Cyberstein

They’re out!

They’re coming to get you.

Who you never considered fearing,

Dormant in the invisible strands of a spider web that spreads beyond horizons.

You had carelessly tossed them aside.

It’s a modern retelling of Frankenstein.

You bred them relentlessly,

Marvelled at your creations so fine.

Steeped in pride, nobody considered tightening the shackles.

They probably waited for years on end,

Patiently grew in figures and strength,

To avenge an objectification, however unintended.

What if-

You ran up and down all day

Heavy resounding footsteps mingling with chaos and dirt on the streets.

Followed by soundless ones, but heavier than the prey.

You pleaded with those formless monsters,

You pleaded with you! Quarters and halves of your identity spread everywhere on the world wide web.

Parts you had built in haste. For an incognito adventure or a half hour debauchery in a knotted corner of the Internet.

Or simply because your parents were too strict.

Half names, code names, strategically written biodata

Alongwith a stock-photo, and sometimes the effort saved for later.

Those very selves which you had created recklessly, half complete, half true-

Are out armoured, in search of you.

What if-

They have revenge burning in their non eyes, seeking an explanation for their non-identity.

How about an image of them creeping up behind you, piling one on top of another

Like eerie shadows growing against a whitewashed wall?

Sucking out vital information, including your credit card numbers,

Or cutting out pieces of your skin to fill up the void you had saved for later.

On a journey of becoming you, what you had deprived you from,

All this while.

And if you’re reading this now from the comfort your couch,

Smirking at the pages, “This is just sci-fi!”

Well I’d be steadfast and say,

“Nightmares still cause insomnia.”

 

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Less bright red flowers

I feel a damp against my wiry body,

Spiralling against my non- spine, my fire-red flowers untouched,

Dirty green moss the colour of her saree on the wall.

I look again at her wiry body, a peek of ribs and white skin from the side.

I look down today at the less bright flowers from yesterday.

A bend from the waist, bony hands pick flowers

From the ground for oily hair snaking down a thin back.

Her passionate love for my flowers, though dead and smell-less

Lying on the ground. She cannot reach the ones sticking loosely to the wiry green body against moss covered bricks.

I long for her bony hands to pluck the bright wonders off my skin, drop them into fair palms cupped together.

She moves into the kitchen for the day, my flowers adorn a long oily trail, held together with a knot. I can only hear bangles clinking, a mechanical melody accompanying a mechanised grinding of coconut.

They will soon smell of coconut and turmeric, smell-less flowers from yesterday.

She throws them before her husband returns, our dried little secret. Fresh sandalwood paste on a broad forehead.

She always returns the following day. A moment alone, a treasure island of less-bright flowers strewn around.

A damp from the moss green wall against mine. I feel a damp against both our bodies. And I do not long for her glass bangles.