Flying Ninja Pancake

I wanted to be a writer, I never knew why. They asked me to try, try and tell them the reason. Looking at the panel, my throat dry, eyes twitchy, something itchy, I couldn’t form words. I couldn’t remember my name, I didn’t feel the same as I did when I entered the interview.

“I want to reach out to people, to make them see,” that was always one thing it could be. Except, I hated humans. I couldn’t stand the stench of their impermanence, the reek of their egotistic conceit. It made me want to run to the hills.

Now hills, I remember so many dreams where I was stranded on a mountain, the snow clawing at my skin, no one in or around. The ground was frozen, and all of my toes and fingers were blue, but my heart flew, just like the wind. Howling, shrieking, screaming, freaking people out. But it was happy where it was.

I don’t know what dreams are made of, some say it’s only what you want, some, what you’ll one day get. If so, I never dream of pets or sleeping with the fear of waking up to find tears on my face, and a taste of odd hurt; the smell of MAN all over my body. And everyone knows I always wanted a dog.

I’m easily confused at times, words jumble up and lines intertwine till one of the vines snaps and I ricochet through my fears, tears free flowing, glowing in the streetlight at night. I like taking walks alone in the dark, makes me an easy mark for snipers. In my head that’s the worst of the lot, I try not thinking of reality.

Sitting under taps, water flowing over clothes and salt and cracks has become a habit. If I don’t do that, how else will I wash myself away, fingerprints and tongues, the smell of another, “Hey! No!” It’s only natural that the swirling brown heat, slapping meat, eclipsed the mirror on the shelf, while washing away my self.

They took us for movies, in the cold outdoor theatres, and the murmurs overshadowed the actual thing. Hushed conversations still bring that back to me. In front of screens of coffins, pyres or trains, it always pains me, to not understand the words. Speak up, I scream in my head, and until I go to bed, I keep replaying the scenes, to gather some more meaning.

Maybe if I could write, I could bite down my scream, and give one for the team when ink splashed on white and trite things became life, strife ridden, hidden under flowers, blue skies, butterflies. Maybe I could save the dark alley from snipers, and lead the girl away from the piper. Save the dreams for my own head and let them sleep in beds not drenched with tears and fears and blanket forts.

I cannot believe how well people write. I want to bite, claw, fight till I gain the right to weave words like them, hem the sides off my inadequacy, and make something like art - smart, tart, complete crippling heart of jewels and feelings.

Until then, I keep scribbling.

As I unravel, slowly, oh so slowly

My mind, my feelings, my naked soul

Break up into a million tiny butterflies

and flutter away to the sunlit shores,

Where monochrome takes on hues bright

and birds of vivid plumes warble on

and all the butterflies I became

black as midnight, fly silently on.

p.p.

He died for a lie.

I watched him sink down to his knees Hold his arms to his ears Drown himself in his tears.

He looked up with bloodshot eyes, Back sagging with musty dreams Now broken, ripped at the seams.

Knees bent at an angle absurd Perspiration clinging to skin like dew He clawed his uniform askew.

The gun went off, bang in his mouth And his tears peirced her chest Just as her words peirced his vest.

The boy soldier would never meet his father again. His mother now lived in pain, he never touched guns the same.

II

She sweats in the dark

We stopped for a cigarette in the shade She never liked smoking in a room It felt too much like fire and fumes.

Purple fog mingled with smoke Coughs racked the throats of once-singers, Midnight hid the tremble of fingers.

Her thighs quivered, her skin clammed up Thinking about what did and what will Her toes ready to run up the hill.

He laughed about the illegality of sweat As yellow dripped down her legs and waist Keeps telling herself there is no haste.

She can’t get the image of the burnt girl out of her sight. She never walks alone, talks less, doesn’t fight. Acid stings her dreams at night.

III

The noose wasn’t tight enough

Ropes were not his friends ever, He was not a fisherman by trade He did what he could to get paid.

Boats got dashed and salt make him spit He couldn’t bear the blue of the sea Couldn’t remember a time when he was free.

But more afraid he was of the drought Even as he missed the golden yeilds, Promised me he wouldn’t go home to fields.

Dipped his fingers in the water sometimes, The sickle took his heart, the plow his soul, And the gnawing hunger it’s deadly toll.

His life was in disarray. As his father swung from a tree he ran away. His sister was dead, family on its way.

IV

They made their temple

Clutching her head she waited for it to pass Running screaming voices racked her nights She made her tea - hating dreams - sat tight.

Remembering running in broken chappals, Fire, works of faith, idols and scorn Memories set to flames by dawn.

Tears burning marks of rage down cheeks, She works for her child, makes a life She used to know so much more than strife.

Every saffron tinted sunrise sets off alarms But dishes, wishes dont happen on their own, Life cant wait for ankles weighed by stones.

She lost everyone the night they set everything ablaze. The child in her belly was all that could stay. Now, she can’t, and they won’t, pay.

V

He dreamt of spice

All day he would sit in his corner No noise, no voice, always tight lipped He looked weather beaten, a little chipped.

Classes go on for long, time stands still Friends are made, smiles thrown like scraps He takes notes, disregarding snide raps.

His trousers were scuffed, his shirt a yellow I saw his mother once, she smiled broken Cupped his face, wiped a tear, nothing spoken.

He never looked at eyes, only the ground, And sometimes at bread, or fruit, Like it was treasure, like it was loot.

His smile shone slow, just like his drawl. He didn’t live to be very tall. His father had a drinking problem, bruised knuckles and all.

I don’t think I can make any categories anymore, There is too much in store, I give up.

I went to the sea today.

I have always loved playing in water and so I did.

The tide pulled me in two, four, six, eight, I couldn’t wait to leave.

But I never wanted to go.

And then I realised, that’s what life is about, Hating and loving at once.

Rolling over and over in blue algae water, losing your senses And mind.

Choking, coughing, choking again.

Feeling like you’ve gone under when all you did was Surface with a lung full of salt.

Scratching your knees, back, heart, palms bloody and raw.

Try to rub out all the salt in your eyes, but failing. But then, who wants to leave the big beautiful blue.

Not me. Not even if I drown.

p.p.

Listen:

there’s a needle dropping

Don’t use your eyes or else

that’s where it will land

It’s soaring from the palm of some hand into a stitch of fabricated lies

Red die drips from rose pedals meant for you

Crimson stained pain exalted through rain

Days staring out the window

Watching everything

Dying

Praying

the depression is seasonal

Two days this week I walked outside and smelt smoke

My first thought was you and I choked

Realizing it was the neighbor burning leaves

It was okay for a while

I imagined the houses were burning and they were all mine

It was okay for a time

And then I realized time

Was never mine

Not like you were

The speckles on the road remind me of your freckles

So I stare at the curb while I drive to work

In this clothing shop full of thread there are so many needles I dread

How lucky the mortician to work with the dead

I wish-

ed on a star last night

that I get to see a praying mantis this Spring

Spicy.

The golgappe ka paani seared my tongue as it went down my throat, burning all the way, and yet I want more. 

I guess we always want what we should not have an affliction of genes, a affliction of man, it’s a sweet curse. 

You were my ice, spice, everything nice. Soothing my ragged edges, Cooling me down. Burning my tongue, ears full of sound popping in a halo of fire, a lasso of dreams, at last a wreath to lay down on the fields of me. 

II.

Sweet. 

My room mate loved to eat jalebis after dinner, only to get to them we had to climb down the hill. we did it every night. 

I ached in muscles i didn’t know I had till they burnt in a sweet sweet wrenching pain, that filled me with confidence.  I felt validated post every climb. 

You must have been the mountain and the pain,  but the sweetness I seek, somehow I lost again.  Maybe it was me drowning in sweet sticky syrup while you whirled me round and round and round  with hopes and hands and words and sounds  and lips. 

iii. 

Tangy.

The first time I tasted jaljeera, I was on the horse, riding on the plains when my mother was at the border fighting for her life. 

I took too much and the boys laughed as I screwed up my face and waited for the lancing lemon spike to recede from my brain, I always take small bites now. 

When I met you, I guess I fell off the wagon again, swallowed you whole and couldn’t spit you out,  you dug your claws and all your flaws inside of me  and I couldn’t let go; I didn’t even want to though, This was the longest and the shortest time that I was  in love. 

iv. 

Bitter. 

When I was a girl, My father fed me karela,  he told me it made my healthy, it was good for me. I hated every bite. 

Over the years I fell in love with the taste of burnt seared  vegetables too, and medicines that tasted just like earwax. I overdosed only twice. 

I saw you through the crowd, you were a friend of a friend, and just like my father, you hid the harsh truth behind curry and smiles that made me take a lick, and then kick myself for believing in beautiful things, Told myself they are illusions. I still have something stuck in my throat. Feels like pain, this letting go.