Salman

“The mid-terms are just a couple of weeks away”

his mother announced – hoping to get him to start studying.

“So is the semis of my cricket tournament”

he thought to himself. Of course, he never dared to speak up to his mother. No one spoke out against their mothers – at least not around this place. That's like trying to juggle eggs using a badminton racquet – the damage is already done even before you try. In fact the tournament's deciding matches were earlier than the exams. This situation would usually mean only one thing – axe the sport.

“Is cricket going to feed you? What will I tell my neighbors – my son plays for a living. I'd rather die than see that day.”

This is the pep-talk kids get, when they dare to mouth their interests about playing a sport seriously or taking it up as a career. Opinions counted more than anything – first the neighbors', then the obscure uncle who lives in Dubai – making trips once a century to meet his relatives and distribute athar to everyone, then comes the grandfather's - perennially camping on the couch swapping between cricket and masala news on T.V, critiquing about the sad state of Classical music and the sugar in his filter coffee , and finally comes the opinion of the father – which really is a mere reflection of the enlightened view-points of the former entities. They were entities indeed, for Salman – in fact they were ghosts of the most alien form, whose importance is as good as a kid's tricycle in the main roads of madras – yet their influence...their stifling influence. Salman often chose not to delve into that line of self-pity. He obviously didn't deserve it, and he is not going to be bogged-down by it. Why would he, for he is the janaab of the streets. If he couldn't handle this, what good is he being a madrasi?

“They'd stop me only if they knew about it.”

He would conquer the mud-field first and then the papered–field. Simple.

“Where would I find time to study? What big of a problem would it be, if I skip exams? I'll fail in the mid-terms. Report cards would get uglier. Mom would have to meet the princi. I would be skinned.”

Salman was reflecting some exciting prospects in case he chose the shortcut.

“Aa-ha. This is how the nawab of madras would think. Salman, if your thinking runs at this level, you would become the president of madras one day da.”

That was Salman's way to self-reward, whenever he cooked up great ideas.

“I'll bribe the postman. Intercept the report card. Forge dad's signature and turn it in the next day. Problem solved!”

The last time Salman was this euphoric, was when he had won the Lemon-on-Spoon race in fifth grade. Madras was Salman's world, the cricket field his heaven and the classes; a little south of it.

--arvind

Darkness

Skipping stones, near government hospital backs amidst dead floating on-lookers
Searching smashed-flat insects on windshields of forgotten cars
Hopping across remnants of branches, blackened by the winter
Breaking pollen residues on top of used bleaching agent barrels
Listening for that out of sync blare from the police siren

Blindfolded against contemporariness, blinded by simplicity
These pleasures - too small, too dark, too itchy for sophistication to ponder

True it is - requited joy comes with the loneliest tag.

--vind

Router, The

forwarded stripped packets
with no regard for crimson four-twentys
or transparent twilight liquids

the expressionless reaching-outs with
inanimate siblings from my rear,
through metallic tails perennially kissing the walls

blind munching of random bits
at the whim of these tissued ignorants
blissfully behind the comp

winking existential LEDs randomly
to please the educated few
peering into me shamelessly

not any more
"this one was working fine just a moment ago"

but after the surge I still blink
to deceive those dimwits - what-joy
in finding the pill, finally to cure the ulcer

no more wires for this wireless....

--vind