Tuesday, September 29, 2009

DOORBELLS

the mushroom sprouted...
it tore through your being,
a harvest unexpected, unwanted...

it was a blast, wasn't it?
a blast of colours...
colours?
hell yes!
colours unidentified,discomposed...
colours, whose searing blush imprinted on quivering skins, the patterns...
patterns of trivial life, imprinted on skins by the searing blush.
and colours, whose hue and tinge would be debated over still-
was it red? black? yellow? or white?

she was caught unaware...poor thing!
with a baby pink porcelain cup pressed to her lips,
the lips...
lips?
yes,lips....though charred to wooden silence, but lips still.
lips pressed to the cup...pressed in prayer...
a single urgent wisp of prayer, stillborn.

8:15 in the morning...
yes, 8:15 it was, when the postman yawned his way into your land...
into your land...
and dropped the Little Boy into your letter-box...

I shudder to behold doorbells-
they gleam a menacing shade of crimson...
the crimson of sudden mushroom harvests, of cloth-patterns embossed on skins,
of soft lips parched black, dripping tea-drops.
the crimson radiating off the bare backs of the world...
the doorbell....
the doorbell that hunts for answers, retaliation, a kick for a kick...

and so the dates are rolled out...like mock red carpets, one after the other-
1941 tied in a love-knot to 1945,
1945 furnishing its abode with reels of unyielding metallic curtains...
the metallic curtains, lovingly erecting haphazard walls...

the doorbell continues to ring...
a jarring sound that knows no respite.
you have to answer it, there is indeed,no respite...

and the mushroom sprouted....twice.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

MIND IT?

how would it sound if she blew her nose on rich green satin?
would you wince? grimace perhaps? shake a disillusioned head at the depravity of a wanton age?
but is it not music still?
earnest attempts at the trumpet...pathetic, but earnest?
here! let me assist you-
a gentle puncture would do the trick...go forth! go, puncture those insidious pupils that are insomniac by choice, noting vigorously every minute detail of your life in artful shorthand from behind rich green satin curtains!
go and set ablaze every brewery frothing at the mouth with despicable precocious lies!
and now...
now the court would be adjourned, brick by brick.
jurymen would stumble in the dark, elbows kicking shins, knees punching bellies, angry curses wrestling each other for a firmer foothold...
come on! smile now!
the hegemony of the stiff-collars has perished, extermination of all pupils carried out with sparkling precision!
accept the anarchistic music with open arms!
poor girl, her nose will be spurting red streamers soon...
tell her! go, tell her!
tell her the party is elsewhere!
come on girl! welcome to the club!

Saturday, June 27, 2009

THE NIGHT IS DONE....

Drink in deep…the boiling oil, burning the night lamp….
The night will heave a sigh,
The night is done,
The night would untie her feet-
Nurse the wounds dealt by stiff iron shackles,
Curse the sun that had dived into the shimmering pool of oblivion.
Hence, let the night be done.

Drink in deep…the boiling oil burning the night lamp…
For they would pull him up by the collar now,
They would pull him up….the sun.

DANCES BY NIGHT....

Stifled cries by night…
Thread-bare pillows, dampened…
Dampened by the night….a night of smoky foggy memories.
Tap dances on the brow,
The feet, skidding on perspiring brows.
The dance will continue still,
Silence, a forlorn musical note-
Like invisible wheels skidding recklessly on a rain-washed street,
Of feet…feet stuffed into stiff stilettos, skidding on perspiring brows…..

Thursday, March 12, 2009

A SUBLIME JOY!

the sublime joy of it...
a sadistic chuckle would escape as restless steads of imagination would be spurred on to hear the satisfying crack! of a brain split open, or an immaculately painted toe nail crushed....or still more soothing, the eyes gouged out and hurled plink! ponk! into the canal.
ah! the sublime joy of it!
it felt like giving the miss to death itself. or, maybe to life...who knows? who cared?
all that He felt, was the 'giving the miss'...yes! that in itself was occasion enough to whistle and clap, to exhale triumphant wisps of breath through the holes of His socks...those very socks! the ones that gagged Him in mock-strangulation, and when the white-hot fear of death numbed Him, eased its hold on Him and patting the prespiring cheek proclaimed- "do not worry son. me, your only ally!"
"my only ally!"- He wondered aloud for four days and nights, gaping at the marvelous circumstances and in the process, paving a tempting dark alleyway for mosquitoes and flies....
and now, the game began- giving the miss, waving a greasy thumb, sticking out His tongue and flapping it like a crazed victory-flag!
how it scorched His heart in unspeakable rage as He saw Them standing a mile away, patting into strict array their carefully-combed hair, straightening out invisible creases on their beige and white shirts, checking for the millionth time the narcissistic smile plastered on the upturned faces of their polished black boots. ugh! how he detested Them! and then, They would click their tongues in distaste and impatience all the while, throwing dirty looks at Him. i am not God!- He would scream in His chest. and yet, They would stamp their squeaky little boots to let Their dissatisfaction be heard....and how well They succeeded, even over the wild cacophony of the metal-and-smoke world!
and thus it would have been, had He not felt the twitch of His sock...the silent message conveyed briskly up his feet, leg and brain. yes!- He exclaimed in ecstasy...the game would begin...now!
so it is now....They stand there in all Their combed-and-polished finery. He halts at Their feet with all due reverence, even aiming at a dramatic genuflection...and then! just as they lift one polished extremity on to the footboard, down comes His hole-in-the-sock foot with majestic emphasis....whoosh! the accelerator springs to life...and off He goes!
off! off! off into the wild free cemented sky, honking away in delight!
and there They stand, seething with anger..."did you see the audacity of that driver? we could have died under those wheels!"
ah! the sublime joy of it all! honk! honk!

Thursday, January 15, 2009

WITNESSES....

Tight-lipped they stood...neon-lights, pedastal-fans, earthern jugs. Dull yellow grills on windows budged not in fright. Papery peels of paint froze on brick walls, very much like the jagged wings of a sparrow electrocuted into stillness on serpentine telegraph-wires. A clay basin in the corner tried hard to camouflage its existence, but the incessant tip! top! of murky water-drops from the tap, falling like slender fingers on the black tuning-disk of a tabla, betrayed its intentions. "Hush!", warned the mosaic tile with a garish pink lotus painted on its face...His fellow tiles turned ashen in an attempt to hold their breath as the oval pool of blood started stretching and yawning....breaking into haphazard crimson distributaries, they surged on in a bid to touch the walls.

"Murder!", she had screamed unwittingly the last time...and that was the last of her. They smashed her even while she hung suspended by her cord. All watched in muted terror as they blinded her first with a swish of their hockey-sticks, and then, smashed her fragile bulbous figure with a triumphant stamp of their booted feet....

They were clever this time.

This time their would be no witnesses. No gasps. No screams. No cries.

This time, they would stay just what the animated world expected them to stay...inanimate....yes, just that.