Monday, March 19, 2007

CUT AND RUN

The right knee sill carries a streak made of frozen plasma, resembling a new moon – the fleshy emboss of an onion coloured comma, bearing the nomenclature of a tender and ugly scar. The roads were graveled, hiding miniature rivets filled with soil so that they were lines, boxes, semi-circles and skeletons of colonial games with English names. New rules were invented by the kings and queens of young kids, standing at the cusp of teenage-hood and shamelessly manipulating their timid followers. The same subjects forced them to be humble masters or captains while she acted indifferent to her clout and charm.

tip-top-tip-top-tip-top-half tip-top… ho ho ha ha-I pick you
wink
kacchi-mitti
NO …go home

And they were chosen because they were the best and not just better. They were the spotlight and the silent awe. They were the envy and the pride. They were the loathing and the subjugation. She loved being them; and she loved her soiled shorts; the tanned arms and branded sneakers; the green mini-skirt flapping carelessly against her exposed inner-thighs -- effortlessly extracting desirable gasps from expected corners of the pavement or the top of a stair-case. The games were played till anxious guardians decided to drag her insignificant team-members back to the books and Reynolds’ pens, hoping to prepare regular minds for a glass-top table in conference rooms of perhaps Reynolds and co.

The shining stars were left smarting in sweaty shirts clinging to the media-prompted notion of perfect bodies with no choice but to return home, switch on the air conditioning and dream of a life writing books without Reynolds pens.

She believed in equality and fairness since she headed the unchallenged hierarchy and could afford to philosophise -- strengthening her belief that rebel was her favourite word and the karmic circle was a curse she could live without. There was nothing to do except to steal whiskey and give meaning to dark songs that left bitter tastes on a talentless tongue while she endlessly waited for her body to say goodbye to growing pains and welcome unwanted hair.

Years later, the scar on the right knee sometimes smells of her reign over some familiar streets, multi-storey buildings and forgotten names, successfully bossing around another set of human mass in the hundreds of cubicles.

She loves writing the book of her creations which is strangely believed to be creative fodder for regular minds with the window overlooking a strange road.
This time it is cobbled without any mind games interrupting the rhythmic clatter being played. She stares sleepily at the face her heart hopes to love for eternity and beyond, even if nothing of that sort exists and time is mere regeneration of cells till some of the important ones refuse to keep up.

“mmmm…. hmm…. gooooo…. lemme sleeeep”
“love you”
“…mmm… miss you”
“‎yeaaa… orange… no…grape fruit”
oye!!!
“not the curtainsss”
“hate youuuuuu”

She waits till noon to wake up and drags herself to the bathing tub. There is no place for unwanted hair and lots of chemicals are waiting to realise the current media-prompted notion of her perfect body. If she panders to the sun’s need to shine exquisitely on her mocha coloured skin and unkempt hair; if she satisfies the urge of raindrops to soak a purple skirt and black boots sculpted over smooth calves –- the sun will always make her smile and the rain will gladly drench her blues away.

She tip-toes to the kitchen, as she does care about the wet patches she is leaving behind. She does not remember when she decided to worry about the unnatural habitat of mould and fungi she has been fostering secretly, but knows it won’t be too inconvenient to get the carpet changed. In all honesty, she imagined it to be a good excuse for another weekend escape to quench her craving for sex on the beach. Ok grape-fruit does not compliment the hot sarmale he had cooked for her. It was time for orange juice – the fresh kind.

And while the mustard mini-skirt flaps around, nobody on the pavement notices and she is free to skim through some foreign books she can’t read yet. He runs around blocks after blocks, looking for her messy hair, her mocha coloured skin, her toothy smile and the slightly plump calves. He does not care about an incomplete rehearsal or his sulking peers. He only cares about the sunlight lighting up her perfect face as he puts his arms around her and squeezes her.

“goooooo now… you are so silly”

She pulls away from him, knowing well that his hungry lips should not be allowed the taste of her talented tongue for long. He laughs and winks at her, hating her charm but killing her with his own.

He disappears around the corner, leaving love behind for all to envy.

She turns around and starts running like the twelve year old girl she could be, leaving the oranges unattended.

Her feet –- amateurs -- when it comes to the art of high-heeled locomotion and her heart –- hopelessly in love with the cobbled streets, but unaccustomed to its highs and lows, betray her dream.

She tripped.
She cut her knee.
She woke up with the sun blinding her tearful eyes.