Ode To A Cactus

She was a social butterfly,

Her world a fragrant, vibrant garden.

Her wings, fluttering with unbridled grace,

As she sought the sweetness made.

And I, a lone cactus,

Stood sentinel in a silent desert.

Parched and rooted in the sun-baked sand,

Yearning for a bloom that might never come.

Wedding Woes

Everyone who heard about her engagement came to her and asked, 'We didn't know you both were in love!'. She was tired of telling everyone that it wasn't. Nobody believed it anyways. After all, they have been in the same college for years now. So now, she just smiled at them in reply.

"Love is the last thing that we have for each other', she mused.

Death

A few weeks back, on a lazy Saturday evening in Hyderabad, the out of sync beatings of drums brought me to my balcony on the fourth floor. On the road below me was a procession. A procession of about a dozen men, dancing to the discordant and incongruous thrashing on dead skin stretched around the hollow of wood, as they led a white clad body to its pyre. Cheap flowers adorned the body that lay motionless on the makeshift bamboo stretcher, the weight of death borne by four men in their damp loins. Petals of flowers were thrown into the air as the dancers screamed and celebrated death, the petals making a slow, gliding descend to be strewn on the hot tarmac. What were they celebrating? Death? Or the life after death?

It brought back thoughts of Rudaalis in the havelis of Rajasthan. Clad in black skirts and cholis, face covered by black duppattas, they would wail and beat their bossoms out as they mourned for a loss that wasn't theirs. As they stripped the newly widowed woman of her jewels, and reduced the vermilion on her forehead to a distant smear, did they feel grief? Did they feel for the woman who was going to be shunned from public life for the rest of her life? What do they feel? Sadness? Sympathy? Empathy? Joy?

Simultaneously, it brought thoughts of death. How do I feel about death? Scared? If it is fear that we feel about death, what do we fear more - one's own death or the death of a loved one?

I watched as the drums faded away into the evening sun as a pyre somewhere far was readying itself to embrace death and burn itself to a handful of ashes.

Goodbye

The key clicked inside the lock with a hesitation. Even the door didn't want to budge. It was drizzling outside, but the air inside was hot and suffocating. In spite of that, he realized that her scent lingered thick in the house. He moved inside in no hurried pace. He threw the wallet and the key to the car onto the bedside table. The bed was unmade and the sheet was still crumbled. And wet from her towel. He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. And then he noticed the bottle of wine, half empty. He kept the bottle of water back and took the wine bottle instead. He moved to the kitchen to fetch a glass. The dishes weren't done. Their lunch, cooked but half eaten, was still on the stove. He took a glass and poured himself some wine. The red liquid splashed and swayed against the crystal of the glass. He moved to the living room. It should be called a dead room, he thought. He noticed the packet of cigarette on the table. He had quit smoking. There was just one left in it. He took it out and brought it to his nose. He smelled the length of the cigarette and stuck it between his lips. He went out onto the balcony and took a deep breath. Petrichor. Or a long reminder of that. There was a chill in the night and the sky was starless. He took out the lighter and lit the end of the lady in the white. He took in a deep drag as the end of the cigarette glowed in the darkness. Treat your cigarette as you'd treat your lover, he had said to her earlier that day. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the unknowns of the night. He took out the cigarette from his lips with one hand and brought the tip of the glass with the other. He let the wine splash inside his mouth before letting it drown in his feelings. It's just the rain and me tonight, he thought.

Wedding Invitation

Mr. I-Told-You-So and Mrs. Emotional-Dramabazi

cordially (read because of society and because you invited us for your daughter's marriage) request the pleasure (yeah right!) of your company on the occasion of wedding of their son,

Mr Bechara Bakra, B.Tech (Obviously)

with

Ms. Emotionally Blackmailed, B. Tech (Again, obviously)

D/o Mrs. & Mr. Soon-To-Be-Kangaal

Address Is Vague Because We Don't Want You To Enquire

on Friday, the 13th of May 2016

at 

That Big Marriage Hall in the City with Air Conditioned Halls and Little Parking

and for lunch thereafter.

Please consider this as our personal invitation and graze the occasion with your esteemed presence. Please make this occasion memorable with your hushed whispers about the bride, her dress, her make-up, the amount of the jewellery, the food, what you heard about our family in the grapevine, and other gossips you heard in the rumour mill, because the food and the drinks are free, the hall is air-conditioned, and we are paying for everything.

Also consider this as our personal invitation to speculate on and/or discuss the future life of our son and our bahu from day 1 including when they should have a baby, whether our son is virile, or a gay, or whether the bahu should see your gynaecologist or any other matter you find worthy of your discussions during the next marriage of someone you know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your presence is the best present!

(But yes, we are keeping a tab of the presents because we had our son's marriage in mind when we gave you all those presents on different occasions)

NB: RSVP

(Because we have to inform the bride's parents whether they will have to mortgage the house too)

That One Time In Paris

"Why did we meet? I mean, the virtual meet. Why did you comment on my blog? What were you looking for?" 

She asked him, as she sipped her citrus crush from the comforts of her wicker chair. The joint was an extended balcony overlooking the balcony, with old and ruined red brick half walls, overgrown with vines. It was called Paris. Her eyes returned from the sea and stared into his eyes for a moment, searching for an answer that didn't matter.

"Nothing in particular." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Why did we meet? Maybe because of the Butterfly Effect. Maybe because, somewhere, a butterfly flapped its wings!"

And he smiled.

Dinner

Movements in the hall woke her up from her troubled sleep. She slowly pulled herself out of the bed and took a deep sigh. She slogged her way into the hall, leaning onto the walls for support. It was dark and the lights were all out in the house. She could make out his silhouette at the head of the dining table.

"What's for dinner?", she mumbled in a barely audible voice.

"Justice", he replied in a straight voice.

She looked at him, startled.

"I served justice for dinner", he clarified.

She slowly walked towards to him. He nodded towards the plate in front of him. On it was a head, severed and bleeding.

Even in the dark, she could make out the face to which it once belonged. It used to belong to one of her tormentors. She took a fork from the stand on the table and poked it deep into one of its eye socket. It slid deep inside, as thick fluid oozed out of the corners of the hole.

She left the fork poking out of the socket and grabbed his face in her arms. She kissed it lightly with bruised lips and whispered slowly into his ears, "I'm still hungry!"