First get two soup bowls... sparkling, squeaky clean
Then cut both my veins in two deep, neat slashes
Pour the warm blood carefully... take care not to spill
It's O-Positive and precious
Stir them till the coagulation gets over... Your soup is ready
Next, take out my heart... Shouldn't be too difficult
It's already badly bruised... So no need to make further cuts
Microwave it in 70 degrees for 3 minutes....
Should become properly browned, crunchy and nice
The liver next
Mash it well... make into little dumples and deep fry...
He'll like it...
Lastly, roast me over slow fire
After you have tearfully marinated me well over two days
Should be succulent and tempting by now...
Light the candles... Lay the table...
By the way, have you checked the cutleries?
After it's over and you proceed
To roll over into his teasing arms for a long night of syrupy, passionate love
Tell me, mademoiselle...
Tell me how was the dinner...?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Master
Uncomfortable, wild whims. I try so bloody hard to keep them under control. All my judgements, common sense, practicalities and maturity make for a strong, thick rope. Very elastic. Very durable. I tied the wishes up in a firm, stubborn leash. Pushed the bundle back into the anterior chamber of my brain.
And then I call you up at 2.00am in the morning...
Don't laugh. I don't know what else to do with my wild horses. They run me over, dictate my actions, overrule my better sense. They make me a laughing stock.
Perhaps you have a better idea, don't you? A thin smile dangling on your lips ever so lightly as you read this...? GO ahead. Mock me. Amuse yourself at my expense. I lie naked, vulnerable before you.
My hands are bound behind my back. The torso taut, facing the blazing sun I try to lower my eyes. Drops of sweat drip down my chin, my chest... slowwwly.
Around this time I come to my senses. Defiant, I demand an explanation from my fingers. They are amazed. "How could we have typed these words on our own...?" They wonder!
Perfect idiots, if you ask me, because I entirely rely on them. I mean, they know that with mutilated fingers there is NO way I can write. Have you seen anyone type with their lips? The keyboard won't respond, simple. So why won't I ask for an explanation? More specifically, the middle fingers of both hands. Even the thumb is a party to it. And I always thought it was the silent one. But look what they have done.
It is SO humiliating to expose myself. What would she think, that I am trying to make a point here...?
Trouble is, I can't even erase these words without the help of my fingers. And they are simply refusing to delete what I see as a clear effort to insult me in public.
Lest you misunderstand me, let me tell you these are NOT what I wanted to write. I wanted to write about the Pujo. The office. The happy, happy me. My salary. Rizwanur. India losing the match. My friends who would be landing in India from all corners of the world. The brilliantly necessary "breaking news" that the channels churn with rotund regularity.
Instead, all you get are some incoherent, utterly nonsensical words. I apologise. I am not the master of my self...
And then I call you up at 2.00am in the morning...
Don't laugh. I don't know what else to do with my wild horses. They run me over, dictate my actions, overrule my better sense. They make me a laughing stock.
Perhaps you have a better idea, don't you? A thin smile dangling on your lips ever so lightly as you read this...? GO ahead. Mock me. Amuse yourself at my expense. I lie naked, vulnerable before you.
My hands are bound behind my back. The torso taut, facing the blazing sun I try to lower my eyes. Drops of sweat drip down my chin, my chest... slowwwly.
Around this time I come to my senses. Defiant, I demand an explanation from my fingers. They are amazed. "How could we have typed these words on our own...?" They wonder!
Perfect idiots, if you ask me, because I entirely rely on them. I mean, they know that with mutilated fingers there is NO way I can write. Have you seen anyone type with their lips? The keyboard won't respond, simple. So why won't I ask for an explanation? More specifically, the middle fingers of both hands. Even the thumb is a party to it. And I always thought it was the silent one. But look what they have done.
It is SO humiliating to expose myself. What would she think, that I am trying to make a point here...?
Trouble is, I can't even erase these words without the help of my fingers. And they are simply refusing to delete what I see as a clear effort to insult me in public.
Lest you misunderstand me, let me tell you these are NOT what I wanted to write. I wanted to write about the Pujo. The office. The happy, happy me. My salary. Rizwanur. India losing the match. My friends who would be landing in India from all corners of the world. The brilliantly necessary "breaking news" that the channels churn with rotund regularity.
Instead, all you get are some incoherent, utterly nonsensical words. I apologise. I am not the master of my self...
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Snake
The dream meanders
Like a slow moving snake
Taking in all the dirt, grime and a little bit of sunlight
Take the metro on days like this...
Stay away from the doors, keep
Your eyes firmly on the book
The dream loves to hibernate
The hint on you hair
Is what colours my eyes
The dream lives
Feeding on hope...
Stay,
Stay near me...
Like a slow moving snake
Taking in all the dirt, grime and a little bit of sunlight
Take the metro on days like this...
Stay away from the doors, keep
Your eyes firmly on the book
The dream loves to hibernate
The hint on you hair
Is what colours my eyes
The dream lives
Feeding on hope...
Stay,
Stay near me...
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Draft
Ira came to me yesterday...
Slightly breathless, she said after living, loving
Staying with him for 15 years, she feels like running away.
A wonderful life it has been, she said. A wonderful kid, a close-knit family
A car, own house, a cushy job, maids, doting in-laws
So she feels like running away
'Go Ira', I said, 'run'
She ran, tumbled, smiled back at me
The chains were pink, now they are slightly red...
Burnt Sienna, the colour of her sari when she spoke
The day has passed... A blackish tinge to the unblemished yellow...
The spot has darkened...
Why Ira, I asked her...
Why, after so many years...?
That's the point, she replied... The black is what attracts me
Slightly breathless, she said after living, loving
Staying with him for 15 years, she feels like running away.
A wonderful life it has been, she said. A wonderful kid, a close-knit family
A car, own house, a cushy job, maids, doting in-laws
So she feels like running away
'Go Ira', I said, 'run'
She ran, tumbled, smiled back at me
The chains were pink, now they are slightly red...
Burnt Sienna, the colour of her sari when she spoke
The day has passed... A blackish tinge to the unblemished yellow...
The spot has darkened...
Why Ira, I asked her...
Why, after so many years...?
That's the point, she replied... The black is what attracts me
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