He wanted to paint the colors of the sunset in the dancing rivers. With his father beside him, he felt like a superhero though he could not walk much with a virus in his legs. But his hands made up for that, for the fingers danced in the canvas when he was happy, stroked higher when he wanted to run or just laid still when he was tired.
He and Tom, his father used to sit by the lake every evening or most of his days, otherwise marked by the stillness in his legs. He never had felt the earth on his toes, they said he was one of the lucky few who had to rest well for they have to make long journeys.
They used to sit by the dock down the lake. They counted the stars as they slowly emerged from the blankets of grey, orange, and purples. He wanted to capture each of that hue on his canvas, and take that moment with him forever. He would not have minded if the universe could have ended just then, for there is no where else he wanted to be and that was not a moment when he felt like a cripple. He would trail his numbed toes through the waters and watch the reflection of a dreamy sky in its ripples. He felt alive in his legs then and accepted and celebrated them in all its glory.
Tom used to get some tea and sometimes played his tune on the strings, making the evening more beautiful than ever. He used to think his father as a genius with nothing impossible for him. In his jacket, that Tom wore everyday for this occasion, he looked peaceful and content. The jacket belonged to his mother, Tom’s wife, who gave it to him before she slipped from this world. And with the jacket snugged on to Tom’s shoulders, it reminded him of the way she used to stand beside him with her soft tiny hands, as a blanket of comfort that he missed now so dearly.
Tom loved her much, guess, too much.. and no matter what he did to fix it, no matter how many times Tom and his son spent in the evening together, or how many sunsets came and went, his soul had left with hers and only a tiny piece remained, that piece belonged to his son and always would be. Tom’s heart was in nothing that he did, except those evenings when he used to play his music by the ripples in the lake. That’s why he longed for them so, just to know Tom was at peace in this world, if only for a time. Tom had tried, he knew, to sort through the thoughts he had, but there was something changed in his mind, something had just died in him.
Tom’s gone now, and left him and everything and everyone behind, to be with his mother – the only place he truly belonged . He misses him, his songs, his jacket.The lake seems so lonely now, but every evening he still pulls through in his wheel chair down to dock, slips his socks off and soaks his toes in the lake. He trails his feet through the water lightly and pretends that he can see the reflection of Tom’s smiling face amidst that of the sunset’s. He smiles as the wind blows gently across his cheek and he knows, by the way it picks the fallen leaves up and tosses them into the sky, that Tom is truly happy now.
They rested, celebrated, found each other all over again in a cheap motel room that seemed as surprised in the hues of pink and magenta of their shadows.
She leaned closer to the side of the bed, lazy with the darkness looming in the curtains of the room. He was spinning verbal menageries like the spider on the corner with its cobwebs of reason and imaginations. The words swirled with their cigarette smoke, dissolving in the rings of air, humidity and underlying innuendos, dancing across the hazy air like a perched dancer on an invisible boulevard.
He had been away all weekend and most of the time that spanned through it; she felt like she would burst in her own bubble of solitude and loneliness of chaos in her head. And now she sat here watching his theatrical montage of words and smoke mixing together.
He speaks in turquoise, cerulean, yellows… whiskey amber, and delectable embellishment, each breath laced with nicotine and lucid dreams. Every day is a void canvas and a new paint-brush of dynamite; somehow the paint always drips, and he lights the fire in her head, each day every day.
For him, it was not a matter of a ploy, or for his own catharsis. He was his own character, poised, comic, tragic and poignant, all at the same time… he is words with wonder coated in a fabulous thin candy shell.
He has this lousy habit of making people fall in love with him.
He didn’t know about the weekend she’d had. He did not know that she had just lost her Enzo, her dog , her companion and the car was a reckless thing on that lousy Sunday Morning. Enzo was a hyperactive silly thing running across the streets, chasing squirrels dropping from the fall trees .All it took was a screech to bring her perfect world to an end.
He didn’t know how she thought she might be going crazy. How she had read that dogs are the best friends and people mourn their dogs’ death more than the death of their peers or folks. How she had not eaten well ever since and was clinging on to her shards of reasoning, failed and discarded.
There was a quiet moment. Not an awkward silence – with him, these did not exist. The fan was louder than it seemed with chaos in her head. He stared quietly into the distance like he was tapping onto his thoughts from a distance, like he was thinking about something way smarter than anything she could ever understand. It was nice, this silence. And then he turned to her, out of nowhere, and said
“Look at you. You’re writhing in the crushing grip of reason.”
And he was right.
She hadn’t told him a damn thing, and he was right. He had a way of saying it that made it sound bigger than everything else in the room. He had an understanding that dissolved in the smoke of his cigarette, like he was not one of those making a mockery of their own words, like he understood that Enzo was gone and she never would play with him again. Like he was joking but he was not.
“So how do you suppose that it was so?”
She continued chasing the smoke clouds in her head and squirmed. There was no need to say anything further. He knew already.
He knew how scared she was.
What good is a conversation when the words have already been spoken in your minds?
It’s a huge waste of space. That’s what it is.
“She will remember your heart when men
are fairy tales in books written by rabbits.
Of all unicorns, she is the only one who knows what
regret is – and love.”
-Schmendrick
Her lips open part for the breaths, dissolving into the sweats and blood,
Her words are not powerful-her speech faltering and embarrassed
But she is sincere!
First- she has to tell you
That there is a reason, a justification and understanding
That you always sought for but missed in her
Second- a caution- a request
Dontsayanythingyet, youmightmisunderstand
She doesn’t want an answer,
Leave beside a wrongone and misunderstood!
She conjured a whispered affection, fondness in her shadows-
Spoken with dry lips, parched and devoid.
Her averted eyes and apparent hopes
Gleamed in her eyes that don’t shine!
In her mind you’re a destiny,
just not the one she took home but hoped sincerely!
She would never say it in words,
she cares at least too much to pass it by.
But she’s been telling you for a while
with the way she leans in the doorway
always in the midst of lights and her gloom
where her shadows meet yours, becoming one.
A long dark alley stood before her, as she tried to put together her scattered self in the corridors of the hospital. Her beeper had gone twenty minutes before, and she had slept early hoping no distractions of the world coming to an end today. Two hours later, she find herself standing in the hospital, quiet and not as swarming as she had left it in the evening. She walked towards the morgue, somehow the remains of the life with heartbeats numbed in the plastic bags intrigued her in a way she had never known. There was no rush, no panic- for the worst had already happened. She saw herself one day zipped in one of those blue plastic bags, with her beeper in her apron’s right pocket.
He was seventeen years old- attractive, athletic, popular and in the yellow body bag. The yellow indicated that he was found by the relative, close or distant and he would not have to depart alone. The ones in Blue body bag were those consumed by the electric crematoriums of the hospital. The yellows were like a parachute, bringing the soul closer to home, while the blue ones were like an ocean, swallowing the whole life, never to be found again by anyone.
The charred remains of this boy’s life was revealed as the director unzipped the body bag. She didn’t remember the boy’s name, she remembered the sound of the opening bag and the sound of his father’s gasp as the bag peeled away from the corpse.
Raul, the Director at the mortuary, had brought the body up from Burgess Rd at the request of the father. She was supposed to be available if he needed anything . She stood, behind the father, as he stared down whispering to the corpse in the open bag.
She looked at her shoes, embarrassed that she was wearing her casual white Nike and Levis. Raul had told her that she wouldn’t need to dress for this call but she felt awkward, uncomfortable and disrespectful. She felt that at least she should wear a tie if she were to view such an intimate moment.
The father whispered quietly to his son’s blackened, burned remains, his voice rose only as he choked back tears or held his sobs with slow, controlled breaths.
Raul turned and looked at her with concern at first, seeming to notice her discomfort and he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You need to go get some tissues.”
She lifted her hand to her nose in dismay and looked up.
“No, no.” his voice was a sharp whisper. His face and voice was serious but his eyes showed amusement at her misunderstanding. “Just bring them back” He pointed silently back to the offices and she scurried over and found an open box and returned. She handed it to him and stood back in her place – out of the way, wishing herself invisible.
They waited just outside the calling room as the father spoke to his son for five or ten minutes, leaning over the body, or whatever remained of it. These remains that could have been anything – they barely resembled a human being- let alone his strong, handsome son.
The air of the lobby was dense and she wanted to throw up. She clinched the right corner of the table behind her and wondered why the boy’s mother was not there.
When the father’s words had dried up and he was left staring, he leaned forward and kissed the face, then touched what was left of the arm and tried to shake his son’s hand. He stepped back for a moment and absently brushed the dry, charred flakes from his fingers and they fell to the tile floor. She noticed those flakes, parched and devoid of father’s last embrace.
The father’s lips, nose and chin were flecked with ash and his face was red and blotchy with tears.
Raul pulled out several tissues from the box and handed these to the father. He subtly indicated the end of his nose, lips and chin drawing line down them with his finger.
The father accepted the tissues and wiped the black away, crumpled the tissues – crushed them in his hand. He dropped them carefully into the trash as he walked away.
Raul zipped the bag and wheeled the body to the back room as the father left the mortuary. He said he would wait in the car for the body. She retrieved a broom to sweep up the dust on the floor.
Tomorrow they would cremate what was left of his body – all that the fire in the van hadn’t consumed – for the funeral on Thursday.
She had to walk through the calling room in order to get back to her apartment and she passed picture after picture after picture… She tried to put a face on the body but failed. She wondered if the father had. She wondered if the father had ever spoken the whispered words to his son when he was alive – and she figured that he’d never said them before – and never probably would say those words again. She crossed the ward where she saw an old man sitting on the chair besides his ailing daughter but she knew she would get well. This old man probably too would never say those words again.
When she went back to her apartment, she turned off all the lights, blew out every candle in the room, and listened to her heart pound in the darkness. In her mind, she counted the number of yellow bags to blue bags and was glad that the yellow bags were a unit less.
“Hey You Ok?”
Steven called out to her, that little squirmed figure by the road side.
“Lost your dog? Or lost yourself?”
She sat there, still.
“You look sad.”
Steven just presumed so, her eyes gave way more than that.
“Want some ice cream?”
And then, she rose up. An attractive woman, in her late twenties or may be less. She had been crying and he had to ask. He knew an ice cream parlour two blocks away. She wore Blood Red shoes, which was funny in the afternoon summer.
“What’s your name, little red riding?”
Steven thought it was a funny name to call her, but it was more on the spontaneity of the Redness of her shoes. She wanted the Old fashioned Butter Pecan ice-crean, which was funny for her taste. Or for her shoes. The Butter Pecan ice-cream was more of a man’s thing.
“Do you like your ice cream, little red riding?”
She was a pretty girl, pretty more so as she did not talk much. Steven liked those kinds. He did not believe himself, cheering up a stranger with an Old Pecan. And he did not seem to mind it as this was not his first time. She was a real feast for his eyes, and she didn’t have much to say. She was very gloomy and self-obsessed.
And they sat there, he could not get her to talk to him or say her name. She sat there still, her only life rolled in the layers of her ice-cream.
Steven was beginning to lose his interest. He was late for his routine poker game and rounds of beer at his friend’s place. He thought about dropping her off at the bus station on the wrong side of the road. But the way she crossed her legs on her stool at the ice cream stand brought his attention back into focus. His attention was back to her shoes, that looked now pleasant and not so Red.
She enjoyed her ice cream cone ever, oblivious to Steven or anyone around her. For her, the world did not seem to exist. This was the end or beginning to her. And she flashed her sad eyes on him, as if she was trying to thank without showing any joy whatsoever.
She was a real drag.
He asked her where she lived. She did not seem to listen to him. And Steven felt morose in missing his beers and being stuck. It was over thirty five minutes now.
“Would you take me back to your place!?” She spoke as slowly as if eating her every word.
He wanted to take her back to his place. But she seemed funny and drugged. This should probably would help him in some ways. He could use her in his nights of loneliness or as a home keeper. He had been staying alone and she seemed pretty enough for a company or for being his mistress.
A life, or its sort formed in his mind as she let another tear fall from her eye. This made him re-think his plan, he did not want a whiny, depressed wreck in his house. He convinced himself that he would not get his life disheveled in her emotional breakdowns.
“I would, I guess I could use some help around the house. Do you feel better now, little red riding.”
She seemed to appreciate what he had done for her and timidly asked if there was anything she could do to repay him for his kindnesses. He figured a thousand man ways for repaying him and he thought he would get them all sooner. He grinned and said he would like to read his poetry to her. He didn’t have any poetry , but he knew there were three drug stores along the way. They would offer the dreamy words of literature he needed for the perfect seduction.
Once they were in the car, she took off her red shoes. Depressed people always spend a lot of time polishing their toenails and hers filled him with a borderline sensation of awe.
He lit a cigarette and offered her one. He liked the way she blew the rings of the smoke. He knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. He just needed her to make the world go away for a little while. And may be she needed him for exactly that. And may be that’s why they met that day.
Her name was Marcia.
She was born in a cheap motel.
Her mother sold herself for drug money.
She never saw her father.
The church in her neighborhood was burned down.
The minister retired and took her God with him.
And her favourite color was Red.
Steven had a dog named Capricorn. He had built a shrine for his ex-wife in the backyard of his house. His wife died after something horrible happened to her white blood cells. They told him she would be happier where she was going. Steven tried to believe she went to Vegas. His wife was a saint amongst sinners, but right now he was just trying to get himself a little something going with Marcia to kill the time that passes too slowly between birth and death.
Somehow it seems that everyone needs a little help, or maybe someone to carry them over the finish line- in their Red Riding Shoes.
And her grandmother told her stories about the Stars. Stars that she loved every night, stars that shone just for her. Stars that did not disillusion, and disgrace love.
Oh, she hoped they existed for her sake!
She stood still in her garden, bending forward as if admiring a dead flower- or almost dying. The moonlight caught the hem of her dress, sparkling at the corners, giving it its own whites of melancholy. Her hair, golden as a hay, was pulled up into a knot high on her head leaving a neck as graceful as a swan’s, as vulnerable to the hunter’s arch.
And the west wind blew.
He approached her from the west with the wind and his scent and his steps were carried with the autumn leaves. He moved soundlessly except for the winds that were carrying him forward before his steps. He brought along a faint jingle of silver-white necklaces, as a token from a parting lover. She stood along, did not seem to move but left a deep sigh, as if an acknowledgment towards him, and his weight carried in the winds. Her back was turned to him and the west winds.
His cloak was of a warrior, shining and crisp. It was as if he was leaving for a far away battle, as if this was just a temporary home for him. His hands were brown and smooth and longed for her last touch. He smiled vaguely in the moonlight, but the moonlight shone on his agony more than the pretence of his smile. Had her back not been turned to him, she would have seen the moon shine on his smile, she would have seen the light in his dark aura and she once more had been dazzled and heart-broken. She was prepared and did not turn to look, she only said, “You are leaving,” it was not an indictment.
His smile faltered, but only for a moment. They always knew that the Warrior left them alone; never before had there been one who did not beg, who did not ask in vain for him to stay. Smiling wider, he stared down at his brown, smooth hands and said, “I am leaving.”
At this, she nodded, her silver-white gown shimmered faintly in the moonlight. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, as if in approval. There was silence except for the faint jingle of necklaces and the sound of the west wind doing her part of begging and beseeching.
And the Time stood still, as if capturing the last moments of love frozen in the garden of autumn winds.
He broke the silence, awkwardly, as if he were unaccustomed to speaking, “Since you have not begged me to stay, I shall grant you a wish”. He was surprised at the tone of his own voice, tender and shaking. He added quickly, “but do not ask me to stay. I may return some day, but I will not stay.”
She smiled a strange, secretive smile, the kind that always accompanied a tear drop. But did not turn to look at him. Her voice sounded as if it came from very far and she spoke very slowly, “I ask that you never again return this place, and you never again seek me out.”
His smile fell, and he wrinkled his smooth, brown brow. He stared for a moment at the merciless back of the one who would not beg and felt a sudden loss. The arch of her neck killed him with its own bend, sharper than the swords he ever fought with. He turned on his heel and walked away, the winds carrying his footsteps farther, he thinking of moonlight and her stories, knowing that he would be, at last forgotten.
Man and his visibly pregnant wife are in bed together. His chest was bare and he kept looking at his cell-phone for the alarm to ring. The woman just had bouts of her routine morning-sickness. She was paled and breathless.
Woman sits up with an effort and puts a hand on his arm.
Woman: “Please, don’t go to work today.”
Man: “Trust me, I’d rather stay home but I’ve got loads of shit to do. The crazy clients do not understand a fig. My team-members are a bunch of morons. Is there something wrong?”
Woman: “No, not really. Have a good day.”
Man: “It’s just, we really need the money with the baby coming. I really need to go to work for that…. But I still love you, you okay?”
Woman: “I’m fine. I’m, just…. I’m just….these god damn hormones.. and, you’re right, you should go to work. Promise you would call me every hour.”
*Man stands up. He bends down to kiss her. The alarm goes off and He picks his cell phone up off the nightstand and starts dialing.
Man: “Dave, it’s Jack. Sorry but I won’t be able to make it in today… No, it’s personal. I can’t explain it though. Thanks. Bye.”
Woman: “I’m so scared”.
Man: “Yeah, me too but I’m here. Things are gonna be okay, you’ll see. I love you.”
*Man puts his hand down on top of hers..!
And he murmured to himself, with Whitman
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look for me under your boot soles.
The hospital alley was as swarmed as ever. There was a flood in the town, bad relentless rains for last three days. The people were brought in, rushed as many in one room, with doctors doing their shifts all day long. Children crying, big old men dying and there was no less of sorrow in one hollow room. People lost, only to be found dead in the mortuary which had no land left to burn their pyres.
And the merciless rains poured on.
It was 27th May or sometime around then.
In the midst of this cacophony, her daughter was born. As pretty as a pearl drop shining in the rains. She felt her best just holding her little fingers. She was blinded to the world coming to an end outside, her own world beginning to be born. It was raining still, it looked like a 7PM sky at noon. They were coming home today, mother, father and the little girl.
Their two year old son was restlessly waiting outside in the patio; getting drenched in the rains, his restiveness matching the skies above. He ran after every car crossing the streets and came back dripping in his own disappointment.
And they finally arrived.
The boy ran to the car and came back holding his momma’s little finger. He was more than happy with her mother back home, he missed her.
And then he asked them: Can I spend some time alone with my little sister? This surprised his mother. “Oh Darling, your little sister. Needs some rest, she has just made most amazingly tiring journey. Let her sleep for now and probably sometime later you can play with her”.
A few days past, he again asked his mother if he could spend some time alone with his sister. The mother was worried leaving the baby with a two year old. So this time she got him an ice-cream.
Next time, a toy train and another time it was a huge ball.
A few months past, the little child again asked if he could spend some time alone with his sister.
The parents agreed, and the child was left alone with his sister for a few minutes, while the parents stood by the door, listening furtively.
The little boy holds his sister’s finger and asks her-
“Tell me what GOD looks like, cause I am starting to Forget”.
Why there has to be the blues.
There has to be the blues because
Some kinds of sadness are as good as being happy.
Or misery loves company.
Why people have to die.
People have to die because
There has to be room for new people.
Or living forever would be boring as hell.
Why loneliness is fundamental physics.
Loneliness is a universal constant because
If you took every person who ever lived
And gave them their own galaxy
There’d be a lot of galaxies left over.
Or because you’re far from me.
Why there has to be Antarctica.
Antarctica has to be so there was somewhere close we could go
To see what the rest of the universe was like.
Or because God forgot to put something at the bottom.
Why it has to hurt.
It has to hurt to remind you everything has a consequence
That ripples through everyone else’s life.
Or it’s sympathy for exploding stars.
Why I smile when I look into your eyes.
I smile when I look into your eyes because
I’m happy I’m close to you again.
Or I remember you from my dreams.
“Oh Dammit, we are not having this argument again!!” He screams at her, with all his acrimony carved out in the lifeless room. Her eyes were glassy, she wanted to cry, she almost was, but stood on.
And it made him livid!
He had been missing for last two nights. A business trip kept him away as much as she saw him as seldom as his other friends. He had been long gone; she kept herself busy with her paintings.
She just looked at the newspaper, edged out on the corner table.
He slammed it on her face, a murky picture of melancholy and grief.
And he walks out of the room. His cell was ringing unobtrusively and her sight made him sick. He loved her, but that was seven years ago.
She looked at him walking away. Picks up the newspaper and tidily folds it up to the table. The paper read her Name in Bold; she was awarded the KAVA award only yesterday for her art works. She looked pretty in the picture; her dark aura was conjured well with the portrait in her paintings…abandoned and solitary.
She swabs off her eyes and walks to the room where he was smoking up in the dim corner. She walks up to him, stretches her arm with the newspaper in it. He glances up hesitantly, and reads the paper.
He hugs her “Darling, I am so proud of you”.
Yes, he loved her and that was seven years back.
It was a chance that I met you, totally unforeseen but welcome. It had to be at the most unexpecting places, at a grocery store and you stood by the corner. Lost but inviting. I could not believe myself that it was you. I had to come closer; and you did not move a slight. As if you expected me to be there, finding you. It was not the first time, but before it used to be more planned, and scheduled. I knew exactly where to meet you, mostly you used to set up the time and place. I hated to call you back home; I never did enjoy the meeting as much as I did when I was out in open with you. It gave you an extra dimension, a feel, a life to you. Your eyes, the wrinkled look was sexier in open then in inside of a living room. No one else approved of you much, I never had been sly about my relationship with you. I remember telling my best of friends that I am good with my bond with you- knowing that I can never have you but meeting you in a month or two gives me my achievement, seeing you in your life happy and playful gave me my own accomplishment.
and you know she’s half crazy
and that is why you wanted to be there
But that day, I had to call you home. You asked me to come and meet you, week after weeks but it was good 250miles and I never did take that too seriously. I was occupied, lazy and dismissed your tempts. But that day, seeing you at the grocery store was a surprise, a gush of life through my head. And I asked you to come home, as much as I hated it. You were unwelcomed; people at home mocked you and me likewise. I felt bad for you and more for myself. They could not comprehend you and they failed to understand me. I left you alone in the room for a while, giving me time to prepare myself to meet you. Making others understand to be more acceptable of you. But others don’t change. You didn’t seem to mind them. And you were ready for me..and for others too.
But you had changed, with a grey tone around you and your wrinkled eyes looked older than ever. But your smile was just the same, saying you understand why I had to meet you at home and why I could not come where you asked me to come for weeks. You understood it all. You gave me the same rush but it made me uncomfortable as no one else could understand how I did feel with you around. And I could not have them or myself with them against you. I had to drop you back at the same place where I found you…Sadly you were not even finished. I just gave you ten minutes and I had to stop it.
I left you at the same corner. I understood why your eyes were more wrinkled and I spotted that tinge of sadness then. I understood it all. And you did not complain. May be you knew that this time I would make my trip. People at home asked me to move on but I was stuck. Looking at you, dropping you off, tore my heart. But I could not accept you in the grey tones inside the house. It had to be at your place, at your time with your extra dimension.
And I would come.
“Yes, many loved before us
I know that we are not new
In city and in forest, they smiled like me and you
But now it’s come to distances
And both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.”
Its the cracked ones That let Light into the world
Diffused, punctuated with rainbows of tears
Sadness is just a crack in my life
That I fall into, sometimes
Sloppy, clumsy, and weary
not watching, unaware and tired
Misunderstood, arranged to be pushed
Sadness is just a crack in the sidewalk
a space inviting, and dark
I’d rather not stay, just step over the gap
It’d feel like a walk in the park.
A painful reminder of imperfection
My habit to step in harm’s way.
This sidewalk, the smoothness ends shortly
A new route wont come up today.
Or ever…
Sadness is just a crack in my life
That I fall into, sometimes…
Give it up baby,
a whimper would be fine
Some kind of clue that you’re doing time
Some kind of heartache
Honey, give it a try.
I had to call her because I wanted something more than her letter. It was so clean, so therapeutic I couldn’t let it go. We had been through so much together I could not believe that she could be so banal; so simple. It was not enough that she “felt bad”. Or if “she was sorry” That wasn’t even close to the feeling I had; the feeling I wanted her to have.
What did I want? What did I want her to say? How about Lost, how about slaughtered, betrayed-. We were together for as long and she talks about it like it was just a phase, as if we were a bad haircut or part-time job.
It’s not enough that I am now on my own. Not nearly enough. We were one, one mind, one soul. I think the least she can do is join in the misery. Share and feel alike.
Could you cry a little?
lie just a little,
pretend that you’re feeling a little more pain?
I gave, now I’m wanting something in return
So cry just a little, for me?
Hey , You Open?
Yes Madam, Come on In. We are open for another twenty minutes. You just in time.
Oh am glad, Really!
So what can I help you with today? We still have our Christmas Stock lasting for SALE and with Valentines and Presidents Day round the corner, deal cannot be any better.
That’s nice. But I am not in for anything fancy. I just need..umm…
Ummm..?
Yes, you see I need a ..Mmmm….MASK.!!
A Mask? Hmm and that would be …As in?
Yeah the Mask, the one that can hide your true-self from the World and show the world what they want to see.
Hmmm..! I guess, we all need that kinna stuff.
So..? So..would you have any such thing?
Wait, lemme think. I guess you might just be in luck.
Is it? I am ready to pay any price for it.
……………Uncomfortable Silence……………..
Wait a minute madam, let me take a quick rush to the store. I would be just back.
Alright, I would.
………….15minutes Gone. Uncomfortable but soothing time passing By……………..
Uhh…Uhh….I am sorry Madam. I took longer than I expected. But here I got just what you need.
………Takes a huge bag out with all the different shapes and sizes of MASKS falling out one by one…………
Here.. This one is real “Sunny”. Can bright up the light in the room. You wear it and you are always Happy to the World. Lifting the World, by your Smile and Joy..!!
And here, this one is my favorite. “Inspirational”, I call it. You got this one on and the World looks UPTO you. I guess it has a magic aura to itself, gives a glow to the eyes. Intrigued..!!
And here…this one is the HIT with the KIDS, Joyful and playful. Brings the kid out dancing in your face. You must have one of those in your kitty too..
Umm I like it..!
And here, your collection cannot be complete without this- It’s the most magnificent of all-”Sympathetic”. That’s what OUR World really needs, Lotta sympathy with listening ears. You put this one ON and people would be magnetized to you, venting all the sorrows out like you are the Mother Mary. It is a huge success in the psychological profession.
And this is all I have Madam for you right now. But I would Order in more if you would like something more than this. I know we can fit in more like GREED, PASSION, SOBRIETY, MADNESS in there. But that may take in a while..
Oh Yes, but you are forgetting something here, We may need something more than that.
What is it Madam? Pl. enlighten me..
We need Sadness. No emotion is complete without it, no day, no life is untouched without …Sadness.
Yes you are Right Madam, so right. But we never make Masks for those.
Oh, why is that??
Coz for Sadness, you really do not need a Mask. All you need is your true exposed self.
Hmm….
I would take All of these. Please I should get going, and yeah keep that “SUNNY” MASK on the Top. Thanks, you have been much help.
You dreamed for peace and quiet, and it is here
Arrived at your doorway on Northerly zephyrs,
Not gradually, but all at once,
but the chill does not stir your idle furnace .
So many days you have longed for the immobility of an empty room
So many hours of rushing lives in the Crowded Bus
And sweaty grocery store aisles ..
And now
You have the four walls to yourself
No shrill nags in the hallway
And your couch has plenty of room
plenty
Why are you dreaming of a Lemonade in March?
and Why does this taste like a hot chocolate in July?
Could the timing have been any worse?
Tonight you will sleep to the sound of barking dogs outside.
And think why the neighbor could not get theirs’ tamed
And look at your own life going wild and forlorn.
You’ll leave the bathroom light on and the door a little ajar for no reason
And tomorrow you’ll raise the shades to a mother of pearl sunrise
And orange light will shine on your face
But you won’t say
Look at this!!
Because you don’t like talking to yourself
You’ll just get dressed
And run to the bus
And hope that it’s very very very
Crowded
The child squealed through the reticence of the four walls of the house. The mother stood vulnerable by the door, unable to placate her agony, forlorn and impotent. The child was famished for three days; the last supplies of the food consumed to its last bit. The elder daughter hunched by the corner light, its umbra only accentuating the child’s horrors and grief. Her father had been missing for a week now; the rumors were he was arrested on the grounds of some theft in the neighborhood.
The Mother walked to the end of the room, taking the child in its arms and rushing to the streetlights in the pouring rain. She had held a bowl in the corner of her torn sari, now falling apart in the shards of abject poverty.
She stood in the rain, holding the child, covering her from the moist of the clouds above. The child never seemed to get tired of its own pain; the hunger was just a crowning glory. The lights turned red and the mother ran car to car begging for some mercy, for some humanity ostensibly dead in the eyes of passers by. She pounded the mirrors of the car, thumped the road- unable to move the passing traffic for it deemed it inappropriate to halt for a non-moving life. She could not stir any sympathy, just some angry glares and abuses. She could not feed her lone child.
One Month Later
The mother had been missing since morning. The elder daughter tried to soothe the little child, singing her songs which she remembered from her childhood.
A rush in the stairs and her mother was back, with supplies of food- Bread, rice, and vegetables of different colors and shapes. She smiled and said “Never would you be sleeping hungry again.”
She fed the daughters and sang them the song of happiness and glee.
“These are truly the last days, May Lord keep us Happy in His Own special ways.”
The kids slept close to her mother. She was wide awake, with a paper in her hand.
At the stroke of the morning hour, the mother crept out of the house. She had kept a letter for her daughter in her frock that asked her to keep good care of her sister and to be a strong person. She advised her not to go out of the house for coming few days. Her daddy would be home soon.
Daddy came home an hour past midnight.
The cities were rocked by twin blasts, each of them a suicide blast, killing over a hundred. The bloods of people painted the street-roads, effacing the alive and the dead apart. The stories were all over the news channels, they ran a full show carving a picture of inhumanity and atrocity, witnessed by the mother in that pouring night.
The daddy got a cheque of 50,000 Rs. in the mail next day.