Creative writing

Smell-less History

Monochrome movements on a wide glass screen-

A bright white sun, white robed delivery at a church.

Stooped black heads moving like ants in line,

But the chains were all human sized.

And the cloth sacks failed to hide whipped backs.

A long black train raced through the image noise,

Or maybe was its cause-

Exhaling black smoke along its way,

A thick burnt smell filled my thoughts

Mixed with blood and yellowed pages.

But let me breathe, unlike raging fire in marble hearths

At winter cities during lavish tours.

It let me breathe, unlike burnt red chillies in the neighbouring Granny’s kitchen.

Because, it was a story of the past,

And I was only watching black heads coughing at black smoke on a wide glass screen.

Via Daily Post: Delivery

Nature’s Angel

The fierce sun shone uninhibited,

Through powerless fleeting clouds,

Pushed through thirsty brown leaves,

Heated up the fractured ground.

And heated up a mound of flesh,

Featherless, fallen off his nest.

His mother’s cries sounded like silence

Mixed with foliage and cricket chirps.

And a pair of yellow eyes watched-

The little bird on the naked ground.

The forest saw his regal wings,

Swooping down upon a helpless prey,

But negated nature’s course as

He stopped abruptly on his way.

Circled round and round above

The helpless one on the burning ground.

The forest watched in silent awe-

A hooded beak hovering broad,

His gigantic shadow never left the bird.

And the fierce sun failed to heat up

Through the regal, wild, Godly gird.

Via Daily Post: Shadow

Perfect Brows 

They said her eyebrows were beautiful. They made her eyes look perfect. Neela had no choice but to sit before the mirror for an hour before her performance everyday. She stared at her reflection blankly while the other girls bordered her eyes with kohl, painted them with cheap eyeliner and shaped her eyebrows. Neela hated her work at the bar. While her mesmerising moves entertained the customers, her mind wandered away, free from the tangles of her red hair and folds of her shimmery dress. Her beautiful eyes went peeking into her childhood alleys, glancing at the mountains of her dreams, as she danced on. She never wanted to dance at the bar, where either they ogled at her thighs, or didn’t care. A sixteen year old Neela was left with no choice when her father lost his job and the responsibility of feeding seven mouths fell upon her.

She couldn’t complain when they tweezed and plucked her eyebrows to make it look perfect every day. Then covered her skin with cheap foundation to disguise  the slightly swollen skin under her perfect brows. She silently endured the pain. With every tug of the tweezer, they seemed to pluck off her freedom, her voice, her dreams, and her desires. They aimed for a perfect arch, sharp and beautifully carved- because it made her look sultry. Neela burned in agony and rage, her face rigid, as if set in stone.
Today was a special day for the manager. The bar was celebrating its one year anniversary. Neela was given a bright red costume, and was asked to dance longer.
However, when the senior girls came to dress her, they found the door shut from inside. Neela didn’t unlock the door even after repeated banging and yelling. They started to worry and was about to call the manager when the door flung open and Neela stepped out in a sparkling red dress, her face pale without makeup, and dangerously swollen skin, all red and slightly bleeding, at the place where her eyebrows were supposed to be. She had plucked every single hair from both her eyebrows. Her eyes looked at their shocked faces defiantly. Loud music played at the background along with raucous, drunk voices and the clanking of glass.

Via daily prompt:

Pluck

Wound

No doctor, you can’t fathom the

Depth of this wound which,

Runs through my soul and

The blood smeared ball of muscle with

Cylindrical passages,

Both of which carry deoxygenated blood.

I have little hope from,

You, and the philanthropists who,

Offer to stitch my heart severed into two.

No doctor, I don’t doubt that,

You can’t heal my wound and

Also, a local anaesthesia wouldn’t do.

 

Via Daily Post: Local

I visited the House after several years

I visited the house after several years,

This time, not to spend my holidays-

My grandfather died.

 

Nothing had changed, except,

The porch was covered in moss,

And the stream behind the house was thinner.

Cousins from London and Zurich and Paris laughed endlessly,

Overwhelmed to see each other.

They exchanged usernames as I sat alone on a wet rock by the stream,

Recalling an afternoon from my teenage holidays.

The heat on my cheeks when he held my hand,

Our wrinkled feet dipped in the ice cold water,

A sin enough to forget each other by the following summer.

 

I walked towards my grandfather’s house,

As night fell slowly like curtains dropping after a magic show,

Stopped abruptly at the entrance. Remembering,

At the funeral I had overheard my brothers and father’s brothers-

They said they’d sell the house,

Before it was completely covered in moss,

For that wouldn’t yield them money enough.

 

A Letter From Me

Dear,

I know not if you will receive this letter, but I found some old papers to write on, and I have ample time.

You all have left years ago, and don’t intend to come back anymore. You live in places where stairs move on their own, and I have only seen trains do. Your skies are only covered with buildings. So you talk about your city, and never mention the village. And this house? Only a couple pillars and half a room along with a pile of rubble remain of what was once a mansion coated in lustre. Only I have remained here, as decayed as this brick baggage, and witnessed chunks of plaster crumble, the storeys give in. But the crisp gold sunlight still shows on the beautifully carved mermaid fountain, even though she has lost her nose, and one of her arms. The mango tree at the end of the courtyard occasionally gives me tiny unripe fruits. They are pretty useless, but help me recall how you all raced barefoot to collect plump mangoes during storms. I accidentally dropped a steel bowl the other day. The earful clank increased tenfold and echoed everywhere in the middle of the night. The sound was strangely familiar to the sound of cymbals, during Pujas. I loved the sound of cymbals as a child. It echoed in my brain until I drifted off to sleep, smelling the fire mixed with sandal, and camphor; dreaming of clay pots and vermilion. These days I seem to accidentally drop the small steel bowl more often as I walk in and out of my room, waiting for something to collapse.

Take care.

 

Via Daily Prompt:-

Crisp