Immersion

  I trudged back home. It was late. It was way past my curfew hours. The roads seemed empty, orange. Orange sticks. I like orange sticks, they're just like the roads now. The shops were closed, the autos were off, and I could hear the dhak beats from near and far. Bhashan. 
  And I saw one of these processions right in front of me, jamming up the road. Fuck. I was going to be late. I already was, so I guess I'd be 'later'.

Dyang-dyadyang-dyangs and the tyang-tyatyang-tyangs, coupled with the pyanpyan of the synthesizer. Stop it, you people. You're disturbing the world, can't you see. I tried to observe the crowd. Middle-aged men, women, young men, young women. Children. All dancing, joyous.

What joy do you have, fuckfaces? Why do you dance and sing and make merry out of nothing? Who has asked you to be so happy? Don't you know you have a miserable life? You are despicable, you are filthy, you are average. You are the common man. You don't deserve this happiness. You've never lived a life, how dare you enjoy one?

I observed the dancing women. Fat women, skinny girls, all gyrating to stupid beats. Disgusting. You are not worth my fantasy. You don't have those eyes I desire to see. You don't have the flesh I desire to taste. You are not the woman, you are not the girl, I desire.

People poured out from the roadside buildings, making the road a bit more impenetrable.

I want a gun. A machine gun, maybe, I don't know. I just want those guns they show in the movies, which fire continuously, until no one stands. Yeah, that. Then I'd show these people how a bhashan is orchestrated.

"Arre, nacho boss, nacho! Aschhe bochhor, abar hobe? Hyan, ki bolo?" I hated the man who said this to me. I'd kill him first.

I like to think myself as a college radical. I like to think that I care for the common, the downtrodden, the marginalised. I do, but, then, if they have my sympathy, why should they be happier than me?

Fuck, the man was trying vehemently to make me dance to the beat. Fuck.

The sky lit up. Crackers, a hundred stars were dancing. Hawui chherechhe.

The road was empty, orange. Sickly. I was late. I was late for life. I trudged back home.

Plath And I

Sometimes when I'm sad
I pretend to have tea with Sylvia.
She sits there, talking,
“I am. I am. I am.”
And listening to me.
She, with me, thinks my thoughts to be important.
But by the time the time is over,
We reach a perfect sync,
Sylvia and I.
We hold-on to each other
And the bitter warmth
Makes us whisper,
“We are. We are. We are.”

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"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."

- Sylvia Plath

A *rather* short tale of horror

I have this friend, you know.
The type you meet everyday.
I can't say though, that
I meet him everyday,
rather, I get to see him everyday.
Every              night.
UnlessIfallasleepearly.
If not that,
when
the night is late, and deep inside the night,
I see that friend.

I can see him even now.
He sits on
the dish antennae on the roof of the opposite house.
He is at about 10 metres higher
than I am,
and he is sitting on the dish antennae,
his feet dangling down
over the smooth, gray, fibrous body.
And
he is looking down at me.
There,
right there,
I
can see him.

He is looking at me lookingdownatme,
a strange expression,
a sad smile
it seems to me.
I've never really seen him bare his teeth though,
so I'm not really sure how they are. But I think
they are pointy.
He has pointed ears,
that I can see.
Rather interesting.

He just might be my
long lost brother,
waiting
for me to go up there
and join him.
But for that, I must acquire a black, shiny skin.
I have to get one soon.

You should visit my room one of these days, and you just might see him sitting there, high above. You might also see your long lost brother sitting beside him. Just saying.