Protected: The Haircut – Ist Draft

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The city looms large and monstrous before me. With hundreds and thousands of windows for eyes, buildings stretch upwards towards the clouds in the sky, grasping unsuccessfully for a place among the stars. Frustrated, they vent their anger on people that walk the streets and those that reside within them, denying them sunlight and wind, and occasionally water in their taps. The 12-storied one before me, with anger in its bricks, eyed me suspiciously. I’d been thinking of killing past lovers, of plunging knives into their backs and twisting them around, boring into bone. Afraid that the building might have read my murderous thoughts, letter by letter, I shifted uncomfortably on the ledge, from side to side, from foot to foot, turning my eye upwards to search for eagles and other high achievers. It didn’t work.

Doubt

Silence and darkness,
Eagerness and pain
Eyes held shut,
My search ends in vain.

Suddenly a din
Forces me to hear
The call of freedom,
The end of fear

Shall I tread this path?
I hesitate,
Can I break free, overcome?
Who knows to what end things will precipitate?

Inspiration

He sits inside
His own cocoon,
Surrounded by the gloom.
Pacific air
Makes him stare,
Right through the moon

Beyond, behold, lies an unseen light
Visible only to his eye.
Caressing his vision,
It envelops his canvas,
Painting his picture for him.

The Future

Standing by the window, I see
the urgency in your eyes
as you pick up little
pieces of plastic
and try to put them together
unsuccessfully

Plastic crayons
on the red carpet
ache for the touch of paper
and your interest
eyeing you
beseechingly

Up in the sky,
amoral saleable vultures ply
seeking agony, rapture, fame and lies
waiting, baiting
unsuspecting victims
hungrily

Out in the street
damp yellow warnings from the sky
threaten a global downpour
plagued not
little puppets walk, talk, bicker; blinded
democratically

Then I see jubilation
as building blocks combine
To form dimples on your cheeks
I wonder, not aloud
“What’s in store for you?”

Cafe Sunrise (v2.0)

There he was – Joe Ceer, sitting alone on a chair in Café Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

After every two and a half minutes (exact), Joe would turn exactly ninety degrees, anti-clockwise, and gaze through that empty glass at those before him. Ever so often, while he was staring through that glass in his hand, Joe’s face would exhibit a peculiar smile, if it could be called a smile- that seemed to hint at a state of inebriation or lunacy (whichever comes first). Then, as he would turn, all expression would be drained from his face, until ninety degrees were traversed, anti-clockwise. He would then proceed to smile that peculiar smile, unless it was Alfredo Disjun that sat in his line of distorted vision; in which case, he looked nauseated.

Cafe Sunrise (v1.0)

There he was – Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a chair in Cafe Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

Alfredo Aberration, with a glass of warm scotch in hand – no ice cubes, no water – looked up from his Playgirl magazine to stare at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool, staring into the empty glass. Alfredo Aberration looked around him. Near the Jukebox danced the petite and curvacious Lyzzie Short, braided hair in hand, and alone. But Afredo couldn’t but look back at Joe Soothsayer, sitting alone on a barstool in Cafe Sunrise, staring into an empty glass.

Ram

At times like these, little Ram loved the big city. Big buildings, big buses, big cars, big billboards, and big, rich people. He was going to be big and rich one day. Much like Amithabh Bachchan, he was going to fight his way up the ladder through this big bad world of lies and deceit. He was going to wield guns, much the way Amitabh Bachchan did, and usurp all their wealth from corporators. It was a bad world, and Ram was going to have to fight fire with fire. Even as he stepped out of the theatre, he looked back at the larger than life face of his larger than life god looking at him encouragingly from the hoarding above the theatre entrance. You’ll have to work hard it seemed to tell him. You’ll have to be sincere about working hard, much like I am.

Retribution

The bar was crowded that evening. It was cold outside and the place was just warming up to the expectations of the evening: Already, the air was a potpourri of perfumes and alcohols. And sweat, as bodies on the dance floor gyrated and occasionally collided, somewhat in tune with the variations in the sound that filled every inch of the space. The bar was crowded with people, words, ideas, hopes and opportunities, and desires sifted through masses.

The Street

There were whispers on the street that evening: whispers that floated from lips on faces that betrayed a great deal of need. Whispers of need; whispers that, as the evening progressed, would become cries of anguish and hunger and later pain. Some would be silenced by relief, if they could afford it. Others would remain till sleep or death silenced them. There were whispers on the street that evening, but no one was there to hear them.

Insane

The soft, long fingers of a gentle breeze caress my hair; its moist lips plant teasing kisses across my face. And I feel very high.

Standing atop a thirteen story high building, I size up an arrowhead of pigeons fast approaching me, contemplating a Keanu-Reeves-look-ma-I-can-fly jump straight into them. But I wouldn’t make a difference, would I, if I did that? If I bent my knees and pushed myself off the ledge, straight at them, it wouldn’t affect anyone, would it?

Quirks

Summer had ended. Up, above the monotonously brown stretch of eight storied buildings, clouds now carpeted the sky. As far as we could see, from the buildings to the rocky hills on either side, not a single ray of light came through clouds unfiltered. The city was fast becoming dull.

Anuj grinned as he looked out the window. Spatula in hand, he stirred the poha gleefully. “It’s going to rain,” he said. Standing by the doorway, I told him to hurry the hell up. I was hungry.