Sunday, February 25, 2018

Half naked tourists and the heritage of frozen facades

As the  sun dissipated among  evening colours the city soaked into, Aryan, one who born into the lineage of oldest inhabitants of the city;the urban tribal,  leaped out of the window  to feel the cross wind. Along the serpentine lane that would lead to another lane from there to another, his old house stood like camouflage that anyone would seldom bother to notice. He always considered it as an advantage in this city of heritage, a blessing in disguise he has inherited.  He thanked his forefathers many times for not making the house any special so that it would become social nostalgia.

During the morning time when heritage seekers walk around looking at houses to takes photos of the inhabitants trapped in this heritage business,  his house luckily never looked attractive to those pretentious eyes. He never had to feel like those caged gorillas and chimpanzees trapped in front of half naked tourists.  In this thirty years of his life in this lane, he never understood their curious eyes, their zooming lenses or their pretentious expressions.

Foreigners perhaps must be having their ghetto tourism, something they only would have seen in third world films.   But what about Indians! What difference do they find here than their gutter neighbourhood they live in their cities!

"Aaraya...come down, I am going to Derasaar" the frail voice of mother is getting shriller day by day he thought.

The dilapidated staircases were broken at many places.
One has to be very careful. Don't know when was the last time mother came up on this stairs. 
Mother had already left the house through an equally dark door; a door built around three hundred or perhaps four hundred years ago. 

As the old women who lived her entire life among these heritage curios exits through a four hundred year old frozen history, he know,  Ramu kaka in his eighties will be waiting at next corner to have his daily sight of his old flame he couldn't possess.  Their daily exchange of sparkles in eyes and their painful smile, Daya kaki's routine complaints about her joint pains,  eighty year old  Kalu kaka's eternal fights with wife as he doubts  his seventy year old wife's extra marital affairs,  Suren bhai's fights with children in the neighbourhood over their cricket ball that hits his bike,  endless crowd at Biru mausi's Chai kitlee  and their gup-shups, Neeti ben's endless worries about water supply getting over, Meenu mausi's strip tease for an eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood from opposite house whenever Aryan goes to terrace in the evening, Kirit bhai's non stop coughs from his terminal TB and his wife Henal ben's loud curses...

As he closed the four hundred year old door of his house, heritage stood frozen at facade  like a failed marriage.  A new batch of half naked Indian tourists passed that door looking for heritage in the night in his neighbourhood.  

Wednesday, February 07, 2018

when they are out in open to kill each other, the ladies retained patriarchy : the story of hindu iconography

when they are out in open to kill each other, the ladies retained patriarchy : the story of hindu iconography
You know the interesting story of Shiva's family?
As always Anand began his story telling high after four pegs.
"Shiva is the father and he always carries snake on his head that eats his second son, the lord of knowledge Ganesha's pet mode of movement: rat. His wife Parvathi's pet mode of movement is lion that eats her husband's pet mode of movement bull. Their eldest son lord of ethics and morality, Karthikeya's pet mode of movement is peacock that eats both his father's snake and his brother's rat. In this game of iconographic chess, everyone keeps a pet that eat each other's pet mode of freedom of movement. The only exception is the case of lady in this story of Indian iconography- mother Parvathi has Lion that no one dare to eat. Her favourite is the most ferocious!"
Anand paused for a moment to take a sip from his glass that seems to be almost empty. Chill breeze from winter night slowly seeped though many holes in the window. The world outside was silent in their sleep. Only a grandfather's clock refused to be silent somewhere.
"you know what ?" looking at my sinking eyes Anand continued
"in this game of a Hindu family of iconography where all are after one another's freedom of movement..."
He paused again for a sip
"here the story becomes interesting... although she becomes the most powerful who keeps the lion that eats her husband's freedom of movement, but her husband is the Virat, the lord of destruction! He is the only one who can unleash death and carried death on his body..."
Suddenly the sky outside turned red
The walls of the room collapsed
The silent breeze became hurricane
In this game of cyclical time, the Patriarchal world around Anand took its birth again and again and in this story where there are no Vaishnavite cow, Anand became the myth maker in one of the oldest civilisations where ladies became the custodians of patriarchy.

story of a screen play

scene 1
the long day was winding up near the balcony that lost to a darkening sky. city was dying to find a bed to sleep but the insecurity of a dying to succeed life would not allow. After all it is a city you and me stay alive. In the corner among the broken pots with green plants and sprinkled water, she the little cat is looking at you. It is neither passive or aggressive. It is only silent.

Shot 1
a silent shot. we do not know who is looking at whom
cat or the camera but both are curious. in this over the shoulder shot from the camera angle a male hand that is holding a half burn cigarette can be seen.

shot 2
cat slowly turns into a silhouette
one can hear a sound of a cute cat sound in the back ground
door bell rings

shot 3
hand and cigarette also vanishes from the scene as if the person got upto open the door.

shot 4
the scene continues. neither there is the hand or the cat in the over the shoulder frame where there are no shoulder anymore
Dark sky has arrived at balcony as it slowly but steadily wanter through the plants, you can hear the sound of a door getting shut.
there is only one movement in the frame
a darkness that moving in.

scene 2
shot 1
camera is now a witness. it looks at the cat that walk along with a female feet. the love is evident the feet is naked. the cat tries to impress the feet as it follows the feet. they crosses a door that passes a fridge and it stops. The feet does not bother about the cat. feet and cat stops near a kitchen shelf.

shot 2
camera is still only a witness. we can hear lot of utensils moving sounds. cat is still stays next to the leg. it gets a bowl full of milk from a female hand with golden bangles and fingers with three four rings.
Door bell rings
Cat drinks milk
Door opening sound
one more female feet appear in the frame
now there are four female legs moving around the cat that drinks milk
Cat doesn't bother the legs
Legs doesn't bother the cat
Two feet of master and two feet of servent
cat finishes the milk and walks out
an empty bowl remains in the scene- silent and frozen among four passive feet
Four female feet- one master's and the other servant's and both are in kitchen

Shot 3
Sound of an utensil falling into sink followed by a water flaw from a tap
An empty bowl remain in the scene
Camera is still a witness
one is unsure who is mute -
the witness
the camera
the position
the frame
the empty cat's milk bowl, the sign of a tender love and care
the story that can't speak about the story of a civilisation

and I became...!

Morning mist is a flawless dream. Like a water colour it spreads along the landscape. Sitting next to the corridor that opens upto the sky bound balcony, Harish poured his coffee into gold plated ceramic cup. 

Fragmented reality of natural surrealism that offers an unbound frame of mind is what he likes about these misty mornings.  He can overhear the sound of mallamma taking shower from the floor down below. With her unbearable voice she sings those Bollywood raunchy songs while she take her shower.  Tragedy is sometimes it lasts for more than an hour. 

Doorbell rang from behind.  As he opened the door, he saw a stranger standing next to the closed iron grills. From the looks he could not make out whether it was male or female. He looked like a man in female form.  The person politely in a flawless English asked, “ Sir, I sell Gods. Would your prefer one?”

For a moment the iron grill became universe, the world became my corridor, the person became civilisation and I became…!

Guantanamo bay

Your name is  “X”

Your race is “Asian”
Your identity is “immigrant aka crime suspect”
Back in Asia, a proud parent tells a stranger, his neighbor and a relative
” My child works in states”

The stranger, neighbour and the relative listen to it with due respect. They go back to shout at their children for their failure in taking lessons from "x" the successful American migrant. 

A generation line up to learn vocabulary at schools to print their visa as crime suspect, scared living and skewed mindset.
Plot ends here and story begins
Inside the over sized mall
Inside over priced multiplex
On silver screen
Ordinary men and women of great America save president from aliens.

Trump, American president stops  the closure of Guantanamo bay as the World counts dollars

capitalising communist manifesto

You know what is the tragedy of man? 
They can never see themselves. They need a reflector to reassure themselves and their image. They know or they understand themselves through a medium as image. So the image and medium of reflections becomes big for them.

They live for image 
They survive on image
They die for image
They kill for image
They build for image
They surrender for image
They liberate for image

They are unsure themselves. They are in self doubt. They continuously seek images.

So mr Kant, you are wrong. Reason does not create morality. This tragedy, this self doubt, this dependancy on reflective medium or agency creates morality. This quest for self reflection in images creates aesthetics not your judgements”

Gulping sixth peg of rum God shouted at Immanuel Kant. Kant was sitting in the corner where empty bottles were staked.

There were brands on those bottles with its capacity to intoxication printed in numbers. They were bottles of different liquors and different qualities but were capable of intoxicating generations.
Karl marx who was drinking vodka from Gulag remain silent.

He remain happy these days as his oligarchic communist politburos have all became corporate agencies competing to subsidise human labor for capitalist consumers. 
His Gulag supply is not immoral anymore. 
It has capitalistic approval. 
Capitalism decide morality. The sell fairness cream with tanning cream to democratise aesthetics. They have capitalised communist manifesto through post modernism and its theoretical reasoning of death of author.
Kant and marx shares their drink.
I took God on my shoulder
Death of a post modern author

Opium traders

Silence please!
More than an order, it was a request.  It is the third day since the operation started that we are hiding behind this forest cover.  Rafeeq held the gun close to his chest. The final assault is planned to  be executed tomorrow. Three places have to be bombed and two places have to be attacked. A chill feeling swept through his spine. Rafeeq opened his opium pack for a granule. This is the tenth time he has been taking opium today. His worries slowly melted away.
Now there is only excitement
Opium became the courage
Opium became the jihad
From the ivory tower, the cockroaches negotiated spirituality, nationalism and weapon sale. They had been partying for long and their maps were full of wine glass stains.
Faithful kept on eating opium
“Jihad through opium”
“ Try not to kill a Muslim,…” says   commander
“How will I find out? “ asks Rafeeq
“Check the genital.” Says commander
“But if it is a women…”
“How does it matter? Rape her before shooting” laughs commander
Cockroaches were everywhere
Cockroaches fill the room
Cockroaches fill the world
Cockroaches fill the sky
Among the cockroaches the story gets printed in a Nagpur press, in Karachi opium packed in it and China stamps the seal.

Waitress with top two buttons of the shirt left open and Trump as born again Christian white president

Moments before the water tank collapsed, Mariam, the old lady from our colony had her last droplet of water before her death. Jesus got up from her lap and asked Michelangelo for permission to go outside to have a cup of coffee. Recently he became fond of Italian coffee they sell outside the cathedral.

“How much for a coffee?” with his Asian accent he asked the counter girl who’s upper buttons of shirt was open. Between her cleavages there was a cross with his European portrait struck on a gold chain. “What coffee do you want…?” she laid out a long list of coffee.
“Black coffee” he replied without looking at her face that he found attractive. As she took order, she left one more button untied on her shirt.
Jesus stood there with his head hung.
As he settled down on a nearby table with four chairs among hundreds of crucified Jesus sculptures, he suddenly felt tired. It is almost six months since he has been modelling for Pieta. Now as water tank collapsed, he would not even be able to take shower for next few days.
He took his first sip of coffee
Then the sky turned purple
He took his second sip of coffee
Then the earth turned blue
He took his third sip of coffee
Then the minds turned pink
He took his fourth sip of coffee
Then Marry the Magdalene sat next to him
He took his fifth sip of coffee
Church took their swards
He took his sixth sip of coffee
The world became dark
Among the dark, a slender hand felt his face.
He wanted to sleep.
He was tired
He slowly entered into the tight hug by those slender hands
“Coffee” with a firm voice, the waitress with top buttons of her shirt unbuttoned, left the coffee on his table.
On television Trump got elected as born again Christian white president. Moments before the water tank collapsed, Mariam, the old lady from our colony had her last droplet of water before her death.

Sridhar Rao is erased

Sridhar Rao is erased
Few glasses lay broken from an unusual brawl that took place a while ago. I was sitting in the corner table few inches next to a closed window. Whenever I came to this restaurant I prefer to sit here. It is the haunting smell of fifty and odd years that no phenol could erase are what attract me over to this corner. There is an unassuming charm of loneliness linger in this corner: between me and myself. It is also strange that in spite of my reluctance to engage with the rest of the world, I met almost all the who’s who of the town in this corner table. In a city where every one wants to escape from everyone, this corner table is the last resort, says my supplier Sridhar Rao. Sridhar Rao is an interesting man with his choice of words and phrases that he acquired from his extensive reading of Kannada literature. To make things better I got him an unlimited membership in just books and in return he doesn’t allow anyone to occupy the corner table after six in the evening. Everyday he shows a new book that he is reading. I wonder how many books are there in Kannada that keeps him occupied for the last three years!.
Anyway let us come back to our conversation about today’s brawl. Today as I walked in I found Sridhar Rao sitting at the place I usually sit. He was without his uniform and seemed very serious. I walked up to him and wished his as usual.
He refused to acknowledge my greeting and instead shown me a letter. It was his resignation letter. In his beautiful handwriting it looked almost a drawing.
“…I do not have answers for many questions but have questions for all answers. Among the tables, when city unravel in conversations of love, hate and friendship, I walked like an invisible ghost taking orders from anyone and everyone of this city that I never belonged. Between the plastic smiles and courtesy greetings, I believed the city lives here- among the polished wooden tables, chairs and hungry souls. I lived here. Today my son died. He probably was sixteen or seventeen. I never noticed his growth as I was busy serving people here. After I got the news today, I looked around my world. It was the same. Laughing people, hugging people and at arms length among the tables the place continued as if I did not exist for a system I take orders and serve. I cannot take this any longer.
I quit “
His letter shocked me. Without looking at my face he asked “ sir, can you check the grammar and edit this letter. This is my first or perhaps last piece of writing, I want it perfect”.
I was in a dilemma, how would I convince him that my knowledge in English is much worse than his as it is an acquired language. He strangely assumed, everyone who comes there are good in English!. There after I came to know that I was the tenth person he has been serving for the last three years turned him down for the same reason.
Looking deep into my eyes firmly he asked “ Sir, then what makes you the rich who can order me through out my life?”
I hung my head without an answer. What happened next was a surprise. He got up and started breaking all the tables and chairs. Everybody rushed to the scene and an ugly brawl ensued. It took almost ten minutes to bring him under control. As they dragged him out of restaurant in front of thirty to forty scared educated eyes, he threw away his resignation letter.
After a while when everything became normal, a new boy came to my table to take my order
“What would you like to have sir” he asked in his polite voice.
Sridhar Rao stands erased among the tables and chairs.

The endless crawl of a Syrian boy.

The eerie silence stuck on the walls like a moth among broken shadows from a setting sun. Except the occasional crackling sound from somewhere in the building of a jarred window panel still hung on to its inches, the city remained silent.
He slowly crawled up to the window and looked outside. The broken buildings from last weeks bombing on both sides of the road that lead up to horizon looked beautiful. There is nothing left that resembles the city that it was a week before.
First they came for Islam and bombed everything. Then the others came chasing Islam and bombed everything. Among the trails of their bombing, he remained smiling, as the sight of fire; shout and cry exited him as never before. He remembered his mother holding him under her body as the buildings were crashing down. He loved the warmth of her flesh that cushioned him from everything.
Weeks before when they came, they shouted Allah’s name while shooting his father as he pleaded with them in the name of Allah. When they took away both his sisters, they were still shouting Allah’s name. They found no use for a mentally retarded boy and so is his fat old mother. Since mother was not waking up from her sleep, he drew pictures on the floor with the red colour came out of his father.
He drew birds that fly, sun that rise, mountains that stand and a river that flows. Among the tree he also drew a house that had a family. Strangely the red slowly turned into black. Since mother did not wake up, he also went to sleep with her.
Weeks after some others came and bombed the city again. Strangely this time no one shouted Allah’s name. All he could hear was thud sounds of bomb explosions and building collapses. He loved that sight of crashing buildings and fire among exploded people.
He got bored after a point and felt the first sign of hunger in his belly. He turned around to look at mother. She would have had too much food without giving me, he thought. Look at her stomach! It has grown three times more than normal. With uncontrolled anger he crawled back towards her.
An endless crawl of a Syrian boy.

my bedroom looked beautiful than ever before

It’s raining outside.
Through my window I could see people getting drenched in that torrential rain. 
Also the loud noises of big trees coming down could be heard agin and again. Nature was at its violent best.  

Under the concrete roof, in my built up environment at my home, I started making paper boats of different sizes from the pages of  “my experiments with truth” by mahatma Gandhi.
Some big
Some small
And some other remained normal...

As the paper boats piled up in front of me, I started dropping them one after another into that torrential rainwater. I wished them to sail long enough to be out of my sight but one after another they all vanished into torrential rain
When the last ship vanished into that endless rain of violence, slowly I shut my widows to those forgotten words of my experiments  with truth and the violent rain outside. 
Under the Led light, my bedroom looked beautiful than ever before

As I walked past the doors, a shutter was waiting to close: FATE as usual

Your silence has been bothering me for sometime now…”
God murmured from his usual favorite corner: next to death, next to me and near the broken table.  As the long corridor ends at his table, the stench of civilization starts over powering your imagination.
White   and black
West and East
Theist and atheist
Communist and capitalist
Those billions men and women; their lives that are erased without a trace:  an act everyone love to  call evolution and I call filth of generations.
“ I have no questions for your answers.”  Gulping the leftover rum from the glass, God continued.
He took out the dead fruit fly from his mouth.
Perhaps it was drinking rum from God’s glass and then it fell in it: it was half dead,
Why on earth it had to fall in that glass ?
Fate may be?
Don’t know.
In Geetha, Bible, Koran and Marxist holy book communist manifesto…every action in our lives are consequence:  the almighty fatalist fate
 “ I never knew fly can drink rum,…” exclaimed death.
“ Rum never knew the fly will fall …”  God continued to murmur.
“ Rum is made from sugar cane juice...flies like sugar cane juice …”
The white sugar: taste of our coffee breaks
the rum that relieve us from memories,  comes from the same cane juice.
Harvested among million debt stricken farmer suicides,
White sugar and brown rum always tasted sweet.
My smile is sweet
Your dream is sweet
White sweet is a fate
The eternal consequence theory of everything
Fortunately I am drunk
God is drunk
So is the death
The old shabby restaurant slowly turned into a mesmerizing civilisation
Your questions have no answer in me
 Flies will always fall into it
Will get drunk and die …
God went into sleep. So is death
As I walked past  doors, a shutter was waiting to close: not FATE as usual, only a routine.

the only letter with a meaning

As the southern wind wiped few dusty pecks from my   left cheeks, at horizon the pale sky looked like a perforated eye ball with a flawed gaze.

“You don’t know…” said the lord while lifting his long brown gown borrowed from pages of  human imagination.

“you don’t know…” he continued

Behind him, among the cluttered railway steel structures the eggs on hatch crackled with first sign of life. Beneath, a crowd waited for their destination train.

Its strange, we always believe destinations are decisive!

“…from the pages of mythology,
I mean before you born,
there were these words…
there were these possibilities,
Your forefathers chose this lonely isolated letter,
the only letter with a meaning
to give you a meaning...”

Strangely his words were not audible in my loneliness. In front of me a billion isolations walked past my moments.

As the train slowly approached towards platform suddenly there was a commotion near the track. Every one were rushing towards the track. Between those rushing legs I could see a long gown with splattered blood spots.

God, friend of my friend death…


Silence crept in with cold wind and wandered around the room as murmuring monster.  With two twinkling eyes and long nailed fingers, it floated in air as if  I am going to get scared… funny chaap!!!

“stop it  you little idiot…."
"before you try to scare me,  go and find out your tail, the long tail from those printed pages, the stories I usually read to my daughter…” I shouted

I am sure it did not occur to monster that such a thing - a tail; exists for monsters in human world. I was cunning to hide the fact that  its in fact  the tails matters the most for  man’s world.
Men and  women  and not exactly for the monster J

Poor monster started chasing its own back to find out its tail. Like a turbo fan it rotated in the air changing the aerodynamic conditions of the room.

My daughter opened her physics books to understand the idea of rotation, chasing one’s own future and chased by one’s own future! Formulas failed to come out of that mechanical wheel…

Hmm interesting!
Dostoevsky’s torn coat from crime and punishment once again kneeled in front of the prostitute for whole sin of the world.
The tail chasing monster lifted her hair like those eternal  American savior- spider man  who lifts those girls in New York, the ever attacked city of imagination…

Finally the gasping silence crumbled on to floor like those old citadel of Eastern Europe. From those rubbles my friend, the greatest play write of the century, one who told the tales of tails, extended his euro-begging bowl with his frail WHITE hand…

From the gutter streets of Mumbai, the tail of oldest civilization, a hungry child searched few coins with his BLACK little hand…unfortunately as beggars, they both had nothing to offer or nothing to take….

My daughter slowly with a tearful eye wrote a farewell card to silence, her lost friend, murdered by her father and his generation…

“ Dear friend, all revolutions were agreements, Agreements between the power and powerful…there has never been a revolution…”



The screech of broken glass door woke me up from dream.
Surrounding me were those broken pieces of vengeance- the broken pieces of  my valued life possessions-my old parents, my wife and only son… all are gone in seconds.

No one told me, the bomb is coming to us, uninvited of course but  only if someone from government or the enemy… if they had told me about this uninvited bomb, at least  I could have stayed with my family. 

Now since all of them have gone in a nick of second,  all I am  now left with is this dream... Just ten minutes before the blast my father blessed my six year old son on his birthday that he will live another hundred years to see his children’s marriage…

Marriage huh… when you talk about marriage, it reminds me of my marriage.
What a splendid affair was that …the entire street was dancing on that day.  Glitter and glory that father always fond of had the let lose on that day.  Moinudeen my childhood friend, my all-time defender was completely drunk on that day…the day when cows and calves were gracing on the sky, birds and trees were dancing on the ground, the day I got married to nafeeza…strange day of my life, the beautiful day of my life….
On that day my mother was in her most beautiful dress.  The long golden dress with blue linings, the favorite colurs of my father, the day my next door neighbor proposed to marry her, my father….

Such was the day when all were happy. Most beautiful thing happened to me on that day was my son… That day he came to wish us  with glory and glitter…my son!

In the next room he remains dead now…
my son...

my mother, my father and my nafeeza..all are dead …only if they had told me about this uninvited bomb, I could have been with  them, my lovely family….

Strange are the way this world is…
Corpse cannot move…my dead body refuses to move!!!

Some movement makes bomb
Some movement makes notions
Some movement drops it in homes
Movements …
heartless movements…but My dead body refuses to move…
In the evening, during supper time world had those visuals -our dead moments on TV with chicken lollipop advertisement moving under it…

God came out of the bunker ...
Death his friend walkedout of the room

...waiting at the story

City went into sleep much earlier than  the usual 11.30 sirens. ,  I walked like a horse, hopping positions  on the empty road where moon light and florescent bulbs played the game of chess.  Other than occasional vehicle screeches from distant main road, the night was silent.  I felt like aimlessly lying in the middle of the street that leads to nowhere and everywhere.     But at the corner street God must be waiting for me…I am already late for the promised weekend meeting.  Before meeting God the death will join me...
And there he is… the death, lord of forgotten future, standing next to the lamp post.

 He looked like  an angel of shadow among that chess board of light and dark. As usual he did not acknowledge my arrival but joined me in my walk towards God.  Today unlike other days he did not speak any word afterwards…

Our friendship was a strange coincidence… it was long before I was born, if I am correct it was much before that I am imagined to take birth that one day on the streets of Mumbai, I met him over a cup of tea.  At first sight I felt comfortable with him.
He was a silent spectacle among those million crowds of deaf and mute walking through the pavements of life and its time.

His sound though was horrible; I could experience the immaculate wavelength being built over time between us.  So we became friends.  God was his friend and naturally he became my friend as well…

By the way what was that I am talking about….?
It was not about my friendship right…?
These days I lose tracks of my thinking quiet often
Or was It about night?
Or was it about the chess that light play with us?

“Forget it…” meeting God is important…

 Unfortunately at that moment the road ahead me started curling up like a tornado.  The scared death cling on to my left hand and I couldn’t make any move…. the sky, moon, stars and everything started getting sucked up in that unexplainable…

Slowly but steadily we also got into those entanglements – my self and my friend: death.
There we saw God... strangely still waiting!
A mong those unexplainable where first couldn’t giveaway for the seconds and Death, my friend and his friend God and my self  didn’t  exist…
we were waiting at  THE STORY….

End of the Game....

“Its morning …!!!” said God with an unaccompanied sound track to justify his excitement.
The night before was horrible.
Storm, thundershower and earth shattering lightning, the nature was at her best tantrums yesterday.
Hiding behind the thin glass doors, God, our friend death and I played the dice all night – the game we never knew.
Rules were made to break the rules
Turns were turned down to make the turns…
Strange is the way we played our game, lifeless life mirrored on the floor where the dice was dropped to roll again and again.
As if the birth of innocence, a silence fluttered between the dice and us. Outside those transparent glass walls, I could see the world getting shaken and shivering….
Street corners were flooded
Gutters were over flowing 
And the stench of morality seeped through the glass walls..!
Dead rats who could not escape the wrath of the nature spread across the overflowing gutter.
Among those dead rats and along  Gandhi’s decayed corpse , blotted bodies of messiahs and prophets started  floating  …
Night was horrible.

Awaken by the yelling and shouting of God,  death reluctantly opened his eyes to the glowing horizon.

Yes! its morning! Finally end of the agony …

Struggling with my torn shoes, I slowly walked past the God
Then the Death- the Friend of  God.

light of the shadow

Silence, as ever paused in his eyes like a lost whisper and I could not hold my gaze anymore stuck to that blue night sky like him. 
This silence kills me…

“What have you decided …you are a prophet, you can’t always be silent like this.Outside your body, those throbbing lives seek their  revenge, they want to part ways…As you know, truth can only be the reason we can split, part our ways and fight…you cannot abdicate from that holy assignment….”

He remained silent. I don’t think he even realizes that I exist!

After all these years of our acquaintance, perhaps he spoke to me  only once. As if he was planning my birth, he whispered in my ears “Strange are the ways their prophetic galore, prophets often end up as faded shadows of their provincial past; the eroded dream” 

Packed in my brain for eternity, those words could not make any sense to me,( but the fact was  I did not want it  to make any sense at all,  or else I feared I will be left with nothing to handover the generations to come as a mystery of prophecy...)

But today as cockroaches started chewing the rotten Gods,  its time I believe, the messiah of  inconclusive imagination of perpetual dream, the prophet has to speak up…but prophet was silent!

Fortunately cold breeze crackled under  his shivering teeth and the  clumsy night filled with its brittle sound…the Sound without words: the meaning of pain...

 Slowly the shadow of  prophecy laid to ground and  beneath the dancing  dead Gods emitted the dark: the light of the shadow...

now what is left for me to write! ...I have nothing else to say.

Jesus, Krishna and Allah went back to books and left behind a smile…

You don’t seem to understand my predicament, said the disciple.
Looking at his pale but undaunted face with blank expression, Jesus, Krishna and Allah sat silently next to him .
“ although between cause and consequence what lies is my concern but strangely the same is also  inconsequential to my life... this is bigotry of my faith…” disciple continued …
At  horizon, the blue light faded into neon luminance.
From nowhere, the never born came down to God and the disciple withdrew to his cocoon
In a hurry Jesus, Krishna and Allah went back to  books and left behind a smile…

One more zero....

On the clock tower, hanging between the needles (one big and one small - the eternal custodians of time) beleaguered prophet gulped the last drop from his bottle. Down hundred feet below the crowd in their hope of his absolute fall, yelled at him in all languages.

Although they were unsure of him but were certain that he is not from one of them. 
Initially when he was sighted in the evening (during the twilight, the perfect setting for a creation- neither the day nor the night, a complete ambiguity, says the scriptures!!!) they thought he was mad! But slowly they were amazed at his capacity to be absurd; he kept on blurbing things they don’t want to listen!. 

“No mad man can be so insane..” they thought “ he has to be a God man” they confirmed.  

The suspended God man, probably jumped to commit suicide and unfortunately caught trapped on the needles of time,  was not the only tragedy but   the bigger tragedy was that the needles of time couldn’t move any further as it was caught in his long coat

“F#@k...if he want to die...let him die, but free those needles we are losing our essential man power...time has to move on” 

furious Mayor shouted in aghast. 

He made sure his comment was broadcasted through a twenty thousand watt loudspeaker to business men and thereafter retired to his early dinner date peacefully. 

Business honchos smiled. They are given priority, their concerns are addressed. They wrote their next cheque to mayor and certainly didn’t forget to add few more zeros than last time.

As zeros added value to wealth and as the needle of time doesn’t move any further, the cheering crowd went into a frenzy and started dancing around the clock tower.

“One more zero …One more zero” they yelled at each other.

 As the time moved on, the entire world joined the crowd to dance around the clock tower creating a big swirl of chaos adding zeros to their count.

 In the middle of that big swirl,
 On the top of the clock tower,
On the stopped needle of time,
The trapped Prophet, 
Who wanted to commit suicide,
Went into a sound sleep 
Hundred feet below, the swirl of men and women  went on dancing and shouting
“one more zero …one more zero..”