In Media Res
I believe I turned 19
A few seconds ago.
So,
What the hell is all this?
Where did this come from?
Why?
This is a role I have yet to play,
A script I haven't read.
Did I even audition for this?
I can't remember.
I couldn't have; it's too tacky.
Not at all complex,
Just drowning in monotony.
I couldn't have accepted this.
I'd have thrown away the script.
Yet,
Here I am?
Come to think of it,
Where is the director?
Shouldn't he or she be here?
I've played a role well
For the past 19 years;
Childlike, full of life.
This is new,
All together new.
I need the director,
Some direction.
What emotions do I show?
What is my arc?
Who do you need me to be?
Actually,
What even is this set?
Is that a bazaar-
Selling jobs?
Why are there walking contracts
Signalling rent?
Worst of all,
In the dingy, dark alley,
I see a pair of eyes,
Red, glaring,
Staring,
Hungry.
Stapled on their forehead was a card,
It read “taxes”.
This role,
This script,
Whatever it is,
Requires a director,
For I am one lost actor.
All Chameleon Like
I've been put in zoos before.
Many, in fact.
Now, though,
I think they put me in the wrong habitat,
With the wrong species.
Looking around,
All I see are skinks.
I am a chameleon among skinks.
Do we really look the same?
They're thinner,
Black-striped,
The colour of the dunes.
And they're talking.
To each other, of course,
In a language I don't share,
Speaking familiar tones;
Happy, excited, gossipy.
Still, their words remain a mystery.
Not that it mattered.
Among the dull dusty sand,
Brown, itchy, dry,
I remain;
My skin blending with dull colours.
An invisible wizardry.
Maybe a protective measure?
I do not know.
It does not matter.
The skinks talk, I hide.
They approach an invisible stranger.
There are no controls,
No instructions,
Just instincts against desire.
The skins talk, I want to as well.
They approach, I want to go to them.
But,
I am a chameleon among skinks;
Species and species not mixing.
So, they talk,
And I blend in.
Chilli Peppers Left Afloat
The dish had chillies,
Lots of them.
They looked mean,
An ember hiding a wildfire.
But then,
Mum added a few things;
Powders, spices, oil,
Colours, smells, life.
She gave it a swish,
Then another,
And held it to her nose.
Satisfaction,
It drew a grin on her mouth.
She dropped a little on her hand
And held it to my mouth.
It burst;
Flavours, smells, colours,
Symphony, Crescendo, Allegro.
The chillies had flames,
But mellowed by companions.
In a closet of a room,
Bored, tired, hungry,
I try to make it again;
Years and years and years later.
I dropped a bit on my hand,
And held it to my mouth.
I know I chopped chillies into it,
Some spices too.
and yet,
It's missing something.
No,
It's missing lots of things.
Salt? Spices? Chillies?
Colour? Feeling? Life?
I don't think
I can take the spice anymore.
The recipe is a misty memory.
And yet I eat the dullness;
I'm hungry,
What could I have done?
Remembering Things, but Weirdly
The air tastes silent,
And the night bleak.
My head - impressively empty,
Mind wanders and wanders and wanders.
Then I get a smell.
Dunno from where.
It's a peaceful invasion,
Welcomed quietly.
The smell is musty,
Like cleaning a dusty room.
It gives my head a knock,
And I came rolling and rolling and rolling.
I see a kid,
Me - small and quite dumb.
He wears a bag,
Too heavy for the tiny.
The tie's like a noose,
The uniform chilling.
And yet he moves,
Into the bus-
A giant metal beast,
Though a gentle one.
The smell within its belly,
Musty, dusty.
(Probably from the AC)
My eyes watered,
The dust a little too much for it.
It made my nose itch.
That's back then,
Now however,
It makes me wonder and wonder and wonder.
I'm surprised I do.
The years had convinced me,
I'd forget it soon.
And yet, I didn't.
It lied in wait,
Patient almost,
To calmly surprise me,
With a drowsy memory.
I Want a Bite of that Cupcake
Between the smell of coffee,
The quiet bustle of others,
Sweet tasting treats,
I sit.
In front of my laptop
And my book.
My eyes; dull, sleepy.
My head; empty.
Taking a swig of my drink,
Black tar dressed up in coffee,
My mind jolts awake
With half a dozen silent swears
And a mouth tasting of rot.
What was I working on again?
Not important.
Just finish it and
Sleep.
They came a moment after;
Father, Daughter, Mother.
Sat in front of me,
Colourful cupcakes in their hands.
Red, white and chocolate cupped with glee.
The Father ruffles his daughter’s scruffy hair,
Tiny giggle wafting like bubbles.
“Is it good?” asked the Father with care.
“Delish!” the bubbly daughter lauded.
“I wonder if we should go to the park,”
The Father leans close to the Mother,
‘A walk for our weary heads
Worn weary by work.”
“For you and me both,” said the Mother,
“One and the same in all.”
“So, a walk it is.” said the Father.
With a gentle touch on the shoulder,
A calming cure for his cluttered mind,
The Father leans closer to her,
“A walk AND a nap.”
Says the Mother with sparks and glitter.
They left soon after and
I couldn’t understand
The twinge
The pain in my chest.
Stupid, sullen selfishness.
Nothing more.
One more swig
Of rotting black tar.
Mind stapled to the laptop screen,
I got back to work.
But, I couldn’t help but feel that
I wanted a bite of that cupcake.
*****
Gowrisankar Anilkumar is a writer from Kerala, India, and recently completed his BA in Literature at Amrita Vishwa Vidyapeetham. His debut novel, Inner Engine Rumbles, was published earlier this year, and he continues to explore language and voice through poetry.
