Sunday, September 20, 2009


As the doctor worked, his horror grew. It grew till it filled him completely. It ran in his blood, both with and against the flow. It peered out from behind his pupils. He felt it cut against his insides when he turned. When he walked, his horror seemed to leave behind a trail of frozen slime.

And it creeped out into his work. Every little piece he touched was stained by his it. His breath formed a fragile but indestructible shield in which his horror flourished with the pale, sickly quivering of its cover.

The dormant cells were crystallisations of his fear and revulsion. And the moment they were finally set alive by an electric spark, the doctor's sanity exploded with equal intensity.

Was it a wonder then, that the creation was ugly? Born against the force of so much ill-feeling, his muscles were quite twisted. His heart had come alive at the pinnacle of extreme paranoia, so it beat with a hot madness. And his eyes, on opening, reflected the first thing they saw- blind horror at the phenomenon of life.

The poor monster. He never had a chance...

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Walking down the road alone at almost 8 pm

Almost 8 pm. That's all I know of the time. Because 8pm is my deadline, and I must reach home before that.

It's raining. The streetlights are all blurry and rainbowy again, the way rain always makes them. I see a chain of those little decorative electric lights. Or tuni bulbs. ‘Tuni’ is a funny name. Leaves absolutely no room for dignity or grandeur. Kind of endearing though, if you think about it...
Who put these lights up now? A pujo enthusiast in a fit of impatience? Maybe they’re in honour of the Salt Lake metro, strung along the construction zone as they are. That’s a FIVE years-early celebration. All these enthusiasts. Making the world a brighter place.

Stumble. Splash. And the heel of my shoe is dripping with slush. Damn 'em puddles. Or 'poodles', as the French teacher in our university calls them. I want a dog. Not a poodle though.

Don't get distracted. Look left, Look right, Cross the road. There comes a car, with a neon ring of light at its two ends. Rings that grow larger and disperse with the air as they approach my raindrop-lined eyelashes.
The other side.
Too late, car, you couldn't run me over!

The wind rises, it tugs at my umbrella with impetuous force, and I can feel the pull all the way down to the tips of my toes. I'm Mary Poppins! Creepy-crawlies of the world, beware! Before you get to me, I will rise with the wind, holding on to my Big Black Umbrella and float away.

I like black umbrellas, don't you? They're classy, in a very British way. Hang on. British not equal to classy. Am I a victim of the infamous colonial hangover? English student too. Oh dear.

But right now, potential personality problems don't interest me. They don't interest anyone else either. Did I say I'm 'walking down the road alone at almost 8pm?'
Well, it was almost 8pm when I started out but it's past 8 pm now. And I’m not really alone, I wasn’t all this while. There are people evrywhere. People, and cars. And autos and ricksaws. Drenched bedraggled crows and drenched disgruntled dogs.

But we're all in our own little bubbles of darkness and storm, with rainsongs rushing through our head and rainwind rushing through our legs. Some, like me, walk under our umbrella-worlds. Others are getting too wet to notice anything.
I'll deal with the logic once I get home. That's a different world altogether.

Saturday, September 5, 2009


It was a sultry afternoon,
As hot as it could get.
She would be burnt to cinders
If she weren't drenched in sweat.

More out of need than want she bought
A carton of fresh juice-
Icy-chilled, with fruity tang;
She put it to good use

By drinking it with all her zest.
She sucked upon the straw
And felt the cold juice splash within
Her stomach, throat and jaw.

Drops of water glittered
On the carton's minty green,
Against the light the straw glowed
With a pink translucent sheen.

In unadulterated bliss
She sipped and sipped and sipped.
Though the heat raged on, to her
It seemed the sun had dipped.

Till suddenly she heard
A little gurgle, then a hiss.
Her drink was coming to an end,
So was her newfound bliss.

To reach the little bit left
In the carton's lowest quarters,
Involved a process wrong in many ways-
Too loud, for starters.

Discarding femininity,
Upsetting every mind
That believed in the principle
Of discreet and refined,

Were other sins involved,
And add to those a frightening fact-
The level of attention
That her action would attract.

She thought and thought and thought
And thought, and thought and thought and THOUGHT.
Would she, should she, could she?
(Yes she COULD, but she OUGHT not.)

The remnants of her drink called out
To her seductively.
Finally, she realised that-
To act productively:

One must finish what one started.
So she closed her eyes and.. SLURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPED.
And since she'd gone so far she just
Went all the way and burped.

She got glances that were scathing,
But they were very few.
She got glances indulgently amused
But they were low in number too.

Most didn't even notice and
Went on their usual way.
While she sat and slowly savoured
The lingering flavour of her day.