Note 3.

You won't hear it coming round

and that's part of the big plan;

A silent heavy truck,

or a reckless speeding van.

Just hear me out, okay?

and also just turn blind;

Keep your eyes fixed straight ahead

coz it'll hit you from behind.

And you know I'm here

for your rescue dear

but you know I've gotta hide,

I'm not scared or shit

but I just can't leave

with a lacerated pride.

I'm back on my feet again 

and its business that I mean,

I've got anti-septic speech

and a badass love machine.

Now I'm back here just for you

and you better be back too,

to play games on the road again,

the ones I ask you to.

And I'll just be here

for your rescue dear

oh, unless I've gotta run.

But keep your tail just

between your legs

coz it's always so much fun..

..to watch you disengage

and watch you swell with rage.

to watch you disengage

and watch you swell with rage.

Note 2.

The buzzing of the fan had been driving her nuts. When it was at it's lowest speed, you could mistake it for the sound of a grinder coming from the neighbor's house . At its fastest, it almost sounded like a truck revving inside your room. She, in particular, wasn't sure if it was really as loud as she thought. She, in particular, was not even sure if she really did believe anything in general. Fan or no fan, the humming and the buzzing was persistent. It was as if a mosquito had seen the dark at the end of her ear-tunnel and managed to crawl into the meanderings of her inner ear. It buzzed and flapped and writhed intermittently, but consistently. The mosquito was trapped inside of her. Or was she trapped inside of a mosquito? Nevertheless, it was unanimously decided that the fan needed a-fixing.

Note.

It was a couple of hours before the noon on a Sunday. It was like any other bourgeois Sunday, filled with the smell of the Indian middle class, in particular, that one readily gets used to. There were laughters and naggings from the neighbourhood, a closely huddled universe of adjoining houses and lanes. The Sharmas, owing to the extra-ordinary amplitude that god had apparently blessed them with, were bickering as usual about the crisis that three lanes of the 'mohalla' now knew by heart. There was buzzing of seemingly a dozen thousand washing machines in the background, and sometimes the short-lived continuous beating of the bat on a cloth being washed. She could smell parathas and chai from every direction, a familiar smell that now was almost indistinguishable from normal air. All of this, all of these mundane rituals, she knew by rote. 

She stood in her balcony gazing at the giant mesh of cables and wires at the end of the street, tied on a pole that leaned dangerously on one side of the road. It was like a small colony of invertebrates, spreading in straight black serpentine lines in the middle of the air. Khemu, the newspaper guy, was delivering newspaper by hand today. He looked odd, because she could never imagine Khemu and not see him riding the symbol of the common man, his black Hero bicycle. Maybe the roughness of the road got to it, or maybe someone stole it from him. The day seemed to have become so much longer for him. She looked at the old green wrist watch she's been wearing for as long as she could remember, and something seemed to bother her so much that for a fraction of a moment she thought her spine froze but time had started to move so fast. In that fraction of a moment, a straight gush of wind broke her brittle skeletal structure and its pieces just seemed to scatter all over the floor. She did not know what sent that chill in her nerves, making the sparse hair on her un-waxed arm stand erect in the fright of that moment that seemed to linger on for an eternity. The fleeting horror made her realize that time was moving too fast and she wasn't. She doubted if she was moving at all.

The ticking of the lousy blue seconds hand became as audible as Mrs. Sharma's rants on her mother-in-law. Not just audible, she could see time running away beneath the scratched round glass of the flowery green dial. It was 15 years ago that her father had bought her the wrist watch from the little shop under the tree, and yet it felt like it was just yesterday. 

Time was moving too fast. 

Random Mindfuck 3

The flytrap's is the way of life

We're cashing in on our own strife

for surely must the candle burn

and we must too, when ours is the turn

and ours, indeed, too often comes

when one won't move and the other runs

It hits us when we're most unnerved

and fairness, though, is seldom served

for our fears dress in linen whims

embroidered with the holy hymns

and monstrous in the dark become

heard by none, and seen by none

Then where to must the fawn elope

from beasts of prey and hurtful hope?

and what becomes of the righteous deeds

if one must bite the hand that feeds?

For questions or for indemnity,

the tale must serve but one of these.

A Sore Loser

There's skeletons up your closet

and empty fills my pockets

You're fighting woes with bare hands

and I am steady shifting stands.

I am trying to find

our closure

and maybe you are too.

And I'm throwing away 

your memoria

but its just so hard to do.

I'm throwing the withered flower

and many an unsent letter

and I hope this serves me good

and I hope it serves you better

Living in a Glass House

There must be something, I wonder

about that tone..

of broken shards

resonating in an empty room.

Like loading muskets

in a sandy expanse

of a lifeless desert.

Like a song full of metaphors

that makes it impossible to judge

just who is to blame.

Like, like the roaring of thunder

on one of those days

when it doesn't rain at all.

Like fleeting compassion

aroused by a narrative

of a mute roadside visage.

Like a photograph,

framed on the wall,

covered with dust.

Like a broken clock,

at least a decade old,

lying in one of the drawers.

Like an assurance that you have more time

if you turn the dial

so that your watch is ten minutes ahead.

Futility is in a feud

trying to fight away itself..

Impasse

I bite the hook for little vermin

that you stuck out as bait,

I slowly creep into the rat-trap

while patiently you wait.

You drag me helpless all along,

I bleed, and I leave marks

But you wipe your floor as clean as new

then feed me to the sharks.

But little by little

your limbs turn brittle,

coz nothing's worth a dime.

So you give up all

and watch me crawl,

but you die a little every time.

So that's the plot of our tragic story,

the drama that's for none to see

And if at all we were to show,

they'd pass it for a comedy.

So you drag me out into the daylight

and leave me on the road,

I'm run down by the speeding cars

while you still bear your load.

But little by little

your limbs turn brittle

and you crumble to the ground,

And you give up all

to watch me crawl

but never make a sound.