A love a nightmare
at the first hint of
from the kitchen cabinet
in poly packs
A new day has begun.
Its warmth wins new territory,
its aroma breeds salubrious peace,
its froth bloats.
Tall as hope.
Only the bitterness doesn’t go.
Twenty sugar cubes wasted- a life
that’s swirling like a nightmare
is a nightmare
Where are those girls?
Who carried warm water in their purse.
Saving for later, for a whiny day.
Dipped tea-leaves in it and splashed in the faces
of the child-men who came to them timidly.
Memories of them
petered and lost in my heart.
In correct times impermissible, unwise, perhaps?
So, whisper, whisper.
Benevolence, one part, and lust, another- a meady concoction of the seventh heaven
and, thrill as their bait.
Thus the trade- oh the trade is so onesided that I’d trade my house, my cars, and the damn dog away for I could be thrilled instead.
Where are they gone?
The lithe girls who carried perfumed water in their crotches,
would raise a war with the lift of an eyebrow- or a titter storm?
Are they done now, gone now, even now, ashes now, coward now?
The children of a norm?
I stand nearer to you. Not you.
The you that I adore.
Will give my life to-
My love will shine like the blinding drops of summer, will parch us,
and will overcome us like rain.
Greasy strands of memories would put salt on our wounds.
In the bitter rain I will cling to you, to you, to you.
You will be there when I am dry.
It is in this indecision I live my life, my darling.
You, whom I both hate and love.
Charlemagne, the Holy Roman Emperor watched the cathedral burning. The Crown of Thorns had turned into ashes, and the old relics were gone.
The brave Emperor thought what more could be done now? As his horse, his vassals and he himself were legless- a bronze piece of fiction.
While the wind around him gushed terribly, thick with smoke and embers, stiflingly warm.
The old Emperor grunted, turned around in disgust, and asked a horrified tourist to carry him to the Rue de la Bûcherie.
My whims, my whims, live-
You are paid- you are paid with my time,
A time that’s paved with blocks of lightness,
Live, so that you and I align.
My sky, my sky, spread-
Metered with clouds, fickle, a rain-
Wash my inner streets, my inside-
Lissome wet, come to me again.
My bitter, my bitter, stay-
We are naive, we are pure, who?
In a love feral, blood soaked and infinite-
I am dog-tired, if you only knew.
“Kill me, kill me.” mother shouted, from the kitchen. It’s her daily phrase, this time a warning to my father, not an invitation.
Father came late from the office, didn’t eat his tiffin. The box that nested warm chapatis, boiled eggs, onion fries came back hinged, unappreciated. The hotchpotch would go now to the fridge, in the household’s icy realm, where the diligent food maker’s present mood resided.
That day my mother died. The attack came to her suddenly, stealthily, making her hit the kitchen tap, blood gushing out of her head, staining her beloved kitchen sink that she had polished a minute ago. We did not go to fetch her on time. As father was sulking at the verandah. I was playing outside the blind bee.
It was the end of a love story, I suppose. Because father loved mother. Mother loved father. They loved me and I loved them back helplessly. The whole procession of each other’s love came to a sudden halt.
Because, after a week, my father died too. In their bed, more silently than my mother, with a pesky smile on his lips and an old alluminium tiffin box sitting on his chest like a brittle minar.
A man who had known me for a long time said encouragingly once, “At fifty, if you keep fit, a few women will surely be attracted to you.”
He was driving. I don’t drive. I waited, uncomfortably, beside him, pretending glee. While my eyes were on the windscreen watching a cow licking a wounded bull on the road. Who knew who she belonged to.
The man shifted the soliloquy to self-driving cars. Two thousand twenty five was not so far away. Robots would take our jobs. Money would be hummed out of a million servers. AI would write our poems.
The feminists would destroy our families. The sisters would take our children away and make them eat kale breakfast, why? Because, that they can!
Men would not know their place. Love would be disastrous for personal ego, et cetera.
“Only cows’, he said,
‘only cows, if free, if they so would desire, would unflinchingly adore the bulls in the small hum of sweltering asphalt roads. And that would be a sight of hope.”