Rag Doll

Bits and pieces, scrapped together
Odds and ends, that gather
Make a rag doll

Perfect hair, aquiline nose,
She ain't no Barbie
Hasn't learnt how to pose

Rag doll, tossed around
Flops on the ground
Unobtrusive, no display doll

Straggly hair, no pretty frock
No stilettos, no glam
Pretending would be a sham

Rag doll, bounces off the ground
Stays there, still
Lies there, without a sound.

Scars

Silvery lines, traced with a finger,
Smooth, crooked, they still linger.
Constant reminders, of pain withstood.
Gentle hope that at least I could.
Do they remind you of pain and dread ?
Or like me, of the courage it bred ?

Smooth, silvery lines, a part of me.
Not ugly, they were worth the fee.

Moody musing

I think for once I shall take a gamble
I think for once I shall see what follows
I think for once I’ll join the mad scramble
I think for once I shall not mind the gallows

My car shines with brilliant polish,
Carefully driven in rush hour
Through empty roads
In between reckless cars.

Mad mornings, reverberating screams
Punctured tires which I stop to glean
Careless drivers, ceaseless traffic,
Narrow alleys, busy streets.

Sometimes a sudden lull
In the afternoon heat
Rearview mirror dusty,
I wipe it clean.

Cars whiz past me,
Spraying putrid steam
I gasp, cough
And blink.

Revving my engine
To a tolerable pace
I inch steadily
Unwilling to race

Yet this pace bores at times
For a spirit like this
It stifles me fine
And one day it breaks.

Breaks free ?
Or ruptures ?
Plunging downwards
In an unceasing void ?

Or does it escalate new highs ?
Defy gravity
Defy rules
Defy signs ?

Or does the defiance bring a crash
An accident,
A shattering collapse ?
How shall I know.

No, it’s not a question.
A question seeks an answer.
It’s a debate
That seeks no resolve.

Everytime.

It's a pretty feeling, this. When you look at a rotting apple and your nose scrunches in disgust and then the slow realisation where you look at it in wonder and realise that it has seeds. Which breathe.

Poisoned Rationality

Dusty, in the heat,
There’s dust in my face,
Dust in my gullet,
And dust in my clothes.

There’s dust around me,
Rising like a whirling cloud,
Ready to engulf me,
In its dusty clout.

And my legs weary,
Trudge through the dust,
Every step resolute,
In their ever moving thrust.

There’s dust in my shoe,
Dust in my pane,
Dust in my self,
To the very vein.

And then there’s the sound of the cloud,
That seems to rear like a horse,
And bring with it rain,
That washes my very soul.

The rain washes my eyes,
It washes my face,
It washes my lips,
It washes the pain.

But o dear rain,
You halt my steps,
You make it all the more difficult,
To walk the bit I’ve left.

Your force so strong,
And tender to boot,
It washes my fears,
But cripples me soon.

For the rain once gone,
Would leave me wet,
And the cunning dust
Would stick to me instead.

Potent.

They were building a nest. The red one would keep going back and forth looking for the precious pieces of rubbish that would make their nest. The blue one would pretend to be sick and escape the work. Red was healthy, so it didn't matter much to it. It was capable enough to build the nest by itself, or at least it thought so. Blue was quite encouraging of red’s efforts and it made both very happy. The nest was beginning to take form. Red was quite proud of it, and happy that blue seemed to start feeling better too. Things were falling into place (pun intended).

But the continuous toil was making red tired. Sometimes it would flop down, tired, and slightly dizzy. Then it would suddenly see blue looking poorly again, and it would redouble its efforts for blue needed the nest to rest. Work went on. The praises helped. But it was getting increasingly hard to look for the pieces. The people had begun to use dustbins conscientiously and red had a tough time looking for bits. It had to circle around the whole city looking for a bit of scrap to complete the nest. One day, it started feeling very sick. Its wings wouldn't flap anymore and its beak hurt from clenching scraps while it flew miles to drop it into the now-almost-complete nest. After much effort, it dragged itself to the nest. When blue saw red coming back without a scrap, it demanded an explanation. Red replied, explaining how tired it felt, secretly wishing for comfort. But blue was furious. It hopped on one foot then on another in rage and shrilled at red. Red listened, wretchedly, and tried to reply. But blue had flown away to the nest and shut its eyes. Red picked itself up, to slowly hobble away.

At first red was angry. It had been wronged, and it had suffered. It ranted and raged and vowed to never build a nest for anyone again. This went on, and red was content. Then one day it remembered blue’s praise. It had decided on it’s own to build a nest for blue. Blue had only wanted it, and red had agreed. So what was red complaining about? Then it spent days mourning for blue. It flopped around dejectedly, wishing it had been wiser. Then one day it decided to go back to building nests, but protecting itself from another blue’s anger too. But now it tired very fast, it had used all its energy on building blue’s nest. It was sickly now, where it had once been a young sprightly bird. It talked to purple, for it was wise. Purple gave it a big beak slap and told it to not to be a pansy and nudged it to stand straight. It told red to puff its breast and sing like it used to, in its strong and clear voice, without the doubt that had crept into its melody. It sang till it took flight and soared in the clouds, flapping its wings to the music. Suddenly red didn’t feel as tired anymore.

But anger suits some better. And it necessarily isn't always tiring.

Pregnant

She was stirring the mixture in the cauldron. At intervals she would suddenly throw in more nectar. And then let it swirl. She stirred and stirred and it smelled sweeter with every turn. Everyone wanted a sip. But she kept adding more and stirring, letting it churn. One day, the cauldron began to overflow. It would brim over and she would desperately try to keep it from dripping. It was getting increasingly difficult to prevent the special blend from spilling over. But she had to keep adding the nectar; it just wouldn’t stop generating. If only she could find a worthy taster.

Vicious.

Every time I walk by Candy Lane, they seem to have new candy up. Sometimes, when I hurry through it, they beckon me offering me every kind of candy to taste. They shriek out to me, tempting me with their pretty colours and tongue-salivating smells. If I so much as look at a particular flavour that seems interesting, it pounces on me to get me to taste it. It looks inviting enough, with its supple shape and desirable smell. I think I know exactly what it would taste like and happily ready myself to a feast, but the moment I so much as nibble at it, my face twists in horror. Here I thought it would be sweet, with a slightly tangy after-taste, but this is sour!! It happens every time that I seem to gather gumption to try another candy. All if them delude me with their sweet scents and promising flavours. A green piece, with a smell that’s reminiscent of a taste I can’t quite describe—sweet and sour and a slight tart taste that’s almost acerbic—attracts my interest. But when I eagerly taste it, anticipating exactly what I dreamt it to taste like, it shocks me. It’s all too sweet and nothing else. Its colour and smell deceived me. Again. It happens again with a yellow one that I am sure would be sweet, and salty at the very end. Except it isn’t.

Then there are others, who stand near Candy Lane, eagerly waiting to see if the candy would beckon to them too. They can see some of the candy, and they don’t confuse their flavours like me. They know exactly what they want and where to get it. They look on longingly at specific ones that they especially desire. They know that the green one is sweet, the yellow one sour and the purple one bitter. They like them and want them. How do they know? Maybe I would never know. But they do know them well enough. Know them by heart while I’m helpless in my ignorance. Or is it my incompetence? But the candy never seem to call out to them, they are too busy tending others. They look on, wistfully, sadly.

Who is more wretched? They, who know what they want and where to get them, or me, who misjudges them all? They desire the real, for what they want is actually present, before their eyes, but they can’t have them. I desire delusions, which I think exist, and they eagerly submit themselves to me. Except they turn out to be just that, delusions. And I shrink back, again.

Elusive

Something in the dark corner stirred. It fluttered, tantalisingly staying out of reach. She patiently waited for it to stomp, but all it did was flap it's wings. It disturbed her, not to see what it was. Especially because it was here; and yet unknown to her, of all the people. With a desperate effort, she groped at it. It shuddered and fell. And vanished.

Surreptitious disclosure

A thrill runs down my body
From the very hair to the wiggling toes
My heart gladdens with every word
That you think and then utter

Your unreserved hand touches me,
With the reasons best known to us both
It’ll be a secret, which we’ll share
With everyone, for the world to see.

69

She waited to be let in. Tapping her fingernails nervously on the scratched plastic, she kept glancing at her folder. For the hundredth time, she checked her papers. Then they called her in. Her mouth went dry. She gulped, and got up. She had been there before. Except this time she intended to be calmer. And less suspicious. The fact that she had always been right didn’t help much.

Abrupt

He sat in the sun, eating oranges. He liked oranges very much. Some kind stranger had given him one. He relished them slowly, and licked the juice that trickled out from the corner of his lips. Smack. At intervals, he would spit out seeds and catch them in his hand. He’ll store them, and plant them, he promised himself. Then he would have a big orange tree, all to himself. Then he would eat oranges everyday. But where would he plant it? He needed a place, some soil, any soil. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t fertile, he’d make it fertile. He’d water it everyday and the tree would grow. He loved the smell of the orange rinds. They made his head swim and tongue salivate. Lost in thoughts, he forgot to keep an alert for possible seeds with his tongue. And almost choked.

And that was it.

She was scrubbing. But there was an annoying spot that just wouldn’t go. She gritted her teeth and rubbed with all her might. It maliciously grinned at her. Tired but determined, she used everything that promises to clean all kinds of spots. Except they seemed to have no effect on this particular one. Disturbed, she gave it one last vehement abrade. Stupid thing. Frustrated and dejected, she sat back to catch her breath. Glaring at it, she muttered insults. But stopped halfway. Wide-eyed, she realized that it wasn’t a spot. Just an imperfection, the kind that happens sometimes, while they are manufactured. She hadn’t been able to realize this, for this was so uncharacteristic an imperfection for it. She chided herself for allowing herself to be so shortsighted. It smiled innocently. Repentance, lament. But the damage was done. She had rubbed it too hard.

Catalyst

I sit on the floor, and look around. Piles of books, papers, memories lie scattered on the ground. I’m stacking the ones I need, in one pile. A few go to the trash. Most, I reluctantly toss to the pile that will go to the kabadiwaala. A notebook catches my attention. Studious nut, the cover says. Inside, there are some equations jotted down in a bored student’s writing. I turn the page. And laugh. There is a caricature of my senior Chemistry professor. Bulging biceps, flying cape, synthetic suit. D-man, I called it. Sighing, and thanking my lucky stars that I passed the darned subject, I push the notebook away. A few minutes later, the floor is noticeably clearer. A few minutes is all you needed to clear it all away, a voice inside me accuses. I ignore it. Though my hands are dusty, the work is half done. The pile of the things I need is small. For the pile of things I want shall be sold off tomorrow, or possibly today. I carry them to the verandah. It takes me four trips. And no, I may appear small, but I can carry a lot in my hands. Hands, did I say?

I go empty the trashcan into the big “Use Me”. There go a hundred things that I want to remember. Maybe I needed to throw them away, for weren’t they my cyanide? I hear them tumbling down the long slide. Tomorrow, the jhaaruwaala will come and collect them to take them away, before I wake. They will lie there, tonight. As I trudge back to the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I shall go have a bath, after this, I promise myself. I don’t wash my hands till the work is finished. I’ll wash it at one go. Not now. I stare at the few things that I haven’t yet sorted. I want to just bundle them together, and throw them away. Or maybe keep them now, and look into them tomorrow. Or some other day. But I don’t. I steel myself and patiently scrutinize each of them. Most of them, I toss to the now-empty dustbin. Sometimes I hesitate, but then decide it’s for the best. Half an hour later, the bin is full again and only the pile of things I need still lie, neatly stacked on the ground. That pile I go through again. It grows smaller, even so. By now the bin is overflowing. And down they go the slide. I used to like playing on the slide. “Gee! Whoosh!” All of us playmates used to scream in glee. One after the other. Slide.

I finally go take my bath. As the first spray of water hits me, I remember the last time I played in the rain. Three of us had squealed, laughing, while we jumped, up, up, and up. Gravity, notwithstanding. I hum to myself tunelessly.

Refreshed and clean, I come back to the room. Picking up the small pile, I put it away in its designated place. I had cleared the outside clutter, finally. To help clear the clutter that’s inside.