Sunday, 22 November 2015

It's time to get flowers.

Weren't you the one who zoomed in on the screen,
in the mist of Shillong
and color the studio green?

The iron pieces still cling onto you,
it clings every second
as time slips away from me
like a creeping vegetable
growing in my mother's garden,
stealthily and silently.

I fear if it was you,
or the time that's slipping by,
day by day
minute by minute.

I'm still your bee,
waiting for you
your scent and your lukewarm self,
to reach me again
once more
in a place bereft of people
society,
only you and I.

Let us swim, you and I
submerged in this river,
you in your pyjamas and your absolute self
and me with my genetic brown eyes, synthetic blue-grey glasses
and my full face.
Extinguish the greedy blaze,
my pristine thrist.

Toss away the adorable politics,
the people,
the disposable plastic glasses,
Get more flowers and herbs and heal the world.
Heal the sickness and secure our future of togetherness.



Tuesday, 19 May 2015

That little death in us

I died as an infant in my mother’s womb,
Before I made my entrance.
I died as a little girl trying to go to school,
Inside the sack, raped and murdered.
I died as a foolish young man in the car,
Trying to get away among the bullets,
A prey to their wishlist.
I died as a young mother, pregnant and helpless
In front of my little son.
I died as an insurgent,
With boots and shirts not of my own.
I died as a lover,
With my breast cut off like a life size doll.
I burned myself in a protest,
In front of thousands of eyes.
Thus my ashes get blown away in the wind.
I starve myself to death, with greedy eyes all around me.
Thus, I die little by little.
I die a little every second that counts.
I die a little with every new news.
My redundant chant bores you,
It confuses you just for a while,
While the pain lingers

And haunts ceaselessly.

Saturday, 27 September 2014

Destination undone.

It's the dripping drops that I see,
Streaming down the abyss.
Floating hopes and dreams
stripped away from the mothers.

Gorging myriads of lives profusely
Hiding behind democracy;
Dancing to the distorted melody
smiling and dying,
disappearing,
swiftly,
turning
into
a
.


A void: that's all left.



Monday, 1 September 2014

On a Monday morning in August Amos is riding a bicycle towards South Campus. Dragging his extra fat with the help of a burrowed bicycle, he is riding at around 10:30 am from North Campus to South Campus in University of Hyderabad. Despite his heavy weight, he sweeps on the road quickly with an air of superiority over his colleagues. This is because he comes from the same place where one of the five professors in his dept. (Physics) comes and shares a common language unlike all his fellow students who communicate only in English with the professors. Hence, he pays no attention whatsoever on the road where he is riding nor the poor chameleon which will get run over by his burrowed bicycle later crushing its head.
Kongbrai is riding beside Amos. If you put both of them together in one frame like this…
Kongbrai looks extremely thin and lanky besides the overgrown flappy Amos. Kongbrai, who otherwise looks perfect, is made to appear scrawny by Amos’s unsaturated fat which will eventually take his life away in the future before he turns 40. His boring Christian life is bound to fade with a few heart attacks. No one dares to make a conversation with him about his perennially bulging belly. It is the way, he should not be judged on his physical look.
Unlike Amos, Kongbrai could concentrate on the road because the only thing he does with the air around him is to exhale and inhale while cycling. There are only rocks on both sides of the road and it is getting hot, even more so because of the picture of the dry landscape except for some tufts and concrete buildings for every quarter of a kilometer. The palm trees are of no help in cooling down the heat. However, Kongbrai retains his coolness despite the heat and rides beside Amos.
There it is, a chameleon, camouflaged in the center of the road, one meter in front of the front tyre of Amos’s cycle. Its greyish pale green skin blends in the road.
Kongbrai shouts at Amos, nervous and worried, Amos turns the handle, the front tyre screeches avoiding the chameleon by a few inches.
The back tyre runs over its head. Plop! Blood streaking out of its head, spurting like a garden spray for a second. It lays motionless on the road while Amos increases his speed forgetting about his disturbed BMI. He zooms out from the scene without even looking back once.
Kongbrai, devastated, stops his cycle in a jerk and stares at the motionless chameleon. He has a dream of keeping chameleon as a pet one day. He keeps telling his girlfriend that someday, he shall get one and feed it and nurse it. This reminds his girlfriend of Ceasar in ‘The Rise of the Planet of the Apes’ a few minutes ago. ‘You and your obsession in reptiles’, she’d tell him occasionally. He even proved that it is hereditary, that he can’t help it, that he loves them by asking his brother a question in front of his girlfriend who conveniently replied, ‘Yes, snakes should not be killed just like that. They are the ones who are afraid actually. Not humans. It’s wrong to kill them every time we see one.’

Now, this man, spilling out of his bubble dream rushes towards the half-dead chameleon and realizes that it is still breathing. He looks around for sticks and twigs which he finds after a minute or so, with which he takes up the chameleon, carries it to a side with assiduity and place it smoothly. This chameleon, who is endowed with the ability to change its skin color to defend itself from its prey ends up getting a lethal blow owing to its ability. Its own power transforming into a beacon of its death.