Saturday, December 24, 2011


I vividly remember the day she came to me - she was suffering and the moment I saw her I understood her ailment. I had seen it before and I knew her end was near.
She walked in haughtily into my consulting room and told me she was Desdemona. I asked her what’s with all the paint on her face. She said she was a dancer, a performer. She travels from town to town, dancing in front of the crowd, taking care of her old mother with whatever she collects.
I told her what she knew already. She was calm. I told her that another patient with the same problem is waiting inside the room. It was a cat, a tomcat. 
It was a seed, a seed which penetrates your limbs and grows inside your thighs; grows into a full grown thorny plant inside you, killing you from inside. There was nothing anyone could do about it.
I saw her the next evening - her body along with an old woman’s, floating in the river, like a tableau in a carnival. Her face was still painted, her eyes - her eyes were staring at me. She was still that performer she always were. And, it is the same face I see every night in my dreams, making me wake up every single time, drenched in cold sweat.

Thursday, December 15, 2011


The wait, the spray of the night and the clinging heat
The rain was the best camouflage
The sweat, heat and the raving thoughts
The talk was the best cover-up
You me them others and you
The revenge.
The moonlight was never special
The songs were never romantic
The heart was never mentioned
The deed was the thread
Hope was the weak link
The murder.
The night was always welcome and food was a luxury
The days were always a blur
The sounds always a shelter
The door was never there
The bell never tolled
Island was built
The plan.
The stage was yet to be set and the lights were never on
The audience were dispensable
The skin was costume deep
The script had only the last act
The play.
You me glory and mishap
Hope and destruction
Island of gore
Desire and Death.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Of Auto-wallahs, Samosas like Olappadakkams and Bisleri bottles!

I should have taken a lottery ticket today, but I didn't - I took an auto to the bus station instead. The second time in the fine and a half years in this city I got a auto-wallah who is not a thug waiting to steal your money! Not a bastard, not a son-of-a-B but a decent auto-wallah! I sure should have taken that lottery ticket.

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.1