Drenched.

 

I can’t seem to find a path to you, I run every single step wondering and hoping and breathing with every bit of hope left in the air. I can’t speak, my soul is gated, my heart is painted, and my eyes cannot see. And then my legs shake of exhaustion and worry and grief, my voice quivers ever so faintly, and my heart sinks beneath my feet. And just as my hands were about to dig themselves into the soil, a jolt of lightning strikes at the very center of my soul. You lit my heart with an everlasting burn, and you drenched my soul with your pouring rain.

I found you.

-J

Advertisements

Inspired by Mulk Raj Anand.

Midnight.

The festivities continued. I find myself lurking in the nooks and crannies of the recently constructed temporary bazaars, covered in vibrant layers of cloth, translucent enough for the painful bright light to pass through and tint the floors with various hues.

The smell of sweet paan curls into my nostrils, I feel the warmth of the steam let off by a huge utensil, into which a thick layer of condensed milk and chai leaves are stirred vigorously by a bony old man, with skin like tissues.

There’s a vendor, exhausted from attempting to hypnotize his foreign customers with wooden toys he bought off a young boy on the street. ‘Specially carved by the greatest of our sculptors in Rajasthan’ he says.

Truth is, they were made in a Chinese factory.

I walk towards the food counter, and all I see is a menu full of bland sandwiches and ‘Lays’.

I walk further away from the stall and find myself going towards the Lucky Draw counter.

‘Ah medam! You’ve won a beautiful doll!’

It’s a blonde, blue eyed, pink dressed barbie with ‘Amy’ written on it.

Disgusted, I give the gift to the young girl standing eagerly in the corner, in her only brightly coloured purple dress, the fire in her eyes when she grabs the doll does not comfort me.

A women shrieks ‘it’s the perfect gift for her, So modern!’

It’s some wonky strappy dress made of the worst material I’ve ever seen.

I walk further away from this fare, or bazaar, or whatever you’d like to call it.

I walk up to the beaming, gloating fat man standing at the entrance of the bazaar with gold rings on his fingers and a stupid foreign flag pin on his silk buttoned shirt.

‘They’ve done it again haven’t they. Stripped off all our cultural pride.

we’re fools.’

-J

 

Butterfly wing potion.

So you see at times, there’s a huge row of butterflies swarming around you, infiltrating your vision with bright hues of vivid splashes of colours that contrast your shade of daily monotone.

And I wish I could drown in the wings of those butterflies

So bright so full of life, soaring to the skies

Okay Im out.

-J