Anaahat

There it sat, the pastry you saved for too long, with the time gone, only leaving this overwhelming weight on your chest, this feeling like an over-cooked guilt, of not indulging, of chasing the wrong butterflies, of getting lost in a wrong chase, to discover that, the changing destination is never reached, and the pastry you had saved for too long, was eaten by worms anyway. 

Every voice magnified around Manoj. The giggling of teenage girls. That loud laughter of that burly, hairy man. Horns from impatient cars. And Manoj was developing a headache. Yet, he kept on walking, focusing only on the path in front of him. Life’s a bitch he thought. Or perhaps a bastard, as Ragini would say. His mind was wandering on the politics at work. Those bitchy females talking with eachothe, their wavering glances, that soft whispering, and typing vehemently on miniscule chat windows. Those plotting seniors, throwing shrewd looks at him, finding faults in everything. Like some jealous mother-in-law, or a bad step-mother. Kaikai! His heart sank. Deeper than the earth’s core. His feet became heavy all of a sudden, the leather of his shoes turned into rocks. He started sweating profusely. His heartbeat accelerated. His arms turned to thick tree trunks. His eye-lids gained weight and wouldn’t lift up. Then, ten minutes after the trucks swooshed by, the giggling teenage girls r

The twisted way this world works. Where artists are talented, and art becomes latent. Where we are all still men, and the women are called feminists. The contradictions that stare at us. Where we borrow beauty from art, and art borrows from the mundane. The sarcasms we face. When laughter applauds pain, and defeats are a stepping stone. Yes, this twisted way this world works, like clockwork gone haywire. Where we find reasons to live, and fear grips us when our freedoms are threatened. When we hate terrorists, lock the world outside. and are frisked for weapons of mass destruction. Oh, yes, the twisted way the world works, Like clockwork gone haywire, Like walking on the zebra crossing on a zebra’s hide. The contradictions that stare at us, The sarcasms that we face, Clockwork gone haywire.