Tuesday, May 31, 2011


A humanoid faces an armored human foe.

A baboon performs a stunt to its master’s play of bamboo.

A whale throws up a man from its belly.

A horse drags itself with its deceased master upon it to a standstill.

An ostrich is alarmed finding a biped buried to its neck.

A dove with a note tied to its leg takes flight.

A temple rat bites a morsel of laddu prasad.

A moth flies into a just being lit cigarette.

A white ant eats through the corner of a classified document.

A louse tastes blood from the nape of a neck.

A prokaryote splits itself up and it is two.

The youth who quietly observed, dumbfounded, now speaks: ‘It means…it means…what was I…those I’s of I…no, it’s not like that…is it…it’s not like that.’  He’s told: ‘Our method of tracing past lives in repetition proves that souls are only born once as human. Does that point to the answer it’s in human form we find our salvation, or don’t, and it’s a question worthy of rumination. It’s no wonder our clientele isn’t anything to write home about. People don’t like to hear something like this being told to in the face.’ He, a well-to-do worker bee, exits the building confounded.

The youth makes up his mind. He thinks he should let his captive go. Just for today and off I let her go, he wills. The train that swishes past him leaves a dry aftertaste in his mouth. The bridges that zigzag the skyline, were it made centuries ago would’ve claimed too many lives in the course of it being built, collapsing under the weight of corrupt engineering. It’s like the cannibalistic Gods of Construction sought sacrifice after all. These days, it still does take lives but not so many. The engine revs up and he overtakes the train in seconds, cuts to right and races atop an immaculate 32-lane.

He enters home and unlocks a door inside of which remains his catch. He loosens the collar’s grip around his neck, leaves his NetPen and key by the stand, unzips his fly. She comes to him like how a bee comes to hive. If you don’t, he pulls the stun gun in your privates. He tells himself just this once. She does to him mouth to phallus and wonders after a while why he didn’t insist past that. He hands over to her the Mexican rolls he brought. All the while he stands there, she doesn’t look at his face once. She stares above and below into space with a twitch in her neck every time she turns her head. You see her and you said you never saw so humiliated a human.

What came to pass is peculiar but by no means peculiar to ones aware of the architecture and working of the human mind. He willed consciously to let her go the next morning, which doesn’t amount to anything for a conscious will is quick to change. He not only willed consciously to let her go, he unconsciously willed it too. So it came to pass he forgot to collect the NetPen and key, not purposefully leave them behind, as he left the room. He shut the door and went to bed and that was it. She lies in her bed wide awake and connects to her sister via the NetPen. Her sister coming up in a beam queries ‘Maa…rr…eee!’ in a quivery voice. Her face couldn’t contain the grief of loss and the amazement of having found her sister, albeit at a distance, after three long months. Miriam brings her finger to her lips and whispers: ‘HUSH’.

The Beginning

Mr Machine cries ‘Rekha!.’ He’s been building Space and Time since boyhood and having just returned back from 24th century India cried. Ms Machine is enthralled. ‘I want to go to the US,’ says Machine Jr. ‘In space or in time?’ asks Mister. ‘Don’t know’ says Junior. Mister says to Miss ‘I actually set the controls, you know, for BC Scotland. Never mind, it works like clockwork, wherever it goes.’ ‘Oops, it works’ she says. ‘Oops, it works’ they all say. Aren’t they one happy family? ‘It’s time, Machine, we go where Junior wants us to go’ says Miss. They indeed are one happy family.

The 22-two-year-old astronaut leads her crew to the spaceship. She stops and considers what if by a fluke she doesn’t get to return and feels the earth beneath through her boots.

At Kadri, Mangalore, a bunch of girls molest a boy. He struggles, orgasms, then bleeds and goes limp.

A little away in Kasargod, from Bekal Fort fireworks go off as diverse slew of bright colors. A group of trekkers, tripping on herbal hallucinogen, smell colors, see sound and wind, and hear joy.

In Kanyakumari, one thousand drums beat to twice as many hands.

In Himalaya, thirty six people bungee jump in accord at the stroke of midnight.

Out from the confessional, a priest touches a boy the wrong way. The boy grabs a melting candle and shoves it up the priest’s eye socket.

‘This is our 49th New Year as the world’s leading superpower. We’re about to go live’ says a big screen up in the sky.

All that is good pales in comparison to all evil that is.

The Middle

‘Mom, calls Junior, ‘this place is so exiting. See this. They’re selling postcards of the lynching. Just like in Desolation Row. Lookie there.  Whites are killing blacks and painting the streets red. They must be right.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ ‘When we go back we must employ this,’ says Junior. ‘That would be exciting.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ ‘I really set the controls, you know, for 24th century US,’ says Mister. ‘Now we gotta rabbit run.’

The PM of India, a Muslim, addresses her nation: ‘Brothers and sisters…’

A 30-year-old youth minister writes the first page of her book she would name The Khrist of India isn’t the Christ of the West: The Puzzling Why.

The jealous brother of Indian cricket team’s skipper calls the media and accuses him of cuckolding. The 27-year-old skipper logs off his LiveN in fury, moves to his twentieth story’s balcony, fights a train of thought that suggests he throw himself down, breaks the aquarium with his bare hands, breaks down and weeps as the fishes bounce to death around his feet.

A 25-year old completes the last sentence of his nonfiction book called The Year Bollywood Replaced Hollywood and dedicates it to his once Palme d'Or awardee grandmother.

A 20-year-old, painted and dressed up as Devi, stages her Navarasa. The applause and whistles refuse to die down long after the curtain drops down. Two drops germinate in her mother’s eyes and like floodgates opened, tears trickle down her face.

All is not lost.

The End

‘Dad,’ calls junior, ‘how about being innovative.’ ‘Say we do it the Indian way.’ ‘Let’s burn the coaches and distribute trishuls to the townsfolk. I faintly recall we did it elsewhere too.’ ‘Right,’ says Mister, ‘right.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ And she hasn’t said anything except that in ten light years. Mister says to Junior ‘I actually didn’t set the controls, you know, for 21st century India.’ ‘It’s time, Machine, we sought therapy for mom now that she’s gone raving mad.’ ‘Oops, she’s mad’ they say. ‘Might,’ she says, ‘be…bee…come.’

He wakes up to a whistle and finds her standing over him, her chest heaving like it belongs to an  enraged goddess, teeth tight and grinding, holding a 100-ood-pound slab overhead. Her puffy eyes hint to the fact she’s been crying and sleepless for months. She drops the weight right in the middle where his manhood rests. Somewhere in his head his consciousness shuts down and his great toe wiggles once, face slants and gapes. Two more slabs are added to his person, one to his abdomen, one to his chest. She bounces on his chest and his ribs crackle. He REM dreams a pair of saber-toothed tigers tearing up his body to shreds. His life of nightmare has begun.

Here’s where our so-called civilization plateaued and came to a deafening halt, froze and/or shunt, and it all happened in the human brain. Here lies half conscious and fully unconscious the confused human engine – a testament that our technical and scientific advancement—our external evolution of transcendence—doesn’t coincide at the same rate with our personal, internal evolution. We haven’t truly, so to speak, come out of our caves. We have come out but fallen and fallen not far from the cave. Oh! The things we do to each other, the sister remarks to herself. ‘Should I call the squad or the ambulance?’ she asks.

‘Not yet’ she says to her sister, as she gives herself the anesthetic. ‘An ambulance arrives earlier than you’d think it should these days. I’m glad you didn’t alert anyone for the time like I told you. I want this abomination to go through this much of my own devise when I’m assaulted to be PTSD’d for the rest of my life. Just look away…no not that…just, just look away. You remember the shot you must give me…in case.’ She kneels on the couch. Between her thighs is his face. She says to he who may not hear: ‘The seed that you sow shall all be yours.’ One hand grips a handle and the other directs a sterilized speculum toward the mouth of her vagina, inserts deep inside an instant abortion pill.

‘Call now’ she screams, as she begins to abort on his face.

The prokaryote feeds on itself.

The louse breathes its last of a repellent.

The white ant feels the vibration of a gunshot in its vicinity.

The moth misses its target, flies into a throat and that on it chokes.

The temple rat drinks milk from a bowl.

The dove hit by an arrow dives in the air.

The ostrich hisses to call its flock.

The horse finds itself at the edge of a hill, the ground beneath its feet shifting.

The whale rising to the surface exhales a fountain.

The baboon snatches the stick from its master, strikes it against the ground, and waits for the man to perform.

The humanoid, dismembered from torso down, thinks it may be human.




No comments:

Post a Comment

Your thoughts are invaluable

Site Meter