The 2d story

A memory
from broken milk teeth
and old old tea table.

Spans into a middle age man,

Or a boy who thinks he is old

Still biting candy out of wrappers

And playing pop music

Chained to the rhythm.

Watching and staring

At the computer screen

Flipping through online sites

Worrying about the MS word cursor.


The coffee mug is empty

My table is cluttered

The song has been playing in loop.


Time is no longer relative

It has actually stopped

My watch has stopped ticking

I can hear time cry.


There is a tiny pimple

On my freshly-mowed cheeks

That I see in Louie’s face

A kaleidoscopic reflection of my childhood.


But sometimes

I feel paper thin

Like I am the paper

Or its me in ink.


I am floating in an origami world

Being floated and folded

Into a fine little duckling

Waiting to be slaughtered.


I am

A product

Among the multitude

Of them stacked

And racked in shelves


No, no. I am a dream.

A slip.

Into some dumb person’s imagination

Where memories are just lying flat

Staring at the skies

Like two lovers

In 2d.


Christmas past and arecanuts that can’t sing

Back when we were little,

Correction! when I was little-

when my threats to run away meant something-

Christmas was celebrated.


Mother would go to that bakery in the corner

Fill the steel trays with egg whites, flour, tutty-fruity

and a tinge of rum- which dad would steal at night-

And bring home fluffy, Christmas-ey cakes,

pack em in gift wrappers in green and red.


Then we would  climb on the old Chetak

And go around distributing

Like the Santa and the Elves.

Those days when,

Mum and Dad didn’t want to convert everyone

But just wanted to be happy.


At night, me and my dad would go carol singing

through the city and outskirts

blaring our off-pitched voice

to bring out the message of Christmas.


Our cold, numb hands

hiding under woolen gloves

trying to hold the soup being offered.


Dad would bring long, green, grass

for the crib

where our dangled pieces of Jesus

and the Gabriel with one wing

would rest.


At church, after a melodious mass

People would dance and sing

Wine and cake would be served.

Then we would return to a steaming

pot of appam and chicken curry

breaking the 40 day torture to my

poor tummy.


And this was the GOOD NEWS

that passed away long ago.


Now, we reside,

in churches with foreign tongues

with rotten cakes and no wine.

Vast expanses of shelled-out arecanuts

that won’t sing carol songs.

Or my mother trying to play

‘Little Drummer Boy’

into the utter silence.


No shinning red or green wrappers

No rum cakes. No stew or appam.


And I have a room,

with four walls.