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.

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.