Friday, April 30, 2010


Before this age is lost
on old couplets damp with love
djinns born of bored liaisons
singing soulful romeo songs
as granted was a dying wish
with end so near to me

They decided to meet on a hot afternoon, like so many others did before them, running into each other’s arms, their chests exploding with anxiety and happiness. The men and women judged them, just like they judged others who dared to defy invisible rules and gods. It was not important which of the two arrived, they both simply waited for the moment when they will cry and smile and blurt out I Love yous reluctantly, hoping that the words get stuck in their throats.

Sometime, long ago, you could sit with your legs stretched, invisible drops of rain tickling your feet. The road across dry, not a whiff of cloud above the tarmac, not a patch of grey turning into black. But for the orange terrace, drenched in a flash of rain.

Sometime, not so long ago, a wish found its way into tired palms, that squeezed cheeks lined with salt tears running down as disobedient tributaries of a long dried river, trying hard to erase memories. Memories of exchanged glances, words of meaning and meaningless feelings. The kind that centuries of artistes and poets, scribbled on papers that turned into gold, or other notions of preciousness.

On a terrace of faded orange that burnt to white in the strong sun shining through the remainder of centuries calculated as time born of gases burning into exciting sparks of life, in the month of September, while Sinatra crooned in some desolate corner trapped inside four walls of concrete. Some clothes fluttered in a silent wind, holding on to a plastic line clipped by plastic wings that wouldn’t let them fly. They were purple, red, white that is washed, and grey which was not faded. A smile came through regular cracks in the floating clouds, a smile she never saw, but pretended to replicate in the one hundred and seventy two conversations she had with herself.

“Of all the ways I imagined I’d meet you, this was not one of them.”

But memories of the future deserve their due as well, so maybe it would be more pleasing if they met on a strange night, in a crowded room full of friends and foes. She will dance her old moves while he will watch her indifferently, conscious of the bodies separating her from the others. Glimpses of his infrequent glances might frustrate her but it will be a perfectly rehearsed act. When she will walk towards him, smiling cruelly, as if mocking his lusty intentions, he will lock her gaze and strip her naked. No more pretensions. She will hold his arm and dig her nails into his flesh. He will hug her and tickle her waist. They will start laughing like kids who no longer remembered the rules of hide and seek.

They invented black canvases of papyrus, celluloid or silicon, unknowingly feeding delusions of grandeur, expression and human evolution. Were they to know the evil that was to be unleashed, the ordinary turning them, the extraordinary into mere languages of the masses, they would have stayed by wooden fires, inhaling the moist smokes of smouldering ash and sang riddles meant for only the very few, the few that could not sing those songs ever again.

And of the land that emerged from chaos to witness history. A history of ultimate demise, through fractions of time. Once they tried to teach her of division, the division of this very time, which only existed in the cyclical notions of birth and death. That history played itself through a play on a stage that only someone eons away could watch but never be close enough to narrate or reply. The land remains, waiting for that far away creature to find its way through galaxies and a non –existent span of black nothingness. Sometimes, when the four year old child tries to remember the white sheets of hair she combed as a childhood game, she never played but was told of, looks up at the dark night sky, a burden of thousands of tonnes falls upon her chest, as she tries to conceive of the shape of the blackness above her. The stars might twinkle, the wind decides to blow for a few hundred kilometres, but her heart shudders at the blackness abound, of where it exists in her mind which cannot conceive of nothing she can’t touch, she can’t smell, she can’t feel.

And finally when they met, the only company they had was an old mattress with wine stains lying in a cold bare room filled with her careless laughter. Their naked bodies not touching but her feet occasionally rubbing against his to keep them warm. His head was resting on her elbow and his eyes were watching her talk animatedly about everything and nothing. She talked about classic rock, chasing bees out of a hive, failing to buy boots and a long story about a man getting lost in Paris even though she had never been to Paris. He knew her eccentric tales, predictable moves and shiny eyes but could not remember her name. She knew his songs, his melody and the colour of his socks but was a stranger to her childish heart; the only one who fed on dry sarcasm and professed undying love for her. He hated her for chain smoking, smelling of mint and singing Phil Collin songs. She loved the moles on his chest, his condescending nods and bored eyes. He wished she would grow up lying next to him; she wished he would love her again. When she finally fell asleep, the pit of his neck was filled with her warm breath and his thoughts with her dreams.

Once, after cycling along with the rotating land, she allows another child, only in mind not in soul to touch her inside that darkness. Cold fingers turn moist and tickle the neurons that lay convoluted in a cavity and turn the mass of her scaled flesh, and thick red corpuscles into waves of common ecstasy. Her hair turns white and she longs for a comb to run through the million tangles, that are crawling all over shoulder, falling across a shrivelled bosom and a corroded spine upon the terrace that is now mere grey dust covering a skeleton of iron and rust. She looks up and catches the blue cracks in clouds made of rabbits, deer, jesters and rodents. The dying embers of her star filter through and fall upon her eyelids now waiting to shut themselves for what could be forever, but the dying wish will be granted, only when the traces of his body erase themselves, leaving only long forgotten scars that were cherished as love. Sometimes, eternal.

She now remembers the rest of the script.
She watches his naked back and a cloud of smoke as he leaves.
She kisses his forehead and the red bruises turning purple.