rock

A small rock stuck on a sea beach, oblivious and worn. Easily forgotten, unbothered, bored.

Unmoving, resilient and stoic, purposeless to look at like a million other strewn stone.

Waves come and go, pulling with violent force unknown, Dragging with them sea shells and life such, small specks of wet dust, seaweed and shore garbage, blackened bits of yesterday's sewage.

They rip, stretch, pluck and extract. 

leaving naught, but white tiara of salt on silent rock with smallest crack

A briny diligence to dislocate

every whip, a watery lash of coruscating initiate to gather the pebble in its bosom and yet it won't budge,

distant waves in thunderous rumble in response to lunar hug. 

Dynamic heaves with intention to cull, to wrench that stone in its liquid hull

they say the seas will cease to be, evaporate into salty lore

would anyone rue the demise of what once was water is now turned ice

Lands may break, merge and dissolve. continents adrift or species evolved. Sands of glass sands of time, drowned in depthless waves crowned with foam, suffixed with future of desert alkaline.

The pebble as it was lives still. tiny rubble obscure stone. 

Its will that waves could not break. Centuries past in its wake, yet its stays, not alive, nor dead.

Emblazoned thus in small crack, enduring lines of ancient salt  

Sea couldn't uproot its quarry, winds were but a roar,

immobile lump of ordinary rock that stayed stuck before that time on a sea shore

unbeknownst to you and I, its roots protruding from earth's core.

P09 (Part 1)

Clutching a VIP pass in hand, Silva made his way towards the venue entrance. Tearing through a long line of waiting crowds he was promptly ushered in, once the VIP pass was waved in front of the ushers face.

‘This way sir, please come in. I can see you’re not wearing a black evening jacket. It’s mandatory sir for today’s exhibition. But we can take care of it. There are several evening jackets meant only for purposes as these. We can loan you one for the night. If you could just step this way sir. 

Ah, perfect this one is your size. Here’s a tag that you must keep with you at all times and return to us along with the jacket once you leave the premises sir.

Have a very good evening’ 

Silva could still feel the cloakroom manager’s oily voice trickle down his ears, as he buttoned his black rental.

The air was thick with murmured voices and adulating exclamations. People dressed in ceremonious formal garbs. 

An air of elite formality surrounding each art patron as they walked in exaggerated swishes of their expansive clothes undercut by careful twitters of elegant laughter.

To either side of him on impossibly white walls were tapestries of oddities that important people took to staring at for long moments, discussing with their peers the abstractions of pain those strange tapestries depicted. 

Straight ahead, as the eclectic signs done in avant-garde frames said, were the oils and pastels. To the left of the long passage inside closed doors were the artists light shows and several reels of previously done performance arts.

To the right of the passage were photography stills, amassed by the artist over the years and in a bigger room behind the bend of the corridor on the right were the sculptures, for which the artist P09 was most popular.

This was P09’s biggest art exhibition after a hiatus of almost seven years and the who’s who of art world and everyone who wished to be seen at the right place at the right time or be known for their omnifarious existence could be seen walking the aisles of "exhibition movement #6", as was the wont of P09 to give peculiarly overblown names to all her art exhibitions, thus confirming her ironically grandiloquent status in the ever pompous multifarious world of art.

Silva could feel a surge of hateful thoughts cloud his vision. His visions that were now marred with a crowd of dilettantish super inflated windbags who were here to judge art and pretend to be awed by the sculptures and the blurry still life’s and the non communicative reels of performance arts, when they knew nothing. 

They know nothing of art, nothing of P09, just like he and Mayon did not when they first visited a P09 exhibition almost nine years ago. 

***

Mayon’s most precious possession was his grandfathers vintage pen that had been known to stay in their paternal line for ages, and this relic he began to fervently stick in his front pocket.

It was only right, seeing how each generation believed in producing one writer and this legacy was now on Mayon’s shoulders which he most earnestly devoted himself to. 

Perhaps this was also one among the many reason why his forefathers, him including never found themselves rich, and why he and his friend Silva had to rent formal clothes to an art exhibition they found passes to.

It was in a printers/publishers office where Mayon worked as an editors assistant. The money wasn’t much but it was enough to help him pay rent. He in turn got to read a lot of contemporary tripe that was passed on as literature and given a green signal for printing. 

It was here that a coffee table book on P09’s art was being printed and the editor was gifted with two complementary passes to the new exhibit.

The passes never made their way to the editors desk but did find themselves sitting with Mayon who'd been following P09’s works for some time and was visibly awed by her.

‘No one knows much of her. She’s like this mystery descended on earth. Her sculptures are so real in pictures’ he was chirping away while fixing an all knowing gaze to the mirror. 

‘I don't know Mayon. I’ve only heard of her through what I’ve read and watched in the gossip vines. That she’s super exclusive and that she’s got horde of 'servants' around her. No one’s allowed to talk in her house and that she lives alone.

What’s even her real name?’

‘Who knows. Artists are given to eccentric behaviour. That’s what makes them so creative’

‘Really? I thought it was the other way round’ 

‘I don’t care what she’s like Silva. I know she’s a real wonder. She can’t be anything but. The beauty in her sculptures is heart shattering. They’ll make you cry. Such perfection in detailing, to detail the minutest imperfections. Oh, P09, she’s a puzzle’

‘you mean curiosity. what if you get to meet her?’

‘I will be down on my knees, prostrating myself for her one glance thrown tenderly my way and ask her to sign an autograph with my grandfathers pen’ 

‘You’d let her write with that pen? you never let me as much as touch it’

‘It’s a pen of artists for artists and them alone, Silva’

‘You’re no artist. You write poems’

‘same difference’ he scowled.

***

Sipping complementary champagne, Silva sat staring at a sculpture. The noise in the background was a mild undercurrent of clinking glass, enamored discussions on present art and often ebbing and growing sounds of whispering light show music that emanated from the door of its room being frequently opened and shut.

Silva stared at a sculpture named ‘ambitious heart’ of a withered man looking into oblivion with seemingly dead eyes.

He wanted to snigger, throw his head back and laugh maniacally at the obviously stupid name of the sculpture, he wanted to tear down each tapestry and light a match to every out of focus picture of tree barks, but for that he realized he needed to drink more. 

A woman of rather chunky constitution was making her way to the sulking Silva, now on his third glass of champagne, and with a deeply audible sigh made herself heard in his vicinity.

On getting no reply from the would be drunk she intoned in bogus consternation ‘such pathos in these sculptures, wouldn’t you say dear boy?  such poignant sentiments..err.. this singular echo of helpless loneliness’ she droned

Silva knew these words to be the exact quotes from the literature handed out at the main entrance by a docent and he felt no obligation to talk to her, but the alcohol thick breath that rode on this heavily attired, jewel laden woman worked as a soothing unguent to his seething wounds, and with a weary sigh he turned to her. 

‘you like P09’s works?’ he asked her in a voice that was cool with emotionless calm

‘who doesn’t? she’s remarkable, you know. She’s shortly due to make an appearance. Would you meet her?’ she cooed in a thick voice

‘I just might’ he said slowly

***

‘Oh there she is, there she is. Let’s go’

‘How Mayon? she’s surrounded by her people. You see those burly men. They’re probably her guards, and we’d have to line up to seek her blessings. Look at the sea of faces moving in a wave towards her. Yikes, like she’s a movie star’

Mayon looked at him hurt ‘please don't be disrespectful. She’s an artists not a star’

‘same difference’ Silva barked a laugh.

‘How do I get to take her autograph?’

‘You don’t’

With a twisting knot in his stomach and the revelation of something unexpected Silva seemed to reel under impromptu attention as signified by a sudden movement of hundred gazes now directed in their general area.

‘Why is everyone looking at us?’

‘Mayon, they’re looking at you’

Silva ran his gaze against the current of those stares to meet the eyes of P09.

Dressed in a rather long flowing black robe, standing tall and gaunt was P09, looking curiously at his friend.

You wouldn’t call her beautiful, at least Silva wouldn’t but there was a preternatural attractiveness about her queer face.

It was something magical, with the power to breach any strong facade. It was smooth, smoother than any face, but for some features that were lined like ancient furrows. There was a sorcerous knowledge to her gaze. It could peel you apart, layer by layer and pluck at your soul. 

The way she blinked looked unnatural, like an effort, a put on, a show, yet it was her eyes that looked like they held unearthly secrets.

‘Would something jump out of her eyes?’ he smiled at the thought 

Mayon and Silva walked to her. Mayon was mumbling something in his mouth and fumbling with his ancient pen and a piece of paper. The quietness of the room was back to a bizarre throb of people chaotically clambering over each other to reach out to P09, but she looked at no one save the approaching strangers, particularly the one uncapping his pen. 

‘autograph please’ Mayon croaked like a pre pubescent teenager handing out his pen and paper and Silva felt a twinge of irritation sweep inside him.

He saw her left lip twitch momentarily as if trying a smile and exhausting itself in the effort.

She handed him back the paper with an indiscernible scrawl and drew back her gaze into a shell of unassuming indifference towards the crowd.

The friends were presently pushed back by other autograph seekers and fans and they watched P09 withdraw into a protective cocoon of her burly guards who for the most part of the evening looked like dead sentinels with brawny arms and mountainous shoulders. 

‘Can you believe it? She gave me an autograph. She picked me out of the crowd and acknowledged me’ Mayon was prickled with excitement barely restraining his ecstasy. 

Silva could see Mayon's arms ridden with goosebumps and had begun to look alarmingly diseased and suddenly with a start he noticed the empty pocket near his lapel. 

‘where’s you pen?’ Silva cried out

***

‘What you’re saying dear boy is that you’ve met P09 and she stole your friends pen?’ the fat woman was shaking with laughter; rolls of fat faintly visible under voluminous fabric of expensive silk.  

‘She didn’t steal it’ droned Silva handing his alcoholic reveler another flute glass of suspended bubbles while downing his fifth.

‘I never said she stole it. She gave it back the very next day

we never got to look at any sculptures or any art at that exhibition. My friend was so distressed that we returned back home after getting drunk, just like we do presently, dear lady.

Mayon was only one short tear away from crying and getting drunk did not nearly help as much as I’d anticipated. He talked all evening about his grandfather and his poetry and P09’s art.

Berating himself all night until he came to the conclusion that P09 was his goddess and the pen was his offering. But that argument held no water he knew, having lost something that belonged to his family for ages. He slept badly and so inconsolable was he, that it hurt me and made me angry at that shallow woman, who’d nicked my friends family heirloom. 

I was dreaming up plans on getting back that pen, and made it a point to visit the art gallery next day to somehow find P09’s contact and ask her to return the relic.

As it happened, I had to do none of it.

I woke up to a faint rustle from behind the door. There were no footsteps. The world cast no glow in the room. The outside held a quiet presence. 

I’d stayed over at Mayon’s place, not wishing to leave his side that night and glad was I at that moment because he slept while I stayed awake. The hair on my neck were standing in alarm and I was spooked.

There was an eerie movement at the door, and at that moment I felt like I was drowning in shadows. Someone had smeared coal into an already pitch dark gloom which was just an hour from daylight, everything outside that door felt dead and darker than how I perceived the night outside. 

My heart was racing when I opened the door, menacingly quiet, hoping it was nothing, except she was standing. P09, wearing the same black robe from the exhibition gala. Blinking in that same odd way.

‘I wish to return a pen’ she spoke in a gurgle of small pebbles draining from a glass bottle.

***

try

Try to forget it and get some sleep
gratitudinal concern carelessly spoken
words are words and words in token
muffle your sobs silently weep
tears are yours, you alone shall keep

Try to forget it and get some sleep
'try' one has to it might be absurd
what you remember shan't ever be heard
shut your eyes count some sheep
sorrow is easy, it comes in cheap

Try to forget it and get some sleep
not nearly lacerating is the hurt
as is the sentence above
swollen heart the pain will seep
what I have sown, so shall you reap

Memoirs

I stood defaced, unable to stand, ugly and unwanted. 

My body a flat terrain of scars and grotesque wounds. Wounds so deep I couldn’t bear to look at myself. I was broken, breaking still in places; crushed into dust, overcome with defeat and resigned to my ebbing state. I starved my pride until my pathetic form could bruise my soul no more. I bore a crippled heart and learnt to live with it, only it wasn’t living. I was collapsing inside. Slowly decaying and now I welcomed a complete disintegration of my existence. 

I knew I’d lie broken languishing forgotten in some corner-slowly torn apart piece by piece. I knew but what could I do? I felt dead, dead until ‘she’ came.

She saw in me what none could. 

I saw the softening in her eyes when she noticed my disfigured face. Her fingers so gentle when they caressed my scars, when she slowly probed my wounds, when she cried in agony to see me.  

She loved me, I knew she loved me. Why else would she wish to stay with something as uselessly pathetic as me. 

I was healing, slowly. It took some time, it took a long time, but she was there to take care of me. Always looking in to check on me. Sometimes spending hours together. Touching me, feeling my scattered veins, soothing my frayed nerved. She stayed. 

My torn heart was beginning to slowly collect its lost pieces.

But me, I’m full of cracks and holes, no matter how I try to hide. Imperfect incomplete, whereas she was an exhaustive study in faultless. Her skin, a fresh coat of paint always glistening. Lips that stayed forever wet and hair a dark cloud that rained lustrous black water.

Yet, it was her voice that I loved.

“what are you staring at Shree?”

‘the mirror’

“the mirror’s no good. it has cracked a little.”

‘all the better. I see eight of you’

Oh she laughed, her voice a sonorous lilt. Holding out her hand to my chest seeking support when she wore her shoes. I loved it when she gently laid her head on my smooth healed shoulder while talking on phone.

I was happy. Her existence alone was enough for me to live. I stood upright, strong proud and confident; yet there were dark time- times when she’d be gone. When she’d disappear for days together. My life during those days was plunged into a miserable obscurity. It scared me. My happiness felt eclipsed. 

There’d be a dimness that I couldn’t fathom. I felt alone, stranded in murky shadows.

Those few days of tenebrosity would cast a foul gloom and an unspoken anger bubbled. 

‘You didn’t say you’d be gone this long’

“I told you, I’d be away for a week. I was on a different continent, Shree”

‘I don’t like that you stay away so long. I don’t care if it’s work. This has to stop. Your trips are getting more frequent by the month. Surely it’s not mandatory to be gone for every training’

“I don’t say anything to you when you’re gone for work or trainings, because I know it’s important to you and your job. I’d expect you extend the same respect to me and my work”

‘my visits are few and far in between. Sweetness, I’m not trying to undermine your work. Just that I feel terribly lonely without you. It’s a difficult life in your absence’ 

“oh yes, who’d cook for you?”

‘more like, who’d touch me’

There it was again. Her soft peals of laughter, like that wind chime she’d bought.

Was I angry that she stayed away so long? How could I? it was not my place to be angry. My existence was nothing save broken pieces of myself that still chipped in places. 

I was a devotee. She could hate me, break me and still find me in love with her.

“wake up, you’re snoring again. Wake up. I can’t sleep in this noise”

‘What..what? I’m not snoring’

“you are. it’s giving me nightmares.”

‘you must be dreaming of yourself. You are a nightmare to live with sometimes. Let me sleep.’

“if you snore again Shree..”

‘then you can sleep in another room. Or tell me if its pains you so much to share bed with me and I’ll shift rooms’

She had not looked at me the same way in days. Nor touched me. Never did she lean on me anymore for support while she wore shoes or spoke on phone, and whenever she did look at me it was almost as if she were questioning me; with distaste.

A quizzical visage stared me, like I were a mere jigsaw puzzle and she couldn’t find the pieces. 

What had changed?

I think I heard her grunt at times when her fleeting look sometimes rested on me.. when she glanced my way through the corner of her eyes. 

Was she disgusted with me? 

I’d often watched her knit her brows when she was silently exasperated, but now she revealed the same expression while standing close to me. 

It was breaking my heart. But dare I tell her?

‘what ails you my dear?’

“Do you love me Shree?”

‘Of course I do. I’m sorry for behaving so distant. It’s just that I’ve not been myself. All this work. This job nuisance has put a lot of pressure on me. It didn’t help that we had to move and remodel this entire house that was falling apart. It just put so much strain on us, on me. I keep this pent up steam that boils over on you. 

I’m sorry darling. I’ll try to make it better for us.’

“Do you promise?”

‘I do. Do you love me still?’

“Of course I do, Shree.”

Her face lights up like a thousand flares. Just yesterday she brushed her velvety skin against me, and suddenly winced. Am I hurting her? She looks unhappy with me.

That inquiring look about her again. Like I’ve hidden some mysteries from her that she needs unearthed.

I miss the touch of her palms kissing my face, her fingers sliding softly against my bosom. She never looks at me the same way anymore. Something has changed.

“How long exactly has it been since we moved here Shree?”

‘Almost a year now, if you don’t add the three months it took us renovating this derelict house’

“and yet..”

Ah, she’s looking at me, staring at my face. Her beautiful arms raising to caress my cheek, just like she used to. Her fingers playing softly on my lips, her hands massaging my neck, fondling my arms.  

“and yet this wall looks like it has lost all its luster. Look, how the paint is chipping away at the bottom and flaking too. I’d been noticing this for a while, and just yesterday I brushed my arm against it while talking on the phone and the paint chipped and got stuck to my clothes. I think we should get this fixed as soon as possible”

My lacerations are still healing, and the signs of previous lesions slowly fade away. I’m trying to gain a new perspective on life, and it helps that there is love to get me by. She likes to lean against me and paint, confident that I’d never let her down. I’m her sturdy companion for whenever she needs support. 

She touches me with a renewed vigor, feeling my dying scars with the tip of her nails, so gently that it wounds me to think how much I love her. 

It’s indescribable how alive it feels when she lays the flat of her palm against my smooth cheeks and leisurely strokes my face.

Wasp

a silent nest of far away wasps

minding their own business 

until you light a bit of smoke 

and fan it in their direction

or prod the little maze

pockmarked with odd geometrical shapes

and watch a burst of yellow

wrath of angular blade

that stings without mercy

cover your face 

and learn to dance

in that moment of invited hate

painfully prance

until you're dead or dying

desiccated discombobulated

a ripple that you're vying

comes expensive

the weight of each atom

costs a wretched agony

portentous burden

to ride you like a mule

spurring deep into ribs

drawing blood puncturing lungs

go on you must 

to live a life

hideously blotched now

what was then a quiet strife

to fix with a tiny splash

ricocheted cavernous gash

alchemizing a meek thrill

into an irreversible hideous shrill

that seeps into your past

lives in your present

and dies with your future

septic wounds

no time could suture

make a vow

to your bosom hands shall clasp

leave it be

do not irritate the wasp

 

inconsequential life cycles

a relationship shared of love and disinterest
convenient flame
platonic tool to hug and squeeze
at night or during day when I fall asleep
lump of foam or feathers
humped in cotton soft dome
purveyor of fine dreams
assorted nightmares sleepless ceiling scenes
tucked between knees
cradling my head
the moon pulls waves in for a kiss
springs creak under restless weight
a nomadic lurch to find cool spots
flesh of fabric close to your heart
comforting mound
in a passionless grip of needy love
demanding succor, it gives plenty
limp doll of rag life
thrown atop a mattress
uncared for when I awake
dutifully wedged between two worlds
of night and light
beloved, forgotten- repeatedly

(C)louds

Clouds a gurgle
uncertain rumble
it might or it might not
they could have but just murmured
bashful promise of timid rains
expeditiously forgotten
wafting in broken wisps
of million grey thread thin hues
dispersed without a care
to perhaps rain
or even make good on the grumble
from faraway cast out skies
whispering threats
like dead tempests
crying with dry tears
making such noise

view

What do I see?
hell if I know,
or if I even want to know
a desert land, some mist or rain
a mountain top
beach shores and rivers
I see 'em all
panoramic view
yes I see them, and then what?
all I can do is see
it's a lot different when you walk that path
to reach a mountain top, or bathe in waves
the god forsaken road
assumes a labyrinthine puzzle unreal
with exits sealed with destiny
and tracks carved in fate
forced exits are not allowed
oh, and this maze is paved with hellish fire

Indomitable

Worker meandered through vast boulders of cracked rocks, jagged yellow sand mountains and grass jungles. She advanced at a determined breakneck speed, unyielding and pitiless. 

Worker was an unstoppable driven work of remorseless persistence; she knew what she had to do, and she had to do it fast, and she had to do it everyday. 

      Today was not exceptionally different, except for the small fact that her commune had suffered some not so minor setback from relentless floods in the past few days. 

She, along with others had been working at strengthening some of the weaker walls of their alate colonies, but they had not anticipated the cataclysmic force of this new kind of flood. It seemed to suddenly come out of nowhere. A few hours prior they'd noticed their world go dark, it was ominous, and out of nowhere there began a downpour succeeded by a torrential current of water so devastating  that it tore through some of their walls as if they were autumnal leaves. 

       More than a mere hundred were displaced. Their ancient commune and still older colonies suffered massive setback. A few areas neared complete collapse while some remained untouched by flood waters. Those that still lived or injured were immediately transferred to safer haven, and those that didn't make it through were gone. 

      It was useless to mourn their passing. They were dead. Had Worker not seen a thousand such meaningless deaths in the past. Deaths of her friends, her colleagues from her squadron, her superiors..all gone. It wasn't always flood.

   She had lost her entire division in one day, that day she always remembered, when it rained mountains. 

   It was useless, Worker knew, to reminisce about the past. To think of her people who were one of the soil now. 

She had things to do. The flood had wiped out almost all their food supplies, and the able bodied that still remained were sent in all directions to find food; be it hunting, stealing or even killing. 

Worker was on her way back to the commune from her food hunt. She'd amassed enough, for anymore than that she wouldn't be able to carry, which is why she was running at a lightening gallop, her movements accelerated every moment at the thought of the destruction wrought on her world and the futile deaths it resulted in. 

She was plagued by her soulless insensitivity for her dead comrades, but that's how it was; hardened by years of war and adversity; Worker was called this name because she epitomized their commune's three pillars of belief  Rigid, Rigour, Responsible. This was their solution to surviving a world where war was the only means to get by.

 On reaching back home she'd either report to the reconstruction site of damaged areas or be sent back to looking for food. She didn't care either ways; her life wasn't about thinking for herself. Her life belonged to her commune, her people, her responsibilities, which she would be committed to doing until she was dead or killed. 

Worker was an imperishable roar of durability, and yet she felt a bit tired. It hadn't felt so hot a while back, but just now, as she was running through the cavernous cracks of a planetary stone mountain she felt like she was about to burn. 

The heat seemed to follow her. Worker quickened her pace, her legs wouldn't give up, she knew that. Far up ahead through the mammoth fissures of this formidable mountain she could see overgrown trees with lofty leaves. A good place to shade herself from the blazing heat. She'd make her way back to the commune under the shelter of these overgrown thickets. Food supplies are dwindling, we need food. Her agenda and her reason to be alive at this very moment were as clear as day, but it had begun to feel hot.

    

The heat had begun to sear through her skin, breathing was becoming difficult. The air about her felt like it was on fire.

 Worker rememberd that time she was running away from a world of heat and smoke. Chunks of fiery matter rained around her, all she could see were sparks and the entrance and exits were aflame. Had she not escaped that infernal moment alive. Was it anymore hotter than the heat that scalded her skin now? She lived through that moment, and she'll live through this, and even is she doesn't, I will run as long and as far as my legs take me. Nothing save death can stop me.

 Wisps of smoke rose from her skin. She knew now that she'd be burnt alive. A thick streak of scorching light was hovering over her head. No matter how she changed her path, ducked or hid behind the crevices and hidden rocks of this fissured mountain, the incinerating stream of blinding light always found her. An anomaly, but she'd seen enough to be surprised anymore, ever. 

The dense jungle was still a little further away. She wouldn't make it, she knew. She would be another forgotten name in a worthless list of useless deaths. 

The charring heat had become unbearable. It felt like someone had placed a burning kindle on her back. The air felt too thick to breathe. Worker was caked in a smoldering nightmare.

Her body had begun to slowly roast. How pathetic, to be cooked alive. She could walk no more. That's it she thought. What a pity, all this food could have really helped my people.

She could hear sounds now. They meant nothing to her. They were just sounds devoid of any meaning, like the gust of winds or splattering raindrops; perhaps she'd heard them before. Was it that day of the flood? She couldn't remember. She didn't feel alive anymore.

"What are you doing stooped over the stones with that magnifying glass, son?" 

"I'm just having fun with ants, Pa. Can't believe what a small piece of fat glass can do" 

"Well, you better believe it and stop messing around. It's not very nice to kill. Come in and have your dinner, and don't use that magnifying glass to burn ants" 

It was dark and cool. Worker woke to a dim stinging throb that immediately accelerated as she tried to stand up.. Her body was inflamed, feverish and painful, but was she alive?. 

  All the food she'd collected still lay by her side, so she was alive then. It wasn't hot anymore, the burning stream of white light no longer lingered over head but how her body ached. Slowly she got up, gathered her food and started walking again. Cautiously at first, within moments she could feel herself healing. Maybe she'd fall sick again, but not now. This food was needed and she wasn't going to stop. 

The forest was in sight which meant the commune was not far. 

     

weighing machine

how does one do it? how to please a weighing machine
its strict, judgmental poise always begins with a zero
and ends on an unpleasant number
Its needle swinging close to dangerous digits
one's you'd maybe foreseen, but hoped to never expect
it doesn't lie
its truth will not waver
it says nothing, yet speaks aloud
depressing unvarnished facts

take off your watch, shoes and clothes
ruthless scales, they stay unmoved

It befriends few   makes only mortal enemies
the number one star
from your collection of horrible dreams

you can't make it happy, you can't make it sad
unattached piece of machinery
it's neither good nor bad
'mirror mirror on the wall'..
only that its under you feet, when you stand tall
more sincere than a magic mirror
more hurtful than a cold embrace

it's just a weighing machine that tells you
if you're under or overweight..

Flu

The jagged ends of bitter truth, between a pill of medicine and waking dreams
soreness left by mistakes of yesterday, with no positive retakes for today
lights, camera, inaction, abandoned by a trail of voice unsaid

shrill bites, nagging hurt through the ears it rings, gulping is a mission
tortures are talks, skin like paper, tongue a wad of cotton and water is misery
bones creaking in the silence of red insides

inflamed within, the marrow bubbling over in a lethargic contempt
wits at an end, bed is paradise

ulcerated presence of microscopic specter in a smooth coating of gullet amphitheater
unseen lanista exacting revenge in rented out jabs of pin prick needles

spine like hinges of unused temples rusted and creaking, in a mesh of tender tissue
erratic nerves bound to chafe demigods, numbed or hyper sensitive

paroxysms of discomforting spasms, swallowing akin to vein slits

haunting itch of miserable discomfort in body mirage, ear drums begging lacerations
gelatinous mess of ball & socket, gummy sternum

afflicted by irritation in a chorus of restless infection.

Gently

 Two minutes in to his coffee, five minutes in his office and Mr. Tal was habitually arranging his work space as was his wont, every morning.
His spacious minimalist cabin was immaculately tidy and well looked after. As the CTO of a well established conglomerate Mr. Tal's office was especially taken care of; elegantly white and squeaky clean.
Mr. Tal would walk into his 28th story office every morning at nine, and spend the next fifteen minutes organizing his space, which to an untrained eye would look no different than it was before his arrival.
But the fact that it was disheveled to a certain degree showed through Mr. Tal's eye, which wouldn't stop twitching until he'd spent the next fifteen minutes, systematically shaping and putting every microscopic existence of his room in order.

Each photo frame would be shifted, with the slightest breath of a push, rendered with an infinitesimal touch of a restrained little finger. The souvenirs that dotted the mantle had to be positioned starch straight.
Pens in their right holders, blinders drawn to a particular point only, anything less or more would result in the firing of some well meaning staff.
Tissue box holding the right number of tissues (a few short of completely full).
A hint of the faintest smudge on the table or wall might lead to a very bad office week for the entire staff and a complete repaint of Mr. Tal's prestigious pristine cabin.
Mr. Tal's office was taken care of with a faultless precision.

"Sir, your wife just called to inform that she'd be fifteen minutes early for lunch with you" sang a well-practiced business like voice on Mr. Tal's intercom.

"That's alright. Reschedule my appointment with the automotive steel company for tomorrow afternoon. I won't be in this evening"

"very good sir"

Mrs. Tal walked in sometime fifteen minutes after twelve in the afternoon.
Tall, stately, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place. Her careful stride, confident and in place with her husband's important stature; delicately wishing the office staff she met on the way, amiable but not too warm. Just the right amount of smile and raised eyebrow. She walked straight into her husbands impeccable office, looking every bit in harmony with the irreproachable perfection of his work space.

She was his most beloved souvenir.  The woman of his dreams. His most esteemed catch, his perfect match.

"I hardly ever get to see you these days, darling" she spoke in silvery husk of perfect modulation.

"I'm glad you made it to lunch. I've been so stressed with an important merger off late. But I'll make it up to you". He held her hand and kissed her flawlessly manicured digits.

"We miss you at home. He's almost three and.." her voice trailed off, as she fixed her vision to the glass window behind her husband.

"What's that darling?" she had raised a finger in the direction of the window.

"What's what?" Mr. Tal looked behind his shoulders at the big window. It was a gleaming glass wall. Clean and shiny.

"That" she was now pointing at something on the window.

"What? I can't see it"

Mrs. Tal got up and walked to the window and pointed up, towards the upper right corner of the window right next to the drawn blinders. "this, darling"

Mr. Tal's gaze followed her outstretched arm to where her finger was pointing.

"It's a speck, or maybe a water stain, or just a smudge of dirt, and looks like it's on the outside. Oh well, the window cleaners will take care of it". She walked back to the table where they lunched, and pretended not to notice her husband still staring at the imperceptible dark speck.

Mr. Tal had the housekeeping staff clean the window twice over after lunch, until it was established that the little fleck would have to be cleaned from the outside.

*****

"We're going to visit daddy. Wear your cleanest shiniest clothes. He'll be so happy to see you looking every bit like a handsome little boy that you are, yes you are. Oh yes" Mrs. Tal was smiling and cooing in little cartoon voices as she buttoned up her six year old.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Tal" said the lady at reception, but you won't be able to see Mr. Tal today. He's err" the receptionist looked at the well dressed little boy "he's busy right now"

"Always busy" purred Mrs. Tal, rolling her eyes and looking at her son with a smile.

"Well, would you give him these clothes? He'd been asking for a very clean pair of plain clothing, and I just wanted him to have these". Mrs. Tal handed over a paper bag of clothes to the receptionist and left with her son.

*****

Mr. Tal had come home looking more tired than usual. 

"That damned blot is on the outside of the window. We'll have to wait for the window cleaners to show up. They have their 'fixed days' of visits." Mr Tal droned on lethargically.

"You're not still thinking of that little speck, are you darling? It's just a small speck. Don't worry about it. Maybe it'll rain and the little smudge will wash off" her voice was rich with sympathetic concern. She was handing him his nightclothes.

"It's Wednesday today. I wear the white nightshirt" said a visibly irritated Mr. Tal.

The next morning was a religious routine, except Mr. Tal didn't wish for his blinders on the window to be drawn.

"Did you check with the damned window cleaners if they'll show up today?" Mr. Tal was shouting into the intercom.

"I'm sorry sir" the practiced businesslike voice was shaking. "They'll be coming by the end of next month, as is in their contract for this zone. I will however persuade them to come at the earliest to attend to our problem."

"Do whatever you have to, just tell them to come, or hire someone else for this job. It's one bloody window, you can get anyone to do this"

"Yes sir, but this building is fifty story's and few cleaning companies have such license and permit.."

"I don't care. Get someone soon"

*****

"What on earth are you looking at?" a large man's voice boomed amongst the immaculate white walls of Mr. Tal's office.

"Listen, I've been trying to discuss this very important matter with you over the past few weeks, but you have not been paying any heed. You weren't available for any of the conference calls, nor for the visitations by the technical experts of the automotive company. This merger has been in the works for past year and you are the heart of it. Are you listening to me?"

For all that Mr. Tal could care, this voice could have been coming from some distant radio in the background. He could hear it alright..he could hear mixture of words in a sentence along with a loud buzz in his hears.

His eyes were focused on that small fleck of smudge that refused to budge from its place. He'd stared at it everyday for past three weeks. His eyes twitched.

"Now listen to me, if we pull this off, not only would it be a landmark joint venture but it'd also..what are you doing? Tal? Put that chair down"

There was a loud smash. A deafening crack of crushed glass. The shining wall of a window broke in a fountain of glittering splinters. Shards of various sized glass pieces lay strewn all over the floor of Mr. Tal's room. Flakes of frighteningly sharp edged jigsaw pieces lay in a glassy puzzle.

The disturbing speck was obliterated.

*****

Mrs. Tal sat in the visitors area, looking as stately and regale. Perfect in every way.

"The chair fell down twenty eight story's, killing a man instantly. Several people were injured from falling glass pieces. The victims are suing you and you're charged with manslaughter and negligence among other things. This is ridiculous! Darling. We've the best defense lawyer team rigging the system; you'll be home in no time, my love" she spoke in low clear decibels, staring at him, searching her husbands face for a reaction.

Mr.Tal had, since that incident a distant look to his face. He didn't look too bothered or fazed..there was in fact a horrible contentment of having finally found peace. He smiled a usual reticent smile "yes, darling. All will be right. I'm not worried"

"That's the brave man I love. We're trying our hardest to have you out on bail and back into your usual spotless routine..warm house, because this place" she looked around with the faintest sneer "is really not your kind of place darling" she curled her lips in a smile..soothing and smirking the same time.

"At least there won't be anymore blots, smudges and specks bothering you here. I hope your living quarters or whatever is it they call here, are clean and smut free. Oh darling, I do hope the dirt here doesn't trouble you" she smiled again.

Mr. Tal was shifted to the sanitarium next week. 

                                                                        *****

"The last few times that we visited, you didn't meet us. I..you were unwell?"

"No, I didn't want to meet you. Either of you."

"Did you get the clothes I'd left at the reception last time?" Mrs. Tal looked around the imposing gardens, punctuated with small fountains and flower beds. "There's a hiking trail here too. Such a lovely place, and the cafeteria serves such delicious little cupcakes. We did good to extract you out of that hellish, state sponsored looney bin and into this state of the art sanatorium. You'll soon be nursed back to health. Our boy is six and he's made some 'get well soon' cards for his daddy" she bit her lower lips expecting a flicker of reaction to shadow his face.

Mr. Tal had considerably aged in the past few years. His dauntless shoulders were a drooping uncertainty. The cocksure, arrogance of his unsmiling face was replaced by a fatigued sneer. Any earlier suggestion of his imperious haughtiness was now replaced by an air of mellow simplicity and spiritless mood. 

Mrs. Tal in stark contrast was just as elegant. Her statuesque bearings easily overshadowing the grandiose environment they sat in.

"You expect these doctors to nurse me back to health, when the grand architect of my insanity has ensured that I stay a schizoid vegetable the rest of my life" he was carelessly looking at the childish  'get well soon' cards.

He directed his far flung gaze at Mrs. Tal "each supply of your faultless, spotless, brand new clean clothes managed to carry an indecipherable flaw, that never failed to catch my eye. Usually a permanent little speck, ink blot, tear, smudge, loose stitch. Each time a new innovation" 

"Oh darling, you mustn't say something so hurtful" Mrs. Tal's eyes grew wide, she tried to look hurt. Her beautiful face tried a frown, but decided on a smirk instead.

"The window cleaners were paid a hefty amount to not show up for the cleaning job for another month. Almost four times what they make." He began stacking the 'get well soon' cards into a neat pile. 

"The payment was made in person by a man unknown to any of my associates. He was untraceable. No doubt the same man who has shacked up with you in our home now. Living off on the hefty trust fund I'd set up for you, my darling" 

Mr. Tal broke into a deranged grin, and hid his face in his hands in an expression of defeat.

"I was lucky to have spotted a little dirt on the window, honey. I had no idea you'd take it to your heart. The man doesn't live off the trust fund, he makes a living, and yes he is now shacking up in our home, with your wife and his son.

 My child needs a father figure after all, and you hate aberrations, my darling. Blots and smudges and foreign particles annoy you so, my love. I'll send you a spotless pair of clothes. If you ever need anything my darling, don't you hesitate. I am, your wife, after all."

Mrs. Tal straightened herself, gently kissed her husbands face, with an exquisite show of delicate tenderness, wiped with her thumb the light smudge of lipstick from his cheeks and walked off.