Glass dust flew,

around as the machine whirred,

Sweat dropping, scented on the opaque plate

Muscles rippling, ran down the face

of glass cutting a straight divide

Pressure rose, a sudden crack

Lines like borders random split,

Their edges struggling to meet,

Cut; smeared blood, painted tainted glass.


Learn to be Still



Inspired by – “Learn to be Still”

Artist: The Eagles

At SunOn my world flooded with light as the shutters were drawn up. I stretched, invisibly rising to a new day. Around me my brothers and sisters rose with me. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Bennett, Bennett 443 if you will. The number behind my name is my age and identification mark. It’s the only way to tell us apart and identify our parts. This is very important in our world. You don’t want your leg on someone else’s body now do you? The worst is when they interchange the heads. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen often now thanks to our id numbers.

We live and work on the second floor of Bangalore Central. There are four of us in all. Bennett 647 is the oldest of us, his body creased with the dirt of ages, slightly more bent than the rest of us but you probably won’t be able to tell. He stands farthest to the left.  Bennett 522 is next; she has a bad hip and leans slightly on Bennett 422. Bennett 422 and I are the youngest of the lot.

Our routine never varies; we are monotonous to a fault. At SunOn we wake, are dressed and fussed over by our faithful servants and after that work begins. Work as it almost always is, is never easy. We pose all day for photographers without cameras who drink us in with their eyes. People are always around us, looking, glancing, and gawking at us.

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फ़र्क/The Difference

My First Bilingual piece, Scroll down for the English version –

“सालों ने क्या किया, इस बार तो हध ही हो गयी. कौन था, पता चला? पक्कड़ के ला छूतियों को. हाँ ममाजी की दुकान के पास.”

चार लड़के खड़े थे भीड़ के पक्कड़ में, निराश, खोए हुए, सहारे को ढूँढते हुए. मैं वो मेसाइया तो था नही.

“साहेब, ग़लती हो गयी, हमने नही मारा….”

“खाना नही था साहेब, क्या कर….”

मेरा एक चमात ज़ुबान खींच के रख दिया

“ऐसे नहीं समझेंगे, बाँधों सालों को, भोंसड़ी के, मा पे हाथ लगाता है.”

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Red and Blue

He crouched lower behind the bush, the dirty green of his jacket merging with the scraggly brush. His eyes narrow searched for them in the gaps between the leaves. Nothing stirred in the soft afternoon breeze. The ragged stones of the footpath stretched out in front of him, uneven, bumpy, chequered by the sunlight filtering through the leaves. On the far end beyond the lawn he saw them, four shapes splattered with red, silent, motionless, slouched against the tree; spread-eagled on the ground, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He turned away sinking back into the bush, the leaves rustling softly. How did it go so wrong, his plan? Well it was easy enough to figure, they had Arjun and Rahul. Individually they were fearsome enough, together it was suicidal to go up against them.

A few metres to his left was the garage, the one that was their fort, their stronghold. Its shutter had been drawn low, rusted now into a permanent open yawn. On this once white shutter, blotches of red sprayed across, memories, reminders of battles won and lost. Mostly lost though, it was a sobering sad sight.

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