Friday, February 29, 2008

Prayer for the restoration of my individuality

I cannot wait for my brother’s voice to break. No, I have no particular inclination towards seeing boys in their pubescent glory. Why I want my brother’s voice to break as soon as possible, is so that I can finally answer the phone in peace.

Here are a few examples to prove my point.

My Grandfather calls

*tring tring*

Me: Hello

Dada: Who is it, Piku?

Me: Oof…no…MISHTU.

Dada (injured tone): Don’t fool around like this. As it is, I’m hard of hearing, it’s really confusing for me.

Me (trying hard to remind myself that I'm talking to a helpless old person who has the right to make the same mistake a bazillion times): It’s pretty obvious you’re hard of hearing, since you can’t recognize your own grand-daughter’s voice.

Dada: Oh Mishtu… so it’s really you… you see, your brother often pretends to be you, and your voices ARE rather similar you know.

My maid uses the intercom

*tring tring*

Me: Hello

Kanchan Mashi: Piku, ask your sister whether she wants jam or cheese on her toast.

Me(frosty tone):I don’t know where she is and I’m busy, you come upstairs and ask her yourself.

Kanchan Mashi: Shona Baba, please do this for me, you can’t expect me to run up and down the stairs so often.

Me:Ok, she’s here, talk to her. (icicles have probably formed on the phone by now)

(I hand over the phone to my brother)

Piku: Kanchan Mashi, THIS IS PIKU, THAT WAS DIDI!!

Kanchan Mashi: Ohhhhh *giggles. Giggles for WAY too long.*

My OWN MOTHER calls

*tring tring*

Me: Hello

Ma: Is this Piku or Mishtu?

Me(fatigued):
You know, Ma, it’s a shame that you need to ask.

Ma: Well, it’s your fault, you never call me when I’m away, you’re always at the computer or talking to your friends.

Me: Excuses, excuses.

Ma: Anyway, have you taken your medicine?

Me(faint revival of sarcasm): I’ll ask my brother, since HE’S the one with the cold, not me.

Ma: *laughs sheepishly* I’m SO SORRY baby! Your voices are UNCANNILY similar, EVERYONE says so.

Me: YOU’RE NOT EVERYONE GODDAMIT!!

Ma: Okay okay, it won’t happen again.

I call a friend

Friend: Hello

Me: You called earlier?

Friend: Yeah, you know what happened? Your brother answered my call, and I thought it was you, in fact I was a little disturbed because his voice is more seductive then yours.

Me: o.O

As you might have guessed, the incidents are exaggerated for effect, but by a frighteningly tiny amount.
I am fully aware of the unpleasant nature of a single voice assuming multiple frequencies and wave forms at the same time. However, it will be a welcome relief.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

I Saw You Standing

I saw you standing at the bend of the road.

The curve of the path was smooth,
A softly winding trail of dust,
Making it's way through the gold and rust
Of a sun-drenched field
One sleepy autumn afternoon.

But all my eyes saw,
Were the firm lines of your jaw-
Clean, and sweeping.
The straightness of your nose
The unconsciously arrogant tilt of your chin.
Those sharp angles cut deep into me,
And gasping for breath, I smiled,
Loving them more than I loved
The smooth curve of the path.

The wind blew, deliciously cool,
With a slight sting of ice.
The dry leaves trembled,
Clinging to the boughs that
Rocked them.
Some were dislodged;
And floated to the ground
With gentle twirls.

As the trees rustled and swayed,
Whispering their delight to each other,
I trembled to think what it would feel like
To be entangled in your wild curls-
Black flames leaping on the wind,
Scorching a heart that beats as wildly
As they blow.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

I Will Survive

The night is concentrated into
The ticking of a clock,
The peaceful breathing of my little brother
Who finishes his homework more or less in time,
The droning of crickets
In the suburban excuse for a jungle
By my house.

The room consists of shadows and silhouettes,
The sky is inky black,
The trees are blacker than the background of sky.

All is rhythmic, all is regulated.
All except my sporadic yawns
(Whose frequency and diameter steadily increase)
And the scratching of my pen
That longs to hurt the paper it moves on.
All is dark, all is unfathomable,
All except my bloodshot eyes,
And the bright white sheets
On the soft bed
That calls me.