The King.

[ Photograph : Unknown ]

A cycle of fifths command his existence and success. Now perched on his old stone throne. On his cold stone throne. Draws his hair back. These locks that he once had somebody else pull back for him. He can't remember the number of women who did. Father to children he doesn't know. These chains around his neck are the only bonds that remain. A locket is kissed. Flung and thrown.

Curled up like a child would. There's a disturbing drip in his castle wall and soon this fortress that he built will under water drown. Teardrops of women. A raging storm outside his window that now ceases to stop till retribution has taken its due course.

These blades called his conscience that severe. So run across this garden. Run to find the day.

For this domain is yours and under seige.

Run from your fortress.

Run.

August Rain.

[ Photograph : Tanuj Khanna ]

The ground was fresh and wet. Voices from world conferences were rising in my head about how we're killing the world. Then let it die I said. There is an inevitability to the whole masquerade in any event.

A car next to me shook violently. Two fucking kids. Tomorrow in the morn, the motherfucker will be gone. She'll feel her stomach. New life. Born.

           
* * * * * * * * * *


I once performed an experiment.

I heated a litre of water. It bubbled. Maybe they were the voices that told me to stop. As the kinetic energy supplied to them increased, they shook more violently, reminded me of discontinuities that might exist in the vessel. I ignored them again.

Silent my stupid wise ones, our time has come to revel in the Sun.

They're now furious, but there is something within the vessel which push them away. I, a naughty school child. We laugh together.

Only suddenly, I stopped and turned to look away and the bubbles dissipated. The litre of water jumped out and it was over before I knew it.

           
* * * * * * * * * *


Love and lust, the emotion lay intertwined. Which one you, which one I?

Roses strewn on the ground in parking lots are rain in August and temporary relief from a summer dream that we're hoping to get over.

What more can we do, to prove this warm affection, that we've always felt for you?

... Maybe the rose was gifted to you.
... Maybe you saw me finding comfort in the arms of an old flame.
... Maybe you met the boy you turned down earlier tonight.

... You might be in that car that's violently shaking next to me.

Clover.

They lie spread-eagled across the Garden. Not a word said. An uncomfortable silence now encompassing the soft land that they lay upon. Guttural moans and her arched body chaotically pivoted … twirled around like a discordant symphony.

“What do you usually do at this stage?”.

And suddenly, gravity kicked in. He probably should’ve told her that it was his first. I touch her. Her back still lay arched. Enough to still goad him. The sound of airplanes passing overhead now sewing together the coarse ends of a continuum.

He needed some time out. He got up and went back inside the palacial zone. Tanned bodies and palpable hollowness. Where does it all end? The sound of a spent DJ spinning his last track. Sweating profusely. The ching of his register spurring his intoxicated body on.

The guiding light was fading. Miles away, renderings of a similar nature. A cold front swept across a sultry evening, adding to the chaos. The DJ looked up ebulliently only to let a bead fall in adagio.

The guiding light was fading. With one last swig at a half empty bottle of Stolichnaya, he picked up his car keys and merged into some four leaf clover hoping to find his way home.

At The Other End Of Town.

"I love you."
"I love you too babe."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."

Click.

End of the usual evening telephonic conversation. A routine practice more than anything else. He sought something more. Someone else perhaps. Just before his eyes shut, he sniggered at an ad he had seen on television earlier that evening. "Stupid cunt actually drove across town on his fucking bike." The purple colour of the lava lamp wax eclipsed the celing. He pulled out a handful of pills and sunk in to 'We've Got The World On A String'. Grappelli and Taylor. How could the combination ever go wrong, he wondered.

A rainy night in July and tranquilised melancholy.

"Ah yes, you're all that I need."

¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶


Click.

She wondered if he really cared. The plateau seemed to bother her more than anything else. The dreariness of the relationship was something that she just wasn't accustomed to. Anything was better. Abuse, unnecessary profanities.

The phone rings. An old friend.

"Now? A drive? No, it's too late."
"Oh cmon, it'll be fun. I don't do this everyday. And I haven't seen you in ages."
"But I'm in my pyjamas."
"I promise it's not a problem."
And he laughed. They laughed.

Through familiar streets they weaved. Somewhere, clouds rolled in, and it started to rain. The plan to sit on the hood of their car at Ayub's went bust. But they didn't care. With the windows half open and the warmth of a chicken malai roll to keep them company, the conversation ensued.

"Where to now?"
"Home please, it's late."
"What? We're only getting started!"

She tried to call him to talk. She missed him. She wished it was him tonight. Here. Making her feel.

She'd become so accustomed to early finishes. She felt seventeen tonight. She pursed her lips together, then smiled and said, "Sure, alright."

It was the way he held the wheel. The music he played. He knew what would hit home.

"Do you remember how we danced to this?"
"Shit. Yeah. That was years ago. Man, those were some good times."
The look in his eyes said it all.
He lay back and looked at the road ahead and nodded.
"Yeah ... those were some good times. What happened to us?"



[ Photograph: Unknown ]

The driving rain brought them to Marine Drive. He bought a red rose from a poor child and handed it to her. A seemingly uncomplicated gesture. A true winner.

"I can't ... I'm ... thank you."

They sat on Marine Drive and laughed about life and love. The strange faces, the light drizzle. The cityscape. She felt warm and wet.

He turned up the volume to what used to be their song all those years ago. And she danced like she owned the world. Like she did when she was seventeen. Her wet hair tossed about and the water under a high streetlight immortalized her in yellow. He sat there with his phone camera and caught her dancing and stood transfixed and would look up every once in a while to admire how beautiful she was. And wondered how he could have forgotten. She shied away when she was aware.

Once again, she tried to call him. She wondered if he was intoxicated. It had been a routine for the last three months. He wouldn't even mention her phone call the next morning.

Tomorrow would be different though.

¶ ¶ ¶ ¶ ¶


In the morning, he woke up to a text message: "While you were high ..."

Transcendance.

[ Photograph: Tanuj Khanna ]


“Give me your hand”, he said.

She hesitated. Trust, like the last set of pills she’s popped to suppress this new life within. They dream together. City burns. Chipped glass.

“We’ll be alright. Don’t you trust me?” He pulls out the needle.

Gasp. Waves it before her eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

You’ll be alright. Would you rather have that? There’s a finger pointed miles below. Armies of mutated humans running about. Children gunning down each other. Waves the needle. Aah, anarchy, my sweet. She pulls the needle from his hand.

“What then separates us from them.”

She pauses for a moment and then smiles as another ray is pilfered and stored in her little bottle. “Our sweat is what stands between us.”

I knew you’d know. We’re pure and they’re not. Don’t you see we’re bigger than them. “I want evidence.”

He pulls out his machete and slices the sky. Hidden remnants of quark soups spill out and she bottles it. We’ll bathe in cosmic glory. Just stare at the city from the edge of the sky and for once don’t ask how or why.

All we’ll ever need. Chew on crackers, and choke on technicolour. Dream, w/ needles by our bottles of alcohol. Over miles of depleted atmosphere and feather beds to fall. And when we’ve had our share and can take no more of this fucked up cesspool that’s torn, We’ll fade into the sunset of a nuclear war.

Is everybody in?

The ceremony is about to begin.