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Saintly cargoes in sailing coffins

The creases on the forehead aren’t creases. They’re the defined gifts of knowledge. They’re the lifelines of experience, and one should stand on tiptoes to see them. And when one’s carried by the throng of the crowd nearer and nearer towards the forehead that possesses these lines, one should stoop low, so low that your own forehead touches the feet which carries that other one.

Gods walk free in this country. They walk in shoes of leather, wear branded clothes and walk amongst us. They have slick black beards, oiled and taken care of; they have valets and maids at their beck and call. And wherever they go, they spread sunlight.

The cornucopia of my dreams

When I was 7, I did not know what a cornucopia was. But even then, I dreamed about what I wanted inside the cornucopia. The abundance of chocolate, or Hello Kitty merchandise, toys…

7 years later, when I knew what a cornucopia symbolized, the tastes had changed to look at it as an overflowing container of health, being fit and a lot of non-material things between the infinite amount of material possessions, ranging from gadgets to makeup to stationary.

Two years from that date, what do the cornucopia of my dreams overflow of?

Of vacuum. The strong scent of not being. Maya. Confusion. Questions. Books. Preparing to graduate out of school. Books. To-do lists. Noise, Empty Spaces. Confined Spaces. Deaths. Funerals.

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New Year’s Ruminations

Has the light gone out from underneath my door?

Yes, it has long since been out. I have closed the windows, drawn the curtains, turned on the fans.  The phone has been switched off. I have crawled onto my bed, hidden beneath the blankets. And then, I wait. For exactly two hours. Eyes open, sweaty, breathing with sighs in between. I reach over for the water jug when the first of the fire crackers go off.

KABOOM! BAM! BAM! BOOM! My scream goes unheard. It becomes nothing but a background melody drowned out by the rock bands of New Year’s Eve. I hate New Year’s Eve. But that doesn’t make me an anti-social element in this bubble of….fun.

Abandonado: I am abandoned

Their eyes have lost their lights. Like Dullness creeping in on a new moon night. Night being devoured by darkness. Cold, cold darkness. Darkness without escape. Escaping into cycles of misery. Inner misery. Misery. Because they haven’t run into the darkness. They were pushed into it.

Asha Bhavan. When our social service trip to the palliative care centre was cancelled, our coordinators decided to take us there. A mental asylum for women, this institution acts as the sole hope of survival for these women.

Needless to say, every minute I stayed there was making me uneasy. The strong smell of disinfectant, the long dormitories with the minimum of facilities…it haunts me weeks after that visit. And this was my second.

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