Onset

“Rains”, she thinks, looking out of the window, as the city scene passes her by at twenty four frames per second. The bus weaves through crowded streets, making its way to the final bus stop now, a few final passengers waiting to get off. It creakes and clanks through scorched potholes and dusty neighborhoods filled with sun burnt, sweaty people. She sits on the window seat, still looking out, with just one single thought crowding her head; Rain.

The summer heat is finally driving her up the wall. The summer in this country is supposed to last longer than most places. This city, especially, has to face the season a lot longer, thanks to all the pollution, chopped down trees, messed up weather balance and what not. As a result, the city has been smoldering. The pitch on the edges of the road is starting to turn squelchy and sticking to the soles of the hapless pedestrians, refusing to let go like a long forgotten breakup. All the ‘metal’; the railings, vehicle skeletons, fences, steering columns, can hardly be touched, without scalding your palm. The tempers are flaring too. She almost has had a couple of altercations in the day and is hoping she wouldn’t be pushed to the edge.

A man looks at her through the window. He is sun burnt, to the point of an ill fated cookie. He stands there looking at her, wearing a pair of worn down shorts and a vest with a sprinkling of holes of assorted sizes. He is staring right at her, and she doesn’t know what to do. He continues staring till the bus passes out of his line of sight. She knows he still stands there, sunburnt, sweat on his forehead, frizzle haired, barefoot. She doesn’t feel agitated anymore; she only feels sorry.

She is still thinking about the word, but now her thoughts are a lot more…tangible. They are almost like a real thing; throbbing, rotating, twisting and turning like a kaleidoscope mural. She looks up to see the sky slowly take on a leaden look. A soft wind, almost secretive, slowly begins to blow, stirring the leaves and other strewn debris into little circles of dancing dust. A few more passengers get off, while the last of the bunch look up at the sky with a marked expression of relief.

Her stop is now approaching. Silent streaks of lightning are tearing across the skies. A few lazy potbellied drops of rain start falling, kicking up microscopic swirls of parched earth. She has a little smile playing on her lips now. She gets off the bus and heads to her apartment. She is standing in front of her door now. She looks back for one final time. “Rain!” she shouts and gets in, closing the door behind her, as the rains come streaming down, washing the summers away for another year.

[Written as an application to the sultry summers, hoping that they get the cue.]

The Dreaming

White.

Like a spreading wakefulness, it drowns everything in a pale blanket of the un-colour.
I see white trees, spread against a white sky, white leaves ruffling against white blades
of grass, pirouetted by an unseen wind.

There is a white hut on the valley which has white people. Their hearts bleached, they go about their routine of white mundane existence. They have white emotions; no space for tears or frowns or dimples. Are they sad? I think not; for black does not exist in this world.

The white is not snow. Its not the clouds either. This white is like an awakening;an enlightenment.Its what people having near-death-experiences see at the end of the tunnel. The brightness of it is all consuming. It seeps into the innermost recesses of everything; the stoned death-games of adolescence to the acknowledged survival acts of the elderly, and wipes it out with a sweeping wash of white. Everything is settling into a white stagnation; all sounds dissolving into a fused white static, when the first notes of discord strike.

The red first begins in the top right corner, and then slowly slithers downwards, leaving a crismon river of chaos on the way. More of it appears; its tendrils now starting to cover the remaining whiteness of existence. A drizzle of red now ensues, covering the white grass with red thoughts and slowly drenching the white skies in an smatter of red imaginations. The picture is now completely red; a picture of murder, a cesspool of unabated passion.

A clap of thunder makes me open my eyes and come back into the forest. I am drenched; just like the forest floor with decaying leaves and moist emotions. I look up to see a raven looking down at me from the lower branches of a tree. It gazes at me for a moment before leaping into the skies in a flappery of black beating wings. Did it have the same dream?

" Stupid human! He should have carried an umbrella in a weather like this!The thunder must have scared him shitless!", the raven caws, as it flies higher, reaching out to a black ink expanse of the night sky.

"At least he did not have my dream..."

Nocturne

I could do with a friend.

The garbage that I sift through is more than what meets the eye. Its more like a bunch of unrecognized photographs; only, nobody knows they are actually photographs. A broken comb talks about a woman who still takes a lot of pride in her aging beauty; enough to go hankering after a new one. At her age.
The broken china screamed loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood last night, at the moment of their birth. Before that, they were part of a drawing room facade, created to fool guests that everything in the house was peaceful. Piece-full.
The ragged doll tells me that her owner has grown up. She fills up spaces with love letters and perfumes to draw teenage boys to her. The 'doll-days' are now a part of the forgotten part of her memory; the one she uses when she sheds silent tears on being heartbroken, time and again. She knows she cant go back. Not anymore.

I climb atop a closed bin, and look up at the sky. The sky is a smatter of pin points of light and a pale moon. A few stray clouds threaten to take away the sight, but it would be a long time before it happens. It seems the lazy tidings of the human race have seeped into the atmosphere, trickling, one emotion at a time.

I know not what to do now. I see the couple approach from the corner of my eye and then look at the moon.They disposed off the china when they thought no one was looking; no one intelligent enough. The broken china was a white, but someone had added occasional touches of crimson(blood?) to it. They had a secret, just like everyone else. Secrets. Something no one tells you about and you dont know them until you know them. I look at the moon, considering if I should share the secret. The moon almost nods in acknowledgment; my only true companion.

And then I howl.

"Did you see that dog looking at us? I think it knows!", she says, shivering at the thought, drawing close to him.
"You are thinking too much", he says, drawing her closer, his arm snaking around her slender waist. His eyes meet the dog's and they are locked for a moment. Then he looks straight ahead and continues walking into the night.

"No one would think of checking in the basement..."