Auto-matic writing

It may be just another of those starkly typical days. One stares in amused consternation at the two ladies struggling to manage their enormous shopping bags, while trying to place themselves strategically on the auto seats. One of them, in the mad rush of describing the important personal “shits” (the Bengali tongue chooses not to make an effort to extend the vowel sound during emergencies) that have been faxed to department so-and-so, suddenly loses a shoe, which slips under the auto. After it has been rescued and the minute hand has been given sufficient time to cause a mini heart attack, one tries to settle comfortably in the front seat, with the bag pressed to one’s chest, to avoid an inevitable tussle with driver’s elbow(or probably, out of practice). The auto swerves through Bikramgarh “horn”-ing its way through a crowd of cycles and cows, forcing out an impulsive “uf” from the little petite man who is fighting to keep his cool despite obvious reasons for worry as evident from his frequent phone calls.

Almost 12. The metro must be pulling out of the station now, with people hanging on to waists and hands and limbs precariously as the doors slide shut. There is of course no hope to attend the first class anymore so one relaxes the muscles and leans back to wonder about the next class. Another auto zooms by in the opposite direction-one smiles at the ghosts of the couple seated at the back, one of them explaining something with a passionate vehemence to his recalcitrant listener who is lost in her own doubts and speculations. If one is lucky however, one may find a known face with shining curls bouncing all around the headphones stuck into his ears, as he hops across the road.

The phone may ring. It may a sudden invitation for spending the evening out at a newly discovered coffee shop in Mudiali. Or not. The auto is coming to a stop now. One may find in utter dismay the paucity of “khuchro”s in the purse and start making a pathetically tragic face to beg the auto driver to accept the fifty rupees note. The next metro may leave too. Sigh.

friday the 13th?

A taciturn orchestra entombed in darkness ...a floating tune of intense madness, the whispers of a nameless fear, i feel a slimy trail trickle down my legs, the ecstasy throttles me with its insidious piety, two bodies intertwined in a nameless distortion, a slimy something slithers down the spine as well, coaxing out a few rapid, fiendish gasps. Crushed by the weight of togetherness i crave for the impassionate melancholy of loneliness, im choked by the terror of being alive, of perceiving the tumultuous desires of the flesh, of seeing the blood cascade through catacombs of nerves on my thigh, of watching the dirt in my nails settle swiftly into a dreaded pattern. There is life beyond the red punctured here and there by white drops, a life already explored in ignorance, a reality inexorable but unfathomable at the same time. A reality i wish to covet, a platform i hope to climb onto. Rapid thoughts spin an ominous yarn to cast a web of confusion over a troubled psyche; dreams have a heinous aura even their surrealistic womb-like silence. Dreams that speak, dreams that stare, dreams that touch, dreams that even smell...but dreams that never ever hear.