Ghosts

They hung upside down from the tree and seemed to be forever crying. It wasn't silent weeping either. It was the kind that wouldn't let you sleep at night. None of us had slept in years.

We had them on our conscience and they had our sleep on theirs. It wasn't that we hadn't tried. To move. Them first and us later. We only got as far as the garden gate. They began howling so we turned back, our gritty resolve ripped through with those pitiful howls. We had no choice. I made them turn back...because where we were going there was no one we would hate as much.

A lamp burns near the window to attract passing travellers. Some of the brave ones stop sometimes for food and a story about the tree in our garden (in my young days I was quite the story teller). My favourite part is where I lean close, let them breathe me in and point myself out to them, my lifeless body hanging upside down from the lowest branch of the old tree.

Poltroon

By the end of it you're a coward. You arm yourself with guns and swords and whatever else may protect you and you stand, feet apart, waiting.

Upon hearing the numerous war cries and horns you charge headlong into confusion. Everyone makes a mess and all the colours get mixed up. You get hit or stabbed or shot and dizzyingly fall to the side like an archer's broken arrow. You see your own blood staining your shirt and decide to give up. You wait patiently for death while lying on the sidelines, when you can perfectly well remain in combat and get finished off sooner without the wait.

At the first sign of pain you forget that that's the one reason you're standing in that damp muddy field with sweat and blood pouring out of you. It wasn't that they didn't warn you. You aren't to be blamed either. Effulgent fantasies cry a gloriously brave, victorious death.

Silver Rings and Smoke...Small Things and Hope...

It was dark in the room, and cold too. There was the street light pouring in with the cold and fog like last minute additions to an exclusive guest list. I realised then that she was smart. In a very non-apparent way.

It was the quiet expression and the big eyes. Aloof. The smoke coming out of her mouth was like swirls of wisdom. Her words though...I wouldn't exactly call them pearls...

The shadows all seemed intimidated by her and her face in match stick flame light did not glow.

Then it became like my dreams. The ones that sort of turn into nightmares and end with becoming dreams again. Some sort of an abstract script for a neverending saga.

Mutilated thoughts curled up into an aura around her head in a fetal position. Then there was the microscopic perspective to think about. Impressionist dots on a large canvas.

Knees to chest with a chin propped up on one knee. Elbows fit snugly into the palms made only for those joints...

In sleep we're all the same...

Wishing Lemons

With her glasses perched at the tip of her nose she breathed patches of steam on the tram window. She felt very conscious of the fact that this was the night she was running away. She had passed a frozen river on the way. Had contemplated jumping in, but realised just in time that she couldn't swim. Just in times weren't supposed to save her. It always was for others.

She thought about the man with the wishing lemons. Rows and rows of lemon trees in that beautiful orchard. A beautiful sunset in the background and a summer dress blowing around her knees. She had wondered if her legs looked as nice as people said they did and was glad it was warm enough.

All those lemons - all those wishes. Of course there was the possibility that the mass conversion of all those fruits into jams, marmalade, lemonade, pudding, cake, pies etc. would leave a person feeling quite wretched. A wish would cancel out another just as the taste of one lemon dish would cancel out the taste of another. The lemons left on the trees (those that were meant for others) rotted and fell onto the ground and were a pulpy mass squelching under her feet. They were trees of endless possibilities. It was wishes growing in abundance. A lemon in itself was no good. She thought that man was stupid. He was stupid enough to want to look after an orchard like that all by himself. It was stupid how all his wishes failed to take account of others before them. It was stupid how he didn't try making money off of that never ending source of happiness. When she had told him that he had laughed and kissed her for her stupidity. He told her he'd make her a wish dish. Whatever she liked. He couldn't let her do it for herself. There was always the possibility of her stupidity leading to her wishing the orchard away from him. Even in terms of wish dishing, or dish wishing no one knew what they wanted. If they ever did realise it in their dreams (they equated these with wishes sometimes), it was elusive after they woke up.

So, I'm going home. I think I am. She felt very old. Extremely young and very old at the same time. I think it was the coat. The long black coat, boots, the cold outside with the steam patches on the windows and those eyes with the glasses perched on the nose. She adjusted them and everything fell into focus. My wish dishes would be made of rotten lemons.

The death of Death

Today I have managed to get rid of Death.

First, we took it by its ankles and dragged it till the edge. Then, as it screamed and writhed, we shoved it into a jute sack.

We beat it black and blue with sticks until the muffled whimperings ceased and before pity overcame any of us we threw it into the ravine.

Satisfied of no more Death in the world, we followed the bloody trail of torture back into town.

Our return was a grand affair with drums and pretty girls with baskets of flowers.

We had abolished Death and the whole town was proud of us murderers. No more Death in the world... Perhaps only Murder...

The Battle

A couple of them are sulking in the corner. I try not to be distracted because I'm too busy battling it out with those that are around. There are silver swords made of tears gleaming in the moonlight and they slash right, left and centre. I hop around and try to quieten those that are silently screaming at me with faceless voices. I understand. That is probably why the fight I'm putting up hardly has any heart in it.

Either I was stupid to throw them down the well in the first place, or the stupidity has just begun. There was no need to come down looking for them but a few hours ago that's what I was doing; travelling down the dark cylindrical walls of a well in a rusty metal bucket that hadn't been used in ages.

A few years ago, when I threw them in, they drowned without a splash and it was a clean death. Now, I am wading in murky waters with an algae eating turtle swimming dolefully around. I have to win it. I have to make them come back up to the surface with me because if I don't then we will all die at the bottom of this well in anonimity. They don't want me to win, but if I don't, they will never forgive me for it...

Search

Last night I dreamt of all the people I have loved, miss and will love. There seemed to be a lot and then none at all.

I found my dreams, hopes and wishes at the bottom of the ocean in a wooden box with a padlock on it. I wondered at the superfluous captivity because the water had seeped through the wood and all my belongings were simply a dirty mess mired in a bog of salt.

There was a blue boat on the surface and each bob on the water was a promise of the future to come. The sun's rays beckoned, shimmering and twinkling like a diamond net that one could swim into.

And then I saw me, with one leg firmly tied to an anchor buried deep in the sea bed, trying to repair the box with a few of my last breaths...

A Short Story

The whole road smelt of horse. It was as if the beast had been flogged mercilessly and then dragged the length of the scorching black. Tiny leaves fluttered down from the summer trees and the sky looked down in agony. The boy in the cart heaved a sigh of laziness and began to whip the horse out of sheer boredom.

He was going to be married in a few days. Being poor he was planning on riding the same beast he was mercilessly whipping to the doorstep of his bride. The sun beat down hot as he mournfully thought about his limited prospects. The horse was his only possession. The thin emaciated animal was his upper hand over the other boys and men. He could always be counted upon to get the goods to the market on time because of the horse. He loved the horse after his own fashion. It was not the selfless kind of love. In fact it was convenient love, where sometimes he forgot to feed the horse or never fed it quite enough.

The placid beast plodded along and owner and beast were one in silent contemplation of glum prospects. Then suddenly there was a loud crash. The goods for the market rolled off the cart and scattered in all directions. The horse lay crushed under the cart, it's tongue out and panting. The car swerved wildly around the mess and drove off. The road now smelt of toil, tears, blood and sweat.

Wish Upon a Star

I like to think of myself as a dreamer. I have a tendency to get lost in my own world and think for hours on end and dream and imagine and conjure up little fairy tales with real people and real things in my life forming the plot. Ever since I have been a child I remember thinking of something or the other that would glamorize my pretty average life. I still have that. Now of course, it’s a little bit more practical. Now I think about studying, doing well, getting a well paying job, sending my parents on five star cruises, that kind of thing. They’re still huge dreams though. Every time the magnitude of what I want from life hits me and I wonder if it’s ok. I know life isn’t a fairytale. The world is a messed up place because there are numerous people out there who for whatever sadistic satisfaction it gives them like to tell people that nothing is easy, that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, that the tooth fairy is actually just your parents putting money under your pillow and throwing your precious tooth away. The whole exercise is futile. People grow up and eventually find out these things on their own. What’s the point of ruining it for them when they need it the most?

My point is that if life is so hard and difficult to manage, people should just let me see that on my own. I’m not ok with the worldly perceptions ruining my fledgling hopes and dreams because at any given point of time there are people more experienced and wiser than me walking around on the face of this planet. I’m ok with them. They seem to be ok with me. However, I don’t wish to be mollycoddled. I like to believe I’m a person who can work things out for herself. The experiences which have made me believe that about myself are few but still very strong impressions of my childhood.

I couldn’t ride a bicycle. I just couldn’t balance and my mother would come back from work and take me to practice but I just couldn’t keep myself from toppling over. My best friend at that age, a boy from my colony would run alongside me yelling out all the encouraging things children of that age say but I just wouldn’t be able to ride it. It used to bother me that everyone could do it and I couldn’t. Then one day, I remember it was Holi. In the afternoon everyone gathered in the colony to have lunch. My parents stood with a couple of my relatives while I wandered around with my bunch of friends waiting for lunch to start. It was then that I spotted my brother’s bicycle propped up against the park wall. Instinctively, I knew I could do it this time. So I walked over and carefully wheeled it away from any obstacles. My brother’s friends pointed it out to him “woh dekh teri behen teri cycle le ja rahi hai.” He just shrugged went back to playing “kucch nahin hota, use chalani nahin aati.” It was then that I started pedaling and because I’d imagined and dreamed of doing it all along I could do it well and fast and with perfect balance. I still remember my dad’s face when I came and faced him. He was smiling. Out of all the people standing there he was the only one whose face showed that I wasn’t about to bang into any shins. That day I had lunch on my bicycle, with my mother feeding me a few morsels here and there whenever I pedaled close enough. I spent the whole day on that little yellow BMX and it was beautiful. I’ll never forget that bicycle. It was absolutely perfect. I was heartbroken when it was stolen one day and I rode many bicycles after that and owned a couple as well but that was one bicycle which if I could have I would have saved for my kids.

I’m still smiling at that image of me - around 8 years old and wearing one of those frocks (uncomfortable contraptions which I hated but was forced to wear because Indians are very weird when it comes to dressing their children). I taught myself to whistle, to blow chewing gum bubbles and to skip with a skipping rope. I climbed trees, ran faster than any boy in the colony and wasn’t scared of anyone. It was a beautiful childhood. Sure, I didn’t really care about Santa Claus or anything but I think I was able to do all those things because people didn’t bother me or care about me to pay much attention to what I was doing. There was no one telling me I couldn’t so I did.

I never once thought that I would grow up to be a little bit of a cynic myself. I never imagined that when I would look at stars and wish upon them, my focus wouldn’t be that the wish would come true. I would instead be madly hoping that someone would be out there, listening to my wish and at least deliberating upon it if not making it come true.

The thought came to me today when I was sitting on my roof staring at the skies and singing to myself. I realized it doesn’t matter which star you pick to wish to or if you yell your thoughts out to the skies. All that matters is what you wish for and how much you want it. Whether you deserve it or not, is for the stars to decide.