Little Love

He was a cardiologist. She was a healer. He charged five hundred rupees per session. She charged five thousand. People went to him when their heart did not work right. They went to her when they did not want it to work right.

He worked through an Association. She worked through an Agency. They had a common business associate, who was known as a compounder by the day and a pimp by the night. Unbeknownst to her, she became a donation to the cardiologist by the business associate when his job was threatened.

They first met in a hotel room, and then they took the business associate out of their business. They now met at her house. She did not charge him. Every night, he waited outside her room for her to get free. He amused himself by the sound of the squeaky bed thumping the wall, and her daughter crying in the room at the attic.

He bought little gifts for her daughter, not for her. She told him not to. Every night, she made coffee for him. Every evening, he aimlessly drew her image on his prescription pad. Everyday, they waited for the night.

They did not show their hearts to each other. They both dealt with too many of those. He said he loved her coffee. She said she loved his taste. Sometimes she stayed up all night and watched him sleep. Sometimes he too did the same. But in the morning, they both acted of waking up together.

A little bit of love, they both smelled in the air. A little bit of love, they thought was lost. A little bit of love, they thought they had. Their little love became a boy. He adopted the boy. A little bit of love continued.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

the benches outside my window

There are two benches outside my window. Old and brazen, they sit facing each other over the crumbling earth. They speak to the leaves and the trees around. Not to me. Not to each other. Like an old couple.

Once in a while, they grunt when someone sits over them. What are you doing here, I ask them everyday. They don’t tell. The little plants outside my window told me that the benches are waiting. They told me how happy they were a few years ago. Then they had a fight once, over a cigarette bud a girl left on the ground. Whose side it was on? No one could tell. More fights followed. Both the benches threw dead leaves over each other. None got hurt. Disturbed, they stopped talking to each other.

They’d flirt with my window sometimes, but my window is in love with a snake. She tells me all the stories about the benches, all night long. I don’t like her lover though, the snake. I have told her that he’s not a nice guy. One early morning, I saw him cuddled with her. I got angry and started hitting the window. Upset, she didn’t open herself for next few days. The snake still comes over, as the little plants have told me. He sits under the benches and hisses at my window.

The benches like him because he doesn’t like me. But they still don’t talk to each other. The snake keeps them going. He doesn’t let people sit over the benches. The benches like that too.   

They can’t just break down anymore. It will kill the snake under them. The old stones keep going, waiting for the snake to go, the time to come, the trees to fall, and the people to leave ... Two empty benches outside my window, a grumpy old couple. 

---

Mrs. Rosy

Mrs. Rosy did not cut her nails. But her nails are cut.

She doesn’t remember.

Mrs. Rosy didn’t go out for a walk. But she has the groceries.

She is confused.

Mrs. Rosy has read yesterday’s newspaper thrice, today.

Mrs. Rosy can not swim. She flies.

Mrs. Rosy does not know it.

Men love Mrs. Rosy.

Mrs. Rosy loves her dog.

People say Mrs. Rosy knows it all.

Mrs. Rosy doesn’t know anything at all.

She floats.

Mrs. Rosy, just floats.

________________

The Death of an Idea

Oh sweet birds,

With sheer diligence,

I watched you flutter,

In the cage of my head,

As your feathers grew week,

And will stronger,

As you smashed your head,

With the inside of my temple,

As I shivered in your pain,

While you settled in my agony,

Amidst the chaos of my numb brain,

Inside the darkness called future,

I said to you,

Don’t flutter,

You are just a thought,

But birds have wings,

Little tasty wings,

This won’t let you settle,

And the birds shall be eaten,

All the birds shall be eaten.

__