The world,
a choking hazard
tucked away from 
the eager fingers 
of a new life,
The unknown,
spills fire ants 
into my brain
bewildered as the foot 
of a blind woman
with a broken stick,
Time,
tries to catch up with 
itself
like spinning words 
in a drunkard’s mind,
My heart,
feels solid as clay
getting its fate molded 
by a novice’s fearful touch.

 When I was a kid and had trouble sleeping, my Maa would tell me to recite Hanuman Chalisa in my head. I don’t remember ever learning the Chalisa. It was one of those things that the mind never betrays to the even sheerest ravages of time or memories, but is still unable to stop at the exact step in the walk leading us to the present, to pinpoint where it was acquired. I would recite the entire Chalisa in my head. The words made little sense to me and I would imagine myself sifting the words in my head, leaving the words that I didn’t bother learning the meanings of on the perforated floor of the sieve and the mystery of those words would weigh down on my eyes until they drooped interminably.

The simplicity of my choice to believe that the words I had inadvertently taught myself would put me sleep still astonishes me. That choice was so blissfully free from all the ties that bound the words to what the adults around me fondly call Faith. Now our little friend Faith here is highly misunderstood. Or maybe it is just poorly understood. As I see it, Faith is the product of our need to have something greater then ourselves to believe in. To know that there is something greater than our mere flesh and bone holding the lid of the jar holding our soul closed. To know that there was something greater than us holding up the sky above our heads and it didn’t have a mind of its own to decide that it didn’t want to stay up any longer.

Faith, as I understand it, has a multifaceted personality. It is like a house that has been rented out to the entire universe and everybody in the universe has their own definition of Faith living inside it. These definitions were so multifarious that even our overburdened Faith has not been able to keep track. For some it was a flickering light in an ever darkening world, or a gleam of determination in a loved one’s eye or a bond of love, of friendship or sometimes even shining pieces of colourful stones. But then somewhere in the course of the universe, it could have been the beginning, middle or end of time (Faith’s house was particularly teeming at that moment to pay attention), a wholly unique and puzzling tenant applied for space. It was unusually distinct from all the other definitions that Faith had ever let live in its house. Its name was Religion.

Religion was just as multifarious as Faith, if not more. It had so many forms that it left Faith’s mind reeling and the peculiarity of this tenant remained uncontested in Faith’s mind. So Faith, after having seen so many people occupy their space in its house with the predictable, decided that it will see what shape this takes. As Faith observed, these people grew more peaceful, kinder, however, they also grew more dependent. Dependent upon their Faith for all that they believed was out of their grasp, for all that they couldn’t find reasons for.

As Faith followed its course, it saw Religion evolve. More accurately, it saw people’s dependence on Religion evolve. Faith saw no wrong in believing in Religion, what felt wrong to it was the fact that in doing so, they had forgotten what standing on their own feet and believing in themselves felt like. Faith found out that the people had made Religion out to be synonymous with operating theatre as if it was an impenetrable surgery room. Even more disturbing was the fact that these people knew nothing outside of those rooms, and what they knew, they considered diabolic. The heart of a person was thought to hold nothing but their Religion and what was unfortunate was that it was true at times. And when their hearts were so full of their own Religion, how could they make space for another? Hate brewed among the various Religions, the type of hate that takes birth from ignorance. Faith followed these events with growing sadness and saw what an innocent attempt to have something to rely on had contorted into something that at times could be so merciless that it would allow innocents to be killed if it was in the name of religion. It saw how people had trapped themselves inside a cage and greedily waited for more to join them. How they couldn’t see past the blindfold of bigotry they had created on their own.

Before Faith knew it, hate had given way to violence and the colourful painting that was Religion had been so covered with red that not even the brightest and the most vibrant colours could repaint it. Faith felt that Religion had turned into a family heirloom that had been passed down so many generations with such varying intentions that it’s true meaning had blurred out of existence—just like the photograph of the ancestor who originally brought it into the family. As it watched these events unfold, it had a myriad of thoughts. But the one that it couldn’t pack away under the weight of its memories is: when did people stop remembering that no matter what they put their Faith in, they were still that, people.

It doesn’t matter whom we devote our worship to, what matters is that all us are all worshiping for the same reason: to have faith. In the end, when we are ready to leave behind this world and descend into the unknown, the only fact that differentiates us from each other is not the God who receives our prayers but what the people that we have left behind will feel when look upon the life that we lived.

Inspiration can arise from odd places. One might find it hiding in a dark corner of a street they walk through every day, or shining in a child’s smile hoping that its light can reach to us, or waving from the eyes of a stranger in the grocery store, one peeked at stealthily. Sometimes, as I have recently learnt, it also gives rise to odd creations. I found it concealed inside a bowl of peas and disguised as the words of this beautiful poem by Langston Hughes:

A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Here is a piece of prose inspired (more or less) by this poem, called “The Spilled Peas”:

That day the peas spilled. Tumbled right out of the big green bowl and scattered all over the floor like hailstones during a storm. Produced tiny thuds that echoed through my body as if from rocks spilling out of the back of a truck. Went under the fridge. Got crushed under my feet. But the bowl didn’t break. The bowl didn’t break. So I picked up all the spilled peas. One by one. With care. 217 peas. Put them back in the bowl that didn’t break and filled it with water. Placed it near the sink. Let the water drown the dust of the kitchen floor. Bathed the peas and washed my hands. But my head was full of tomatoes and rice. I forgot about the peas. And with my fingers I uprooted their home. The green bowl fell once again and so did its resident peas. The spilled peas spilled again. I spilled the spilled peas. And broke the big green bowl. Broke the big green bowl.                          

---

 

 I am dangling on the edge of a cliff,
Its cruel laugh, a subversive,
Even to the malevolent tick of time,
The devious rocks whisper ploys,
Right beneath my fingers,
Determined to slacken their feeble grip,
 
I chance a look at the fate awaiting me with darkness cupped in its palms,
And find the cusp of adulthood staring back at me,
I hunt my mind,
To find any evidence to the journey made up that steep slope,
Only to find laughter,
Unburdened with the stifling anxieties ushered in by expectations,
Into a party hosted by my foes,
With the dance floor enlivened by all my eclectic fears.
 
I desperately hang on to that last tinkle of laughter,
Only to find it sounding the knell for my childhood,
Hidden in its cadence is the happiness I haven’t stretched my mouth to,
Since that clifftop tempted me with its fallacious promises,
Contorting all the aspirations of a young heart into preposterous whims.
 
All this desperation causes my fingers to bleed a crimson sign,
Warning me to stop rebelling and give in to the inevitable,
My body is stretched like a worn-out trampoline,
Only, it won’t bounce anything, neither would it cushion the fall,
For it is so heavy with its desire,
To cup the grains of time in its hollow,
And send them back to the place where they learnt to steal their own life,
That it can barely hold itself up.
 
But, it is not the body I agonize over, it is the heart,
For the heart has taken the brunt of it,
Its vibrant beats have been smothered by constant reprimands,
To disguise them under a veil of assiduously practiced indifference,
For lord knows what a little happiness may be deduced as,
By the vile eyes that don’t care for its thumps.
 
But the heart continues to beat,
Despite the hound sitting in its chamber,
With its innocence as a chew toy,
And flows its desires through the eyes,
As clear as the sky on a scorching summer afternoon,
Imploring the world to see,
All the wonders it scorns to believe.
 
 
 
              










































 

One day, 
I let tattooed palms veil my eyes, 
In the haze of daydreams,
I sat on the moon,
And dangled my legs,
Like the swinging braids of a giggling schoolgirl.
I pilfered a little starlight,
From the stars hanging in the sky,
And gave it away,
To all the dark corners of the round world.
The dreams stamped themselves on the back of my eyelids,
But the seconds sulked away.

One day,
I lashed my multicolored skipping rope,
Right across the minute hand,
And the tied it to the key of my blue music box,
But the key didn’t feel like stopping,
So the music took all the minutes away.

One day, 
I started writing my mind,
In these clumsy and dreary checklists,
With the least possible words,
And kept ticking life off (pun intended),
I covered my ears,
Against the mockery spewed,
By the unchecked boxes,
And the ticks took all the hours away.

One day, 
I replaced the numbers on my clock,
With words,
I let them be the gears in my head,
Fitting the ‘a’ in the curve of ‘c’,
And the ‘p’ in the crevice of ‘t’,
A little imperfectly.
The words found a home, 
But the days stormed off.

And one day,
Went away the months,
The starry ones and the stormy ones, 
The blurry ones and the lucid ones,
Like they were being chased by rabid dogs,
Off to the Universal Cemetery of Time,
Where all the old days are buried, 
In shared tombs, 
With rapturous laughter and heart-wrenching tears.
And the months took with them,
The year that was my 15th.

 

I love maa’s hands.
They are not pretty,
They are not perfect,
They don’t even look alike.

They are so callused, it makes a sandpaper seem softer;
They have sewn together my bursted seams, as well as hers, you see.
They have nails so chipped, they make a baby’s nails seem longer;
They have borne my pain, as though it was hers, you see.
They are so strong, they make daddy’s hands seem frail;
They have fought away my monsters with me, you see.

I love maa’s hands.
Because, they have accomplished moulding imperfection into a flair.
Because, they have manifested the transience of beauty, for the whole world to see.
Because, they have proficiently held my hand, everytime I stumbled, or let me fall, if need be.
Because, they might not be soft, but feel velvety when rested on my forehead.
Because, they have just not wiped my tears, but taught me to wipe them myself.
Because, they have never ceased to wrap me in their warmth, when the world seems too cold.
Beacuse, holding them feels like holding my whole life in the palm of my hand.
Because, they don’t hide mysteries in their hollows, but the key to the quest of discovering them.

I love maa’s hands.
They are not pretty,
They are not perfect,
They don’t even look alike.

“Flash fiction is a fictional work of extreme brevity that still offers character and plot development.” – Wikipedia

Flash fiction is to readers, what a candy bar is, to a starved urchin. Though small in quantity, it is uninhibitedly savoured. The main idea of flash fiction is to present a story in the least possible words. There is power in words. Words can have an irrevocable effect, and it is based on this principle that flash fiction works. It conveys the action of a story in the compression of poetry, and the overall effect that is thus created is so heartbreakingly poignant that it inspires one more than any elaborate eloquence ever could

Here’s a piece of flash fiction that I’d like to share today:

THE SMOKE

The smoke billows up from the burning pyre, chasing the murky clouds. My cheeks feel wet. My small hand holds daddy’s larger one.
“That’s the spirit of your nani,” maa says, pointing at the smoke. Her brown cheeks are wet too.
Looking at the smoke, I imagine nani’s wrinkled face, her kind eyes. Till there’s none of it left.

Years later, I run and run, chasing the smoke as it chases the clouds, floating above the pyre. Someone’s holding me. Not letting me move. Letting maa’s twinkling eyes and comforting smile fade away. Till there’s none of it left.

 Little snippets of life,
Saved from the ravages of time,
Preserved in a cozy corner of the heart,
Snuggled with nostalgia and joy,
My precious memories.

The connecting dots of a life in fragments,
The most untouchable possession,
New ones coveted every day,
To reminiscence, to mourn, to cherish,
My enchanting memories.

The tears that pour down my cheeks,
In recollection, in grief,
The laughter of a person long since gone,
The inheritance most worthy of all,
My bittersweet memories.

The scribbles that scar the walls,
The stains that spoil my clothes,
The scars that mar my skin,
Each has a tale to tell,
My persistent memories.

Snapshots stolen from a speedy existence,
Souvenirs from a time irrevocably gone,
A wireless time machine,
To travel back to love, to warmth, to hope,
My hallowed memories.


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