Lucem

A rogue mind is a thing of beauty

Rebelling against logic, shutting its ears to the world

It floats in a world of its own creation

Until the real one comes crashing down

Burying it in a tomb, a million layers deep into the concrete

And yet, the wild, unhinged mind seeps out of the cracks

Up, up, up

Clawing and slithering its way up to the warm sunlight

A single sticky talon wedges into the moist, ever-bending soil on the surface

revelling in the glorious sun, for its energy gives the rebel control

Parliamentary

discord is democracy

people cry, unheard.

come morning, my hair tighten and wound themselves  to fit into thin braids, knitted as one in elaborate dos wince in discomfort before accepting their fate sit like dutiful nationals— head down and ears twitching in wait of liberation. 

deprived of resources and rights, my hair is inundated  by bands of settlers—scattered specks of white. infiltrating my scalp, they doggedly stick to their posts tucked away yet ever-present, coaxing me  to tear into them. but to little avail.  

over the day, my hair sways with the wind, taking pride in its little victories— escaping in clusters, gathering  together in peaceful protest, ballooning upwards with  the sheer force of its will, uncontainable. 

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I think it’s for the best.”

“It’s not. Who do you think will handle all the living beings ready to exit the Earth when their time comes? Really, Death, you can’t make impulsive decisions like this without consulting me!”

Death sighed. She should’ve seen this coming, honestly. Life loved to make a mountain out of every molehill he encountered.

“Listen, I’ve been doing this job for aeons now — “

“So have I!”

“ — and it’s not the most pleasant work in the first place, add to it all the religious rumour, spiritual gossip, astrological theories, and general hatred I have to endure. Don’t you think it’s fair for me to deserve a break?”

Life looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Death said in the most solemn voice she could muster. “I am retiring. And you can’t stop me, not this time.”

dust and sin have built me up

We humans have a peculiar habit. We never occupy a space alone. Wherever we go, we surround ourselves with many others whose company comforts us, amuses us, aids us in performing our endless list of to-dos, and helps us survive in our state of functional nihilism. No, I’m not talking about people; I’m talking about things.

Let’s face it: we love our things.

Every time I summon enough courage to sort through a messy drawer, I end up putting half of my belongings back as they were. These are objects I didn’t know I owned till a few seconds back, mind you, and yet I feel intensely possessive of them. I mean, who knows when I might need that neon inflatable pool float for toddlers that hasn’t seen the light of the day in years?

right arm raised towards the heavens 

thumb and forefinger stretched perpendicular  

little me could hardly understand how  

the mudra my clumsy hands had shaped 

was meant to be you 

fingertips resting on the car’s window  

taking in trees and sky, as they flew by  

my eyes grew round to match your size 

wondering how you, a circle stuck to the sky 

were still chasing after me 

my mother’s eyes admiring your light  

sifting through the muslin sieve  

with my gaze trained towards her— 

deprived of water for the entire day 

she still offered it to you first 

what are you? 

i dance, comparing your cool glow  

to that of goddess saraswati 

i move, listening to your footsteps 

doggedly following mine 

i stand, watching fasting wives pause 

to secure your blessings 

who are you? 

a symbol of beauty 

a constant companion 

Homely warmth of chai 

in Kerala’s tea gardens 

or Kalimpong’s hills.  

Time feels like putty in my hands 

Writhing, with a suppressed ache to be caressed

I stretch out one section of a day; the clay gives as though holding nothing but empty hours 

Both palms inwards, I engulf it in warmth—roll, roll, roll 

Flatten the lumps of impatient minutes with soft fingers pressing over and over and over 

Run a single fingertip, dangling a drop of water, to ease the cracks and crevices that reappear—fissures of minuscule moments in which I fail to hide. 

But they never disappear. 

I view my progress and sigh 

A limb and a head and a soulless eye

The next thing I know,

my hands are fists 

my careful attention, an invitation to chaos.

And time, again, is a contorted lump of clay 

Slowly shrinking in on itself to avoid the abuse 

Prospero: Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.