Smeared Red

Pretty smelling cream on my cheek,

Glossy paint decorating chapped lips.

A streak of black,

To sharpen my glance’s attack,

Earrings and bangles,

My hair falls in beautiful shambles,

The saree draped,

Like icing on a cake,

A practiced smile on place,

Smoothening tears with powder on face.

I am ready, my conscience freed.

Time to satisfy lecherous greed.

Awakening

It’s a dark narrow corridor, both the sides lined with closed doors. I walk to the nearest and open it. The walls are of a motley of color, shifting between grey and blue and yellow, marred by pictures; pictures of a smile, of some tears, of a mother and an empty cradle. Its a mad, pleasing random change of the colors. I walk out. 

Another room. Trophies. The head of the woman I hated, the blood still fresh, dripping from where the rest of the neck should have been. A bench along the right wall is adorned with glass jars. I see eyes; eyes which had longed for me with carnal desires. I see tongues, which have tasted me, and then lashed at me. And there are the fingers, oh the sweet caressing fingers of that loved one, whose head now graces the bloody mantle. I like this room. I touch the wall and feel the wetness I relish so much. I smile as I smell the blood in my hand. I flick my tongue and taste it. The blood still tastes fresh.

 The room beside is locked. I try pushing the door open, but it doesn’t budge. I give up and try the other one. Its door is slightly ajar. I peek in, it’s dark. My fingers fumble on the wall to search for a switch. Found it. The room lights up. It is a mellow light, a light that reminds me of a sunny warm afternoon. There's the sound of rushing stream, and the running wind is trying to wound me as I rush ahead of it. There's the tree and chirps of the baby birds. A speeding stone and perfect aim and some pained, final chirrups. I remember my younger brother being pissed about it. Happy memories. I linger a bit in the room and after a few moments, find myself in the corridor again. I look at the entire length and I can’t count the number of doors I see. I look back, and vaguely I am amazed at the hundreds and thousands of doors crossed already. There's a sound, a dull thud. Another thud. A steady beat. The loudness increases as I walk to the unopened source. Eager fingers push open the door. It’s all black. No fragment of light nor darkness exists. The absence of everything. A living, breathing, inviting black. I walk inside. The door closes behind me.

The crescendo erupts monumentally. People yelling with joy. A cacophony of loud war cries, of roars of lions and bears, and screams of monkeys, and more drums. Millions of drums. Someone screams, “Lanka is saved. We have nothing more to fear”. 

Time to end a dream.

Kumbhakarna awakes.

My Glasgow Smile

They said it would be easy,

As easy as breathing‘s supposed to be,

Stretching a few muscles, to banish all pains,

A dose for a day, a few more to keep sane.

For Mother declared she was worried ,

And it displeased Father to see me lost;

My friends lovingly mobbed around me,

And over charred emotions, my smile embossed.

And I smiled as life rolled on,

I smiled at its mandates and jargons,

I smiled for the days to end,

I smiled for it is easy to pretend.

And I thought --

May be shadows do lighten the dark.

And bullets fly, for they love the beating heart.

But I feel them now, closing in,

See their fingers and arms stretched,

The corners of my mouth twitch uncomfortably,

And my blood boils for selfish carnage.

Some hold my lips,

Some pull my chin,

They spread my mouth

To a hideous grin.

My eyes pop out,

Something quietly dies,

I face the world,

With my Glasgow smile.