Complaint compliance.

I am stuck in bengaluru. Three years of no headaches, no traffic jams and no broken hearts for anyone who saves me from here. Before Thursday. Tonight, I’ll be waiting.

I have an article to write, an audit to wrap up and three night’s sleep to catch up on, all the while remembering to put the “collect my laundry” sign on my door.  I am still taking the metro, the hike from the station to the hotel has simmered down to an easy walk from the spirited hike it was, three days ago. The menu choices have slowly shifted from “cantonese fried rice” to “steamed rice” and the heat on my hair has dropped to sub zero levels. The theme of now, is survival.

Survival achieved by fighting impulses to get on flights to places, fighting instincts to get up and walk out of rooms and fighting the urge to not get up in the mornings. White linen has a profound effect on how sweet the sleep is. The resurgence of air conditioning is another slow trickle of anaesthesia into my sleep. But there is a pink train every seven minutes two kilometres away and my roommate loves talking to people who are half asleep. I slip out of the blanket and try to make 30 minute, 10 minute slots of the time left, a meek attempt at organisation. Shes a happy person in the mornings, almost too cheerful. It hurts to meet her with a sullen, grumpy face and it hurts more to hear her drill holes into my sweet, anaesthetic sleep.

My rationed courage is fast depleting and I want to be stuck in a true hyderabadi traffic jam, before it disappears altogether.

The night is young and there are one thousand words to be written, three sachets of sugar to be emptied and three spreadsheets to fill.

 

 

The need.

There is a need

There flows a river of sound, a river of death and greed

There are flowers, black and rotting, blooming like its spring

On the banks of these rivers, scattering disease like romance in the air

And I breathe, I stop and I stare

The murky waters flowing menacingly silent, beneath my feet

And I’ve never felt more enchanted

Than when I swam those rivers, like a sword unsheathed

It felt like I was the sin and I was melting into beauty

Like the naked thighs of youth spoilt, spread apart for pleasure, not duty

Time passed and before I knew

I was a washed up, washed away, pining little thing

Up in the hills, in the little house painted blue.

There is still a need, there still flows that river of death and greed

I sometimes hear its roar, waking me up from dreamless sleep, calling me once more.

 

Autumn Party.

Moods are set to dusty pinks

Autumn evening in full swing

Spices of faraway lands, like dreams

 

Silks that dare to be fancied, by bodies unclean

Harps sing like birds in the spring

Hail the queen and the king

For this drop and this game 

For the crop and my dame

Crop burnt to ground, dame doomed for shame 

Hail the Queen and the king, again! 

Drunk with love, she looks at me

Eyes hollowed out to just barely see

Her arms just skin covering bones, so tiny

Yes, I love you too. You know me.

Hail the Queen and the king, one two three! 

This Autumn party will turn to night

With the palace gates closing, so shall the light

This game will get cold, the drop no more in sight

Someday, Someone will set things right.

 

 

 

 

Processions.

We have the grand eloquence of

Lighting the fire in our hearths

From the burning pits, they call, hunger of others

Others who aren’t my brothers

Everyday I wake up to a procession

In honour of the dead of the day, the first

The fire in him died out, how sad, the depression!

Though my house, for fire, shall never thirst

In idleness prized, I have written long accounts of tragedy

Of a war hero, of a pining heroine and of vanity

By the candlelight, night after night

 Candlelight carved out of those other’s last sight.

There is but one small complaint, I must admit

The other’s processions earlier were few and silent

Now, through midnights till midnights, the other’s commit

To a prayer of wailing and cries of avowed violence.

Ignoring, I write another account of a king who slept badly

Who was in love with summers, and madly

Satisfied, I go to sleep and the music returns

This time louder, threatening and I twist and turn

Today, I dread to try to sleep

I know today, they’ll breach the barrier

I know today, they’ll steal their fire

Fire fed off of their hunger

Light stole off of their sight

Their procession today carries no dead

This lacking, they intend to fill

, I go to bed

And I wait, anytime now, blink and I’m their kill.

Now my funeral, a burning pyre

Their baecon of victory

And I’ll dissipate to the sky, dying twice for fire

A threat to the world, a decree.

Inspired by a book read a year ago, ‘Hunger’ By Knut Hamson, though the book is of an another misery altogether, this rendering is of a misery that I see, no different from a very desperate attempt at keeping dignity intact, as is the motto of every person I have met, in these five years of conscious note taking.

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