The drunk drinks harder.

Two cups of diluted decoction, two long breaks, two times I felt the urge to look out of the window for a long long time and by the end of it, I was grabbing the keys off the table and making a run for the stairs. The day was over early and there were still a few minutes of twilight I could catch, filtered blue and big through my dusty windscreen.

Dusty, dotted and neglected, my windshield still did a great job at filtering the blue. I stopped at a red light and saw  stray bits of cloud making a slow, reluctant retreat, like the last ones to leave a funeral. The dots and the dust bothered me. It spoke of a drunkard.

The durnkard

She earned odd notes of 50s and 100s, she sometimes pushed him back, she at times, hit at him with all her might, she sometimes cried it out. All this I see in the short walk from the car door to the lift. Sometimes she stood adamant, arms crossed in front of my mother, she absolutely needed five thousand rupees to pay her bills and the drunkard woke up each day, cleaned all the cars in the parking lot, lazed, and the odd 50s and 100s broke down to just bouts of guileless drunken slumber, that I sometimes spied beyond oily curtains, barely hiding anything from view.

The she, is my watchman’s lawfully wedded and bedded wife and the he, is the drunk watchman.  The spots on my windshield  turn green around the edges and off I go, as the blue runs deeper into itself, I climb the flyover, still mulling about the drunk.

When I finally park the car in the parking lot, I stare at the dots and dust. He hasn’t been cleaning the car for three days now. He never misses a day.

I haven’t even seen his wife around for three days now, I haven’t seen his children.

Later, I come to know, I might never see one of his children again. His son is in the hospital battling fatal burns, that burnt as deep as his breathing vitals. Each breath must hurt, I think as I exhale, feeling privileged.

I try not to imagine the pain, as I stare at the ceiling, my mother is still talking. Does it matter?

Will it really matter if someone pointed out that there wasn’t anything to tie together between the boy’s burns and the father’s habit? Dots and dust on my windshield speak of a drunkard, who might never hear a kind word again.

How do you fight two battles at once? The loss and the lost.

The next day, I clean the dots and the dust myself, as the dots browned, they sang of the kid’s slow demise and I didn’t have the strength to pray for a half burnt life of nine years.

 

 

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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Deserted Old.

Once upon a time, this place

Was a desert of wind, a deserted race

Dwell-ed within.

But that’s just dust on a forgotten book,

Now, this place, is hardly the same.

Water flows, so does champagne

There is hardly  an ugly voice in the crowd

That could sing you to tears,  make you cry out loud

All I can hear, is delicate fingers

Playing the piano, wearing a perfume that lingers

All I can see is a flood of gold

And I crave and crave for my deserted old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tease.

 

I smile at my memory’s gentle tease

Of pulling the taut string of a decade of summer

Sweating and happy, deep in debt, at ease

My poverty, my effective Armour

 

And one day, the Armour betrayed me

For once, it rebelled and choked me

What was once my strength, now my misery

And the debt, well, that is the start of the story

 

The story that sent me packing to this land

This land of sun, silks and sand

Loose rubies and sapphires running black

To let the world flow at their feet, they do not lack.

 

A decade ago, it pained me to watch

Silken silhouettes through glasses, that I was paid to wash

A decade ago, there was a debt to pay

And now, I want to scatter astray

 

To wander into forests deep and dark

To get lost in lands that are cut apart

To somehow make my way back to the start

So I could once again, be shackled in debt and be free of heart.