A kitten and a grey star

It was a dark evening and rain had ceased just a moment ago, when a grey star disturbed a little kitten’s contemplation of the road in front of her. The grey star fell on the little kitten’s beige back. Annoyed at being rudely disturbed, she shook herself and meowed. The star fell onto the concrete slab beneath the kitten’s stack of papers and rolled off into a corner. The kitten went back to staring at the road. She spied a lone figure of a girl in a drenched beige coat and trousers wading her way through the heavy flow of vehicles. Those vehicles disturbed puddles, splashing water all over the place and dousing the girl’s clothes in muddy water. But she walked on undaunted, her shoulders still held upright even under the heavy weight she carried on her back. She looked happy to be alive. The kitten purred.

From the corner of her eye, the little kitten spied a hefty man in a grey coat watch the girl’s progress from across the road. He took one step ahead, hesitated and with a vigorous shake of the head and a punch into his own chest, set forth towards the girl.

As the hefty man appeared in her field of vision, the girl’s body tensed. The little kitten’s whisker’s twitched a little and a faint shadow of blue smog began to envelop her tiny body.

The girl tried to appear unconcerned and concentrate on the road ahead. The man stepped right in front of her, bent towards the girl’s right ear and whispered something. The girl shook her head and tried to go past the lurking figure of the man. The little kitten stood on her legs, alert and a little stiff. The blue smog around her thickened.

The man held out a hand to touch the girl and throwing all pretense of unconcern to the wind, she began to run. The man grabbed her by both arms. The blue smog around the little kitten thickened and began to spread until the whole street was covered in a cloud of blue smog that stank of rotten carcasses. The little kitten’s growl drowned the girl’s scream. A red patch decorated the plain grey of the man’s coat.

The grey star rattled in its corner.

The End

 

 

Waiting

I wait to see you with bated breath

And a head full of dreams

Dancing amongst the clouds

As I go about my day’s work

A sudden heart wrench (a happy one albeit)

Stops me in mid motion

You the eternal, elusive desire

Lies seemingly within my reach

But you never come

Not really

Ever

And I return to my

Not so dull existence

A little heart broken

A little wiser

And a little

Richer

The Bird and the Bonsai

The bird flew in from the vast blue haze

He spotted a Bonsai in a pot or a vase

(He couldn’t quite tell)

He perched on the edge and wept bitter tears

For the sad fate of the Bonsai in a vase

“You poor thing,” the bird said

“In your prison with no fun to be had”

“Always, cramped in your little space”

“No place to grow or dream or be free”

And he shed more tears near the vase

 

The Bonsai stared at the bird in a daze

“But I am free,” it said with a chuckle

“Of chilly winds, raging storms and pesky nests”

“And when sunbeams warm my being and the waters fill me just right”

“And when I am cared for with so much love”

“I sit here in my cozy home and think of beauty, freedom and inner sight”

 

The bird gazed at the Bonsai in shock

Shook his head with a sad sigh

Spread his wings and flew into the blue haze

 

We will never know which one was right

For both of them died and became star dust


	


	









			
	
			


				
				
Liann and the odd Island

			

			
	
	

		
Liann grabbed a mangrove to stop herself from falling flat onto the muddy sand as she stepped out of her boat. She felt relief flood over her whole body as her two feet sank into the sandy coolness, her headache began to ease and her eyes began to adjust to the shade after hours of exposure to bright sunlight. She wandered inwards looking for water to quench her thirst and perhaps some fruit.


She was faintly aware of the fear that accompanied her. She touched her seashell and cormorant feather robe for assurance.


The vast trees seem to whisper a constant melody that was far different to the roar of the ocean. A bird perched on a thick vine flung across trees and preened its feathers oblivious to Liann’s presence. A velvety brown spider skidded across its web and Liann heard the dead leaves rustle under the weight of a serpent. She caressed the string of turquoise and pink seashells in her robe for comfort.


She was exhausted but the shade from the trees and the unfamiliar sense of ease helped her reenergize. She wrapped her seashell and cormorant feather robe around herself firmly.


Further inside the island, a brook gurgled.


Liann hurried towards the sound. It lay between two rows of tall grass and a scattering of trees. Liann fell to her knees and began drinking from the clear waters. A yellow flower floating in the brook paused near her cheek to murmur a gentle welcome. Liann lay down on the pebbles with her elbows resting on the banks and let the water soak up her aching body. She felt the placid currents wash over every part of her seashell and cormorant feather robe. Her thoughts wandered to the rough seas she had left behind, the rocks, clashing waves, hungry fish and the sea birds, beautiful sunsets, coral gardens, carcasses and floating debris that stank. The constant struggle to stay afloat, the beauty and the ugliness of it all.


After what felt like days, Liann began to be aware of the music.


At first it was loud like a roaring sea storm. Rocks took a beating, sand whirled in mad patterns and the heavy splashes made the seashells in her robe clatter and bruise her even more. She stirred and sought comfort in the gentle ripples of the brook. Slowly, the music assumed a calmer tune and began to flow in rhythm to a deep truth that was hard to grasp.


Liann kept listening until her whole being became part of the music. There were no more roars, splashes or whirling sand, only moonlight that shone bright and covered the rocks with a soft glow. The seashell and cormorant feather robe disappeared.


“Respite” whispered Liann.


###


Orginality
A sea of thoughts and recipes…

	


	







			
	
			


									

											

				
				
Evil Hope and Pandora’s Box

			


												
								

					
Hope waited deep inside the box


That Zeus gave to Pandora


 


Scheming with all its might


Suffused with seductive charm


It waited


 


It tried once


Twice and then thrice


And on the fourth


Try


It won the game of wills


 


Seduced and blind


She opened the box


 


Letting Hope escape


 


With a grin and a half


Hope let its children


Out!


Its many children


Named envy, sickness, hatred and disease


 


Knowing that they could not survive


Without its warmth and delight


Hope climbed out last


In its cloak of charm


 


And to this day


Buried inside the box are its last whispers


Let it be known that


‘From hope sprang 


All the evils of the world’

									

			
			








			
	
			


				
				
The spirit and the bucket

			


												
								

					
There once was a spirit who carried a heavy bucket 


Filled to the brim with gems of sorts


One by one she picked out the gems 


They shone bright in the spirit’s gaze 


Held each one with tender care


Savoured the warmth and the brightness rare


 


With each chime of the clocks of the world 


The gem in hand lost its sparkle


Not to be undone by the clocks of the world


She dropped the first gem back in the bucket 


And picked up the next one, shaped like a fruit 


It shone bright in the spirit’s gaze 


(She let the brightness fill her up) 


Only to lose the shimmer,


 To the chime of the clocks 


The game went on for chimes and chimes 


And


The spirit reached for the first gem once more


It shone bright in the spirit’s gaze 


The clocks of the world chimed again 


 


 


bucket

									

			
			








			
	
			


				
				
Misogyny is a shape-shifting monster

			


			
	
	

		
My friend the misogynist


Holds meetings in his head


Bashing the women in red


For being feminists


 Heeee should go soak up the sun


Stop telling everyone to be


Assholes…. 


I wrote these lines following a chaotic meeting inside my own head. The words are passive aggressive and offensive, I admit. I am no better than ‘my friend the misogynist’ who is probably just as confused as I am about the gender roles we all grew up with.


I’ve seen many instances of unconscious misogyny from both men and women and it always riles me up but I keep quite because these are otherwise excellent people and I’d rather not hurt their feelings (or I am coward). We all stumble into misogyny mechanically because it seems to be the status quo.


Misogyny rambles about disguised as a popular movie, a much-loved song, a custom we must adhere to, a friendly warning to women, a compliment, an internet meme and as a simple way of being. It is a shape-shifting monster. And I’ve met it many times in its various forms.


Monster movie magic 


A beautiful girl with a moon like face and long tresses captures the fancy of a young man. Perhaps he spots her graceful neck in chemistry class or she pours water on him from her parents’ balcony (her hair flies up in the air, sleek and shinning and at the sight of it his annoyance turns into mushy love). Suddenly she is the love of his life, his obsession and his reason for living. The young woman rejects his adorable but slightly creepy advances. The young man is heartbroken but his love grows to engulf him. He must have this damsel for himself of sink into nothingness. A bout of serious wooing/harassing begin. He stalks her, sings to her from tops of mountains, he carves her name and his own (two hearts pierced with an arrow) in public spaces, he stalks her friends, and he is present everywhere she goes. But he is a HERO and the moon faced damsel falls for his devotion/harassment. According to some tales, the damsel runs into his arms sobbing (her hair still flying) while he is in his deathbed still groaning his unquenchable love for her.


After a few nauseating song and dance acts the romantic hero saves the helpless damsel from evil men and influences. She, the frail and pretty excuse for a woman looks on adoringly as the poor hero battles on his own to save her. They live happily ever after in la la land.


Monster in the shape of a first crush and thwarted love (Sigh)


A scrawny girl with a short mop of untidy hair is sitting comfortably in her jambu tree, munching a juicy red jambu, lost in her dream world. She had just celebrated her 14th birthday and a throng of handsome knights have begun to invade her innocent dream world. Suddenly, she spots her neighbour and former playmate on his bicycle passing her house on an errand for his mother. He had done this many times before but this time she feels an unfamiliar stirring in her heart. He resembles the knights of her dreams and he did read a book she liked. Unaware of her change of heart the former playmate whistles his way home. The girl can’t keep a secret. She blabs to her cousin who blabs to a friend who blabs to the former playmate.


Former playmate’s response: Revulsion and confusion. He refuses to come to her house when his mother asks him to borrow some lemongrass.


His older brother’s response: “Girls are not supposed to show interest in boys first. They have to be modest. Stupid girl.”


Her cousin’s response: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”


The girl retreats into her shell shamefaced.


The former playmate apparently has a change of heart a few weeks later. He and a few friends walk behind her as she hurries home. Her shoulders slouch from shame and she is guilt ridden and confused. The playmate and his friends discuss girls amongst themselves but loud enough for her to hear.


“Girls shouldn’t wear shorts. (The girl’s usual choice of attire)


“Girls should grow their hair. No one would ask out a girl with short hair.”


“Girls shouldn’t climb trees.”


“When girls act like proper girls are supposed to boys will start getting interested in them.”


She pretends to be lost in her own dream world and continues to walk away feeling miserable.


Monster in the office projector


A girl runs down the stairs in panic mode. “M M the projector is not working. I have an urgent presentation. You have to come fix it!


M, a decent guy buried deep in his own work looks up at her bewildered. “But I don’t know how to fix it. I am not a technician”


The girl: “But you must know! You are a guy! You are the only guy in this area. The rest of us are women! You must help.


The aftermath Monster in the Wariyapola incident 


A group of young executives discuss the incident.


Young man: “He shouldn’t have harassed her. I can understand why she was so angry. But violence is not the answer.


A young woman: “True, she shouldn’t have slapped him so hard for so long.


Another young woman: “You know what. A man should know how to control women. He should have taken charge and hit her silly. Then she would have learnt her lesson.”


WTF


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The Originality Fable of how a certain paradise still smelt of lemon after it ceased to exist

			


												
								

					
They lived in paradise, where swirls of creamy clouds tinged with rose sought each other out in a backdrop of pale bluegreen and where witches made fragrant concoctions of spices to fill the days. Their skies were blue, foliage abundant, food delicious and the weather was just right.  Their beloved or otherwise land was full ofspice trees, shrubs, vines and wild clumps of herbs. Every witch born in to this paradise dreamt of crafting the most original spice blend.


The smell of dried red chili induced energy and sneezing. Cumin soothed the body and ushered in sleep. Nutmeg relived pain and blew the cobwebs away. Cloves promised eternal youth and freshness. Beebells, dainty red flowers with a piquant touch increased sexual prowess and left you slightly dazed. Cinnamon was a rare find and a much sought after bark in many recipes for a number of charms.


In their folklore each recipe held a part of the key to truth, peace, joy and universal acceptance. Exceptional recipes gave birth to poetry, adulation and mass worship.


There was just one problem with paradise, they were all jaded in general. The witches had tried out all the possible combinations and there was nothing left to do but pressure the up and coming witches for original recipes. That was the only solution to the mass ennui that had settled over the population. So, they pressured their young. The generation of pampered witches were in for a shock. They had to raise the bar of spice blends to an unprecedented level, in order to pay for all the positive reinforcement theyhad received from babyhood.


One young boy with a red eye and a mole on his upper lip, tried his best. As a young boy, he had been one of the best students, a little eccentric but not too much, a little out-of-the-box-thinker but not too much, a little blue but not too much, and most importantly he possessed a lot of heart and stomach for spice blends. His teachers predicted a bright future for him.


The red eyed, mole sporting boy expected instant success and much praise for his first spice blend. He braced himself to receive both with the correct blend of humility, dignity and creative genius.


But, Alas! The paradise was too jaded for his ‘genius’.


“The same old mix in a different bottle”, reported the nation’s widely and wildly circulated news.


“Though I applaud the work he has put into the recipe, I can hardly conceal my disappointment at its banality,” aired one famed critics, rubbing his ancient beard that touched his pot belly.


A woman in green with short cropped hair, tasted a sip of his concoction and shook her head in dismay. “I expected better from such a bright young mind’, she said.


Grumbles hung in the thick air of paradise like a bad odour.


The red eyed, mole sporting boy hung his head in shame. He soaked his wounded heart in a haze of age old spice blends that promised to send one to blissful oblivion. He lost his heart and stomach in a land of vivid colours and dreams where spirits roamed telling him he was the best.


One fine day, while he rambled on a lone path filled with misty spirits, the red eyed, mole sporting youngster came up with the most original recipe of all.


‘A pinch of beebell, a thorn from a star fruit, a dash of cumin, a handful of heartbleed, all the root spices and flowers of spice trees and a jarful of lemon juice is all I need,’ said the young bright mind. I will concoct the one and only, pot full of dreams, smashed into one ball and soaked in sour lemon. I will invite all of them to taste my pot full of dreams, smashed into a ball and soaked in sour lemon. They will love the smell and I will let them approach my chef d’oevure and let it explode, annihilating all of them, along with paradise. And I will smell the lemons in the air afterwards.’