the mind. Bring in the potter's-wheel!

Blundering my way out of the musty womb of eternity, aided by a pair of forceps and prayer beads, the furnished world that greeted me with a toothy smile, was disappointing. I had expected disorderliness...chaos...the inexplicable charm in an upturned water jug or a Van Gough hanging carelessly by one arm on the wall. Then with my bulldozer i would have come, the blueprints receiving indelible wounds of the pencil all the while.

What about the hands that itch upon seeing a well-combed hair? What about the tiny ant of irritation that fastens its seat-belt tighter around your gullet when confronted with a creaseless milk-white shirt? It is then that we loosen our hair, kick away the sandals and run roaring towards the sea...the sea- unkempt, shabby, reeking of dead fish and skipped baths...The sea, rolling on wet sand, getting teary with laughter, pointing a frothy finger towards the world...a furnished world that had disappointed me.

Centuries of careful ironing has rendered the apparel too stiff for wearing. Now it hangs by the shoulder in the cupboard..the shoulders, too stiff to slump...too stiff! too stiff! A stoic without a choice!

This world then, has lost my attention...i will let it go, and search for alternatives here and there. Search for a place where my builder's kit and rubber boots will be of use....where my handiwork would speak for me....where i would decide after much contemplation, whether Van Gough should hit my visitors in the eye upon entering the sitting-room, or choose to sneak up on them as they sipped coffee in the dining-room!

For Ah!...The beauty of the bricks!..Of the mortar...Of the sand...and of the dreams!

THE STORMING.....

Dried slices of mango, strips of green and red chillies, deliciously pregnant cubes of lemon…all stamped into submission, staring out at the foggy world from their mustard oil-filled glass prison…intermittently, choking…silently spewing oily rivulets of tears….the tears, their only letters of unconvincing assurance to the loved ones around….’I am fine! I am fine!’
Then, a dull thud! The hot summer air drew in its breath…sharply. An army of ants scaling the rusty yellow pipe of the water tank for the fifth time, stopped in their expedition, shock gleaming loud and clear on their perspiring brows. And then, a nanosecond of ominous silence, followed by a thunderous crash!....and little Raja has set them free! The glass prison has been stormed…it has fallen, limp and defeated at the hands of a single thread-bare duce ball!
The exodus of the jubilant prisoners...the dying shards of glass counting their last breath under the smirking sun…the pools of oily blood, expanding, flowing into each other…drowning all long bottled-up grief and suffering in the massive ocean of freedom…..This moment will be remembered…remembered and recorded in little Raja’s personal archive…The day the glass prison fell!

LOVELESS...ALL BUT WE...

Where will you love me?

Where will i love you?

Vindictive park-benches screaming urgently, 'Wet paint! Wet paint!'....

Rude rings of the cycle-bell, Tring!Tring!, making us pull away,painfully...my lips, left the thirsty traveller..yet again.

Bleary-eyed streetlamps jolt themselves awake...cringing in disgust, repugnance...they flood the dark dreamy lane with nightmarish light...you slip your land away from across my waist..i feel the one tenacious iron railing giving way...i fall.

Malevolent blades of grass beckon to us with batting green eye-lids...we sigh in relief...finally!...Our tattered little tent we thus put up...you follow me in...'let the bud bloom just this one time'..i pray silently, my ears deaf to the hicupps of chuckle from beneath...

Slice! went the unforgiving knife...like the hungry scalpel of the surgeon, it tore through our tent...it collapsed with a defeated sigh,the smirking blades of grass denying its soul, a resting-place....

The city chased out Love ...chased it out with brutal severity, like cleansing the bowels of a lamb for purposes of its 'eternal' installation in the biology laboratory.Love,took to its heel...bewildered, hurt, tired...

I am tired too...so are you...this loveless city of rioting bricks and warring stones has closed its blood-stained portals on us too...

So tell me,Love...

Where will you love me?

Where will i love you?

THE HUNT...

Large hairy hands wriggled their way out through the hairline cracks on the red brick walls that stood sentinels on either side of the narrow lane...they clawed at her,seemed to derive immense cannibalistic pleasure at the sound of the sharp scratch! of their yellow nails against her soft flesh and thus,clawed for more....the bricks salivated...licked their tongues..smack! smack!...she screamed in terror...

The flourescent colour dial of the wall clock stared back at her prespiring countenence.Through the pitch black of the night, the left edge of it's ridiculously-thin black metal lips twitched, the honest efforts at keeping a straight face in a gallant show of mock sympathy...it would be a mere five minutes before this mean parody of greek tragedy will fall through...2:50 am that would be.

It has been happening every night...the choking, salivating walls..the ear-splitting cry of terror that seemed to play only in her ears..like through a set of ear phones..then she would break through the nightmare and fall back hard on her stiff bed... a confused heap of tousled hair,ruffled beadsheets and beads of sweat adorning her neck and temple....her terror-stricken eyes staring up at the senile ceiling-fan....and the sole spectator of this play, a cynical flourescent coloured wall clock...a play that plays to an almost empty auditorium every night...and yet,it gets played.

Morning dawns....she sees the sky undress yet again, stripping off the smoky-black smock of Night and buttoning up the A-line tunic of Day...the vigorous polishing of shoes,the concentrated combing of hair,the quick gulping down of milk...and the sky is ready to take on the day!

Then,the furious banging on her door...the one feminine howl that she has come to dread....her mother at the other end,saying- 'wake up sleepy head!...the fifth family will be coming to see you today!...do not forget to oil your hair well...heard the guy appreciates long black hair...eyes parched in USA,you know?!'

And she knows...the walls will hunt her out yet again..again..and again..and again.

MY PRINCE...AND I

I had no way of knowing that He was my prince…no burst of confetti at my feet, no conch shell clarions in the air , no cheeky bee buzzing past my ear saying- Watch out! It’s Him!
Life was still the same…the same old life refusing the plaintive calls of the garage mechanic for immediate servicing. Yawning, Life rubbed it’s eyes dramatically and announced- Do not bother me!....So, we were left alone...not bothered…we, Life and I...left alone to yawn and rub our eyes, dramatically…and in harmony.
Then the sudden Scritch! Scratch! at the window-pane…a traveller probably, halting for brief respite, a morsel of mouldy bread, a glass of water pushed in slight irritation through the window…profuse and comically-elaborate ‘thanks’…and we return once again to our yawning and rubbing of eyes, dramatically…and in harmony.
But oh!...This traveller wants no bread or water, and yet an outstretched palm stares back at me. I notice the soft milky pink of the palm, shockingly reassuring…an icy lump of confusion starts sliding painfully down my throat…The traveler wants no bread or water- whispered Life into my ears…words pregnant with caution, fear, apprehension….
‘What do you want?’-I ask…and He says, ‘Your heart.’….
My prince was born to me the day I handed Him my heart…I, quivering in ecstasy…He, with outstretched palm, receiving the poor patch-worked thing and cradling it in his arms….His arm around me, like the pebbled yellow beach girdling the heaving blue carpet of water… would make me dissolve into nothingness…blissfully oblivious to the world without. His dimples, two perfect holes drilled into his cheeks by the naughty fairies with their powerful drilling-machines, would smile at me...and I would wonder, what secrets are stored away in those dark dungeons?..And the dimples would whisper back at me ‘Love! Love!…and I would snuggle closer, wishing to petrify with the flourish of my magic wand, Life and its menacing alarm clock…
Now, when a single doleful tear slithering down his cheek wishes to be collected and boxed up in a case so that it may not go to waste, I crave for home…our blue cottage, eclipsed by the foliage of love from the malevolent piercing glance of the cemented world around…and our brown boat…
My prince…the one who never galloped into my life astride a milk-white stead with his shining armour on…the one who never made confetti burst at my feet, made no conch-shell clarions…nor employed a cheeky bee to whisper into my ear- Watch out! It’s Him!
Yet…I call Him my prince…for he has made me feel like a princess…..

CUPID ABOUT TOWN...

Cupid walks in soft woollen socks over pebbles and rocks....A faux pas to the core,he trips over other peoples' careless shoelaces, mumbles an embarrassed 'sorry!' that is audible only to him(and to the laces ofcourse) and bumps into disapproving brick coloumns that make gleeful sparrows and winking stars do a mambo around his halo...His journey had been bad,bad enough to stuff 'it' into a non-recyclable polythene packet, throttle the gaping mouth of the packet with a silvery twine and then kick it with the fury of one whose 'love-coated' arrows and golden bow had been detained at the airport security-check for want of a licence! Then there had been the ruffians at the bus-terminus...the apparently 'busy souls' who bump into people with the Providential duty of relieving them of all wordly possessions...Bumping imto him had been disappointing for them,he had no pockets...but for him,the violiation had been complete...first of his powers, and then of the snug overcoat of immunity that he believed, protected his immaculate frame from the dangerous eddies of 'imperfect human life' manifested in the impatient honking of ghoulish metallic animals, ridiculously high electric bills and ofcourse, licences!...
Thus Cupid walks still...blistered feet,blood oozing through the tiny windows of his soft woollen socks...but the steppings are more confident now,more adapted to the merciless pebbles and rocks...he now swings a grim-looking briefcase in his left hand,with the right, takes a long contemplative drag of a cigarette...and while he walks,he smiles...a sudden secretive smile like a sudden naughty peck on the cheek...a smile brought about by the thought of that first glimpse of a tattered dictionary where under the word 'Cupid'(searched out in an initial desperate attempt to assert his position in this alien world) he had discovered a still better word...a much more interesting prospect..a word that was to become his gateway into this world...the innocuous word- 'CUPIDITY'......