Bird at Prey

Hand in hand with fiction

Grey water rushed through the ridges on the brick road to join the trench. Making patterns in an unknown urgency. Clenching her father’s arm, the little girl made a brief leap lest she breaks the mysterious trail. A familiar tingling of a bunch of metal keys caught her attention; round the corner uncle Rustam was bent to open the shutters of his ‘ladies tailoring’ shop. He gave her a warm smile and immediately broke into a dry cough. Post the short afternoon nap, the shopkeepers had started arranging their shops for the evening rush. Street lamps shone brighter with the setting sun. A rusty blue train screeched to a halt at the station nearby to let go of a crowd of strangers. Sounds of freshly made snacks left in hot oil to fry ringing in her ears as her stomach churned. Scared to ask papa for a stop, she walked on.

The street had started getting busy.. clusters of women around vegetable shops, haggling over increased prices, middle aged men rushing back home from work, a few young boys scoffing at each other over the lost gamble, faint trail of a 60s popular song playing from an old radio.. constant whirling of the sewing machine.. flicker of colourful glass bangles in the yellow street lights, a black-yellow taxi honking to make its way.. brushing of uncountable feet against the hard grounds.. friends laughing.. hawkers screaming attractive offers.. colourful clothes, new shoes, smell of old books, strange stares clubbed in to form a silent lull. She glanced through the crowd to get a glimpse of the known face, but in vain. Fear gripped her entire existence. “Am I lost?” She thought to herself. Stuck in the moment, unable to think of a way to move ahead or turn back.. until a tug at her elbow got her back from the reverie. She turned back to her husband. “Where are you going? You are supposed to keep to your left!!” he scowls. Relief!

Monsoons in this city has a strange tune, it stops for no one. She glanced at the clock ticking away.. half past nine. The wait seemed endless. The radio had not stopped yet. Rain lashed against the window pane as she walked towards it to look down. Apart from a couple or two black umbrellas hurrying through once in a while, the street was empty now. She had started worrying. How long has it been since he left? The shopkeepers had all returned home, tucking their belongings in layers of blue tarpaulin. Smoke rings in air, from a stranger taking refuge under the shed, stranded with his last cigarette.

A sharp knock at the door woke her up.

The rains had left.

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** Hand in hand with fiction, inspite of being purely fictional has a resemblance to all our lives. As we grow up in a very directed sense of lifestyle, its natural for all of us to lose ourselves on the way sometimes, being lonely, looking for constant support in the form of parents, friends, lover, husband, children and sometimes even strangers. While only the journey and its memories remain real.

In love with the canvas again

The Window

First rays of dawn flickered in, making a projection on the rough brick wall. Dust particles danced along, forming patterns in the air. Chill of the night slowly dying out.. sounds of a broom brushing against the hard grounds at regular intervals.. stomping of a few boots.. dragging of metal scraps.. a distant dry cough and finally a shrill siren rotating around the high walls adding to the morning music, announcing the start of another day.

Deep down, in the solitary prison cell.. the prisoner wakes up to a dark morning. The frozen concrete lying underneath sends shivers down the spine, flinging him into consciousness. Last night was dreamless, devoid of any emotions, almost empty. Sitting up, he looks above, at the mellow lights coming through the tiny window. ‘The fog must be still thick’ he thinks to himself. Glancing at the projection on the wall, he locates a parked tractor.. changing into some meaningless scribbles.. taking the shape of a bird he never knew of.. vanishing into large eclipses and clearing out into the shadow of  permanent bars. Time has not moved since. 

Winters have always been the best of all seasons. As a child he loved loitering in the farm when it was covered with thick fog, checking on the animals in the barn, occasionally taking his sister to his hideout, setting the garbage on fire.. pilling up dry leaves and stealing apples from the neighbor’s farms.. and then there was also the growing violence, a disturbed existence, a desire to break free, an emergency call and a few accidents. Winters always reminded him of the past. The choke at the bottom of his throat grew fierce, hunger burning his stomach. Loneliness striking again. The window keeps sketching patterns on the wall. Picking up a few of his sole companions, neatly folded and kept under the pillow, bleak memories, torn at the folds and burnt at the edges, he brushes his hands through them. They still smell colours. Its dark to see, but he needs no light. He knows it too well, its been rehearsed everyday, almost every alternate hour, lest its lost.

The slowly fading past threatens him, stripping him off his only belongings, to a future which he doesn’t know and can’t predict. He weeps aloud. He calms himself. He talks it out with him. He plans in his head. He scribbles the routes. He captures patterns. He chases the light. He despises the freedom and he craves for it.. He walks ahead towards the window, towards the rugged brick wall and slowly into the blackout.

..through some shifted frames

Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I look upon you, 

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, it comes to me as if in a dream..

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recalled as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured.  

You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, 

Your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass,
You take of my face, breast, hands in return..

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone
or wake at night alone. 

I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

 

   To A Stranger

- by Walt Whitman

A Death wish

Step Sisters

The pain was excruciating. My hands trembled to reach hers.. but the growing distance ..the unearthly force ripping us apart from the embrace, made it seem nearly impossible. A fierce tide washed off the rough ground beneath me in utter rage, thrashing me into a whirlpool. It burnt against my skin. Then it was the current pulling me further down into what is seemed like nothingness.. deeper and deeper.. thoughts raced through me, almost in a blur.. until darkness gripped.

It was easier than flying. Almost effortless. As we held each other’s hand and ran along the sandy beach. We have been perfect, inspite of our differences. The soul sisters.

She was plain. with a small nose that wrinkled up a little, whenever she was disagreeing.. mostly with me.. confused. A wheatish complexion that she loathed, a formed prejudice. Dark black curls and a deep set jaw giving away the stubborn cheekbones. She often confessed she felt beautiful with me, desired to steal my splendor as it felt unfair to belong together yet so widely apart. “You are divine & serene.. so pure that I feel jealous” she used to say. I never quite felt the same for her. Never saw myself without her. If not for her I would have never felt emotion. It was so easy to share my thoughts with her and see her shed tears for me.. for my wellbeing. She consoled. She healed me.

And then when she lay, lifeless.. her face peaceful, relieved somehow. Soft white waves washing away at her feet, the foam touching her soft features. The sky looked unusually lit. Wrapped in a green cast that hurt the eyes. Blinding. I was breathing silence now, it was so thick it suffocated me. Its been days I’ve been running.. running away from the darkness that followed behind. The speed was breathtaking, not knowing where It’ll lead me.. what I’ll witness and what I’ll endure. But it seemed like homecoming. The huge chandelier tossed rainbows around the place as afternoon sunlight fell into its arms. The window had a golden frame, intricate and ornamented with glittering stones. The air smelt familiar.. welcoming. I walked, in steady small steps.. much calmer now.. and there she was, waiting for me outside, her face perfect as always..

Golden hair flying into her face.. deep blue eyes deep into mine.. arms stretched out for an embrace..

 

This is home.