Tuesday, April 26, 2011


They were pet people; abounding with love and happiness they sheltered several abandoned animals. Even with their limited resources, they opened their home, and they opened their hearts to ducklings and pythons, and deer and foxes, and goats and sheep and wolves. Anyone would have thought that the multitude of minxes would quarrel with scratches and bites. But each knew it's place; when no one crossed the line, there was no transgression and hence, no quarrels to be had. Days were filled with brightness and laughter; the animals had names as queer and lovely as Felicity, Benevolence, Curiosity, Monstrosity, Hilarity, Assiduous, Unscrupulous, Intellectual and Iniquity. The pet people were clever and their house was always joyful, until one day a very dreadful thing did occur.

On a day of spring, the humans decided to walk out on the leaves and leave the pets to play. No one usually entered their abode uninvited, but when the people were away, one feline thought she might let herself in. Quick and bright, with her lovely whiskers; she trespassed upon their hallowed land.

When the humans got home they were shocked to find :
Curiosity killed the cat.

Monday, April 25, 2011


The sunlight has been flirting with the timid leaves for too long; when it finally enters the room, it falls around spotty, mottled and chewed up.

"I might as well have left the window shut"
"No. A little dappled sunlight is better the harsh white light"
"True. So should we work in the darkness then?"

The two bring out a stack of cards and begin to cover the floor, everything acquires a reddish tint. A room that was dull and empty is suddenly growing in light and life and fullness. The glue makes an appearance and the cards begin their migration to the wall. Two hours later, one wall of the sunlit room is covered in cards of the hearts suite, the King and Queen have found their home.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


She had loved him then, when the world had just begun; when there were no 'Tummy Tuck' advertisements in the newspapers and no soda pop ads on TV. Actually, they didn't have a TV then, nobody did, the world was just beginning. She had loved him when he was thin and undernourished, she had loved him before he developed the lovely body he now has, she had loved him before the screaming fans and the tabloid headlines. She had loved him before hair dye and teeth bleaches. And she had most certainly loved him before sliced bread. But she did not love him now. No, she does not love him now, now that all the stars are rising in the sky, twilight is dancing gaily and eternity stretches on like a long and cumbersome wet blanket.

Author's note : Written for a dear friend who's been in love with the girl who is now his wife for over 10 years.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


The young brain surgeon wanted to test his skill, he eagerly wanted to cut his teeth. The techniques he had learnt were new and shiny and aching beneath the skin of his nimble fingers. He wanted to become a surgeon, to make a cut, to draw blood. But for that, he would need someone severely brain damaged.
On the 4th of May, he performed his first experiment, umm... I mean, surgery.

Strained Conversations

"How have you been?"
"Super busy, the usual"
"Well, work is the drug", he sighs truthfully, "Second only to love."
"Ok. I have work, and you have love. So, we're even."
Wicked laughter, followed by, "No. I have both, I'm blessed"
"Truly, you are" I confess.


"Speak a word of comfort, my darling, speak a word of love", she pleads. The air is charged with so much emotion that even the trecherous wind is still. The little room is devoid of illumination but for one golden ray of sunlight streaming thickly through a broken shutter. Darkness calms her, sets her at ease and puts her doubts to rest. Driven by one sharp shred of hope, she inches nearer and takes his large cold hand in her much tinier, warmer ones, "I know we've been strange for all these days, but let's put that behind us now. Please, let's move on!", she begs. The master of deflection; he is in a space of cool detachment. His eyes are closed in what appears to be placid thought; her pleading and sighing does not break his inner peace. Ironically, his dispassionate inaction drives her to violent tears. She begins to wail and moan by his side, "Speak a word of comfort, my darling. Please! Speak a word of love."
The commotion summons a tall man into the room, he is shrouded in black. Gently, he lays his warm hands on her swooning shoulders. "I'm very sorry my child, but it's time to go. Please leave him in peace", he says and slowly shuts the coffin lid.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Warm Bodies

Their souls were held together by bits of emotion, fine art and chewing gum; this watery thin quality made them very artistic but highly susceptible to good wine and well knit philosophy. Moonlight was amply thrilling to romantics like these and they scarcely missed the opportunity to dine outside, on the lawn, beneath the honey-filled moon. Loonies on a whim, they played with the passing clouds, drawing their Freudian implications to the earth. One night, as a chilly wind picked up, he drew her near and wrapped his arms around her. Having pulled her in, he whispered into her tiny ear, "What a fine set of ribs you've got there honey..."

Child's Play

It was early in the morning and the sun was still benign. The gentle sunlight rustled though her open hair and spilt across her beautiful face, colouring it with softness and warmth; it filled her smile with a happy rosy pink, it made her complexion deliciously dewy. In comparison, the shadows made him seem pale and bluish. She hadn't been on a cycle in a while and her balance wasn't what it used to be. Barely starting, she slipped and flew across the grass. He ran with the speed of a young Adonis and scooped her into his arms. The grass made a fine mat; soft and cool beneath the sun's gathering blaze; the day was just beginning, but already, it belonged to them.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Your soul was made of rubber
Your soul was made of sleaze
Your soul was made to bite the dust
And help me shoot the breeze

Sunday, April 10, 2011

The Trip

Leaving, the dead leaves fall to the brown earth and the wind whips up a dust storm. The environment is grieving, wasteful and wanton. She's been here a while and it's time to leave again. This time she'll go to that place they've been talking about, that wonderful place that people have been recommending.

"Go", they beg, they plead, "You'll love it there; the people are exactly like you."

She listens, she leaves.

A week has passed, or maybe two and she's back now. The unpacking has begun, characters disembark her imagination and the everyday people flood in.

"Did you not like it?", they ask, "Was it a bad trip?"

"Well", she replies, "It was just as you said : Everybody there was exactly like me."

Thursday, April 7, 2011

The river was about 50 metres deep, making the danger of drowning palpable and the sense of mortality real. Swept from the grey sky, the wind blew harsh and the tiny sail boat swayed precariously. A little boy sat crossed-legged at the helm, his eyes were clossed. It had begun to pour and his head was filling quick with images of paper boats that continously floated into a gutter. But suddenly his resolve is as unshakeable as iron. Holding the moment, he exhales; he cleares his mind and a magnificent yellow sun begins to vanquish the steel grey rain.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


If I lived near the sea,
Perhaps I'd walk every morning,
Perhaps I'd watch the waves all day.

And you would be the water,
Forever rushing towards me,
Forever rushing away.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Breakfast Colours

Breakfast is not the same without her, most of all I miss her coffee cup. It was a deep brown, an allusion to her connection with the earth and the arts and all of humanity, in some strange way. It was grounded, and yet it was brittle; it was thin and delicate and well formed. It was her, there was so much of her in that cup. The way the coffee filled it, plentiful and deep with a bitter, sugar-less black; a tone that resonated against the milk white of her translucent face, the vermilion of her mature lips, the royal blue of those peeping veins, the fire tone of her wicked hair. She was a painting, the type that they put behind a protective glass with a sign that reads, 'Do Not Touch'. They should have warned me, too. In a foolish dream I thought the glass was to save the painting from dirty fingers like mine; I didn't realize it was to save naive fingers like mine from getting cut.


She wore a silk black gown; it fell well, it felt good and it danced about her shapely figure with grace. In that gown she was a song, until the man came around that is.