His blog posts became infrequent. The latest draft wasn’t touched up for a month. Storey after storey, the high-rise completely covered the orphanage and the adjacent park from his view.
The builders successfully created a permanent writers’ block for the paralysed poet.
I smell the familiar air,
Heavy with fried fish and coriander,
But also with sausages from the nearby fast food centre.
I can feel fresh sunlight.
Heating up the parapet like olden times.
But no one stands on the terrace drying long hair anymore.
The silence is still heavy,
Lingering at noon time among brick houses,
Silently broken by an old man,
Pushing his cycle cart forward,
Only coloured syrup replaced by branded ice-cream.
I have been standing for almost a couple hours. This is getting harder for me by the minute. I can feel cold sweat trickling in slow motion down the sides of my cheeks, and patches of sweat on my eyebrows, tickling me uncomfortably. My glasses keep slipping off. Standing behind at least fifty people, in the considerably large hall, furnished with designer desks and chairs and cobwebs hanging from the yellowed ceiling, I’m profusely sweating in spite of the chilly November cold. I can feel an overwhelming numbness approaching my left leg. My wristwatch says I have half an hour before my next insulin shot, which I cannot miss. A quick mental calculation tells me that I only have fifteen minutes to reach the counter and finish my business after which I have to walk back home, wash my hands and feet, without which my wife wouldn’t let me take a step inside the house; and take the shot. I wish I hadn’t retired. Then I wouldn’t have to stand in this stupid queue every month, waiting to collect my pension.
The queue is moving faster now. I check my wristwatch again. I still have five minutes and there are ten more people ahead of me. I can now see the man behind the counter. I stare at him like a hawk fixes his gaze upon his prey. The number of people before me reduces by the moment. And finally, I am standing behind just one customer. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and re-adjust my glasses, regaining motivation to wait some more. But this customer seems to take an eternity. My patience magically vaporizes. The numbness in my leg is reappearing. Fresh beads of sweat break out on my skin. And there- she is done. As I eagerly rush to the front of the counter, a mechanical voice echoes across the hall- “All functions shall resume after lunch”. The man behind the counter throws at me a swift glance and leaves his seat.
This story is purely a work of fiction and has no resemblance to actual services at the bank or any such sector.
His art teacher handed him the corrected homework. There was a big red question mark and a comment at the end which read, “Please learn colours correctly.”
A five-year old confused Arun couldn’t understand what was wrong with the blue and purple trees, a brown sky and greyish flowers growing in blue bushes.
Not even when he examined the tiny strip of film negative for the third time- after all, it had been the source of his inspiration.
Black tears rolled down her pale cheeks.
Bloodied water from her lips.
Exhausted, she was washing her makeup after a day long performance.