DIGITAL VANDALISM

I am but painted plastic With reminiscence of a smile. My porcelain cheeks crack, as my eyes stare at the aisle. I am dressed up in jeans, Sometimes in a frock; All the jazz up, For a crowd to gawk. I'm up for display And my dress is for sale I am silent and stationary Mostly slender and frail  And when the storeman  lifts me up to put me next to the door, the people all stop to appreciate the decor They stare, They see,  how Death Becomes Me There's one more mannequin Maybe, my next of kin? We do have some things in common; Mostly the scratches on our chin Sometimes I'm at the storefront,  but mostly at the back You stop and admire  My attires with their tags I collect DUST like rivers collect stones I feed on these dust particles To make up for my lack of bones Pardon me if you're in a quandary I can't help with your clothes It's a worker with a rulebook who helps me with my chores OOTD? no I'm good I'll wear this for a week 

On day one, I ripped apart a packet of durum wheat penne pasta to cook with some white mushroom sauce. It's an easy recipe; easier if you have boiled pasta handy, which I did not. So I took a pan, added the beautiful penne pipes and ushered it into the waterfall of hot tap water. I added some salt with the teaspoon and well, took out another spoon to add precisely 2 spoons of oil. Swirled the whole thing once with a large spoon (spatula?). While my pasta was boiling, I took upon the depressing ordeal of cutting onions. Onions are like childhood trauma, you grow up and think you'd finally be over it because you are no longer a sissy child but then you smell your fingers and they reek of this pungent odour. I cut the onions and wash my hands, twice. I also got some (read, six large cloves) of garlic and some mushrooms, obviously. It's in the title of the story. You don't play Macbeth, without Macbeth.  Now, I don't want to go all Victor Hugo because that would make my...

As far as I can remember, the only person I ever saw was not a person at all. It was an orange goop with a translucent body. I had many questions when I first met this non-person person. I assume you might have had a few too, but they don’t get resolved—no matter how much time passes. I thought all I needed was a search engine. I could type in the questions, and I’d have a database of answers. Yeah, none of that is real. There is no search engine. Not even a regular engine. Maybe that’s why I have to walk everywhere on foot. Which reminds me—there’s no footwear either. That’s bizarre. No shoes. No slippers. Not even that monstrosity perpetuated by the leg-cover called Crocs. "Hey, Candy! Are you spinning out again?" Yeah. I was. Though I believe it was a pretty linear direction of thoughts—as far as thoughts go. They live in this large forest with enormous coniferous trees. I used to think I was the tallest entity in the entire thought bubble. But then I saw those trees ...

An extreme rush of bewilderment holds a person frozen when asked upon the subject of their activity at the moment. Perhaps it could be one the greatest questions ever, ‘What are you doing?’   Reading? Breathing? Reading and breathing? Incredible.  Considering the profuse quantity in which languages provide verbs, a definite singular answer to the question seems inconceivable. Yet, it is a fact well known that the majority of humanity spends its time doing ‘nothing’. Some like to use the more elaborate version, ‘nothing in particular’. The very activity of ‘nothing’ has been a matter of fascination for ages. It has been portrayed in plays (see: Much Ado about Nothing by Bill), poems (see: Nothing gold can stay by Robert Frost), books (see: Nothing by Annie Barrows), songs (see/hear: There’s Nothing Holdin’ me back by Shawn Mendes), research papers (see: The existence of Nothing); even in the sphere of politics, politicians have been reported having done ‘nothing’ to fulfi...

 I leaned back from my chair to have a better look at my sister who sat on a bean bag, a few feet away from my desk. “Hey Devora!” I shouted towards her, cupping my hands in vain. “Shut up, Sharlay” she replied, without offering a glance-worth attention to my greeting. “So, you are still playing, right?” I asked. She was busy fiddling with a pea popped from its cover. I assumed she absentmindedly picked it up from the vegetable basket which Mom kept by her side.  Eat your carrots , Daisy, she had said. A typical day in our life together. Boring and fun, simultaneously.  “How about Devora and Sharlay have a sword fight today? Can Devora beat this fierce ruby studded sword?” I spoke, while I braggingly swayed a jelly-red carrot towards her. Daisy was quick in her actions-she grabbed my ruby sword a.k.a. carrot in her fist and analysed it for its imperfections. For a second, I believed that she did have extensive knowledge of edible weapons and ammunitions. Then, she handed...

Temperature is relative. The hot gusts of wind berating the grass are life-threatening to pines and conifers. It's the time of year when one prefers staying inside the house to coming out and greeting the sky. The sun shines like an omnipresent sink of energy and source of sweat. It wouldn't be on my bucket list to spend the days of my life getting tanned under the Delhi sun, but I like the feeling of burning its leaves.  When I look up at the sky, I can challenge the yellow (almost white) ball of fire to have a duel with me. It's an intense challenge to see who can last longer, which we both lose at the sight of the moon. I retire to my tiny room that I share with my roommate, and I think we all have a good idea of what happens to the sun. The routine is monotonous, yet every other morning we are back to our shenanigans, which might seem more pathetic on my part as I have more say in the matter than my competitor.                  ...

Every day is the same We start the day in the morning and end it by night There’s too much sun in the noon Not so much at twilight And we have given these names Like seconds, minutes, hours and days As if we have tamed the time And learnt its ways  Because you see, time is infinite But we can’t understand things beyond a limit So we clubbed Sixty tick-tocks together And called them a minute Then those minutes combined in a similar fashion And a new word was announced Which nobody knew how to pronounce It sounded like letter r, And it belonged to us So we called it an ‘hour’  Now in this whole business of making time run We wanted to involve earth, moon and sun And i know it might seem like an anomaly But nothing enraptures public like space and astronomy So we said, if axis is a stand And the earth is a cake Then for one spin, a day is  the numbers of hours it will take But you see, a single day was lonely So we gave it a family We said, when seven of these days are toget...

The cause is more relevant than the act. The story is more intriguing than the conclusion. When confronted by a choice of entertainment versus rationality, we often choose to slide with the former. I recall reading the stories of Panchtantra, Akbar Birbal, Tenali Rama, and Vikram Betal with much fascination as a child. Several of these tales revolved around solving crimes, punishing the culprit, and providing justice to the innocent. Often reminding us that in an ideal kingdom, the scales of justice are always kept in balance. Fast forward to contemporary times, and the crime rates are much higher than anyone in these stories could have ever contemplated. The issues of public inconvenience today aren’t merely one farmer taking the land of another or a potter trying to dupe a customer through a fake pot, we have an assortment of ideas conquering the minds of the bourgeoisie. We do not view crime through the black-and-white filters that our ancestors so eagerly used.  We are gullible...

Do I have to be in the limelight to shine? Do I need a microphone to speak? I look back in time  And take a road trip down my memories Some bollywood party song is in playing on a speaker Remember that 2000s era that we miss? Yeah, we are singing chorus You are dancing like no one’s watching And i I can barely move my feet You are angry at me  For tagging you along on my road trip You say you don’t like it one bit I ignore you because i know you’re just hungry We stop at some roadside dhaba for dinner You say it’s the best food you’ve ever had We wish we could do it everyday Together? oh we never said that I am driving slowly As we pass the tunnel of misunderstandings It has been long since we last spoke I try to ask you how you’ve been, but my voice croaks I wish you could just read my mind I would let you absorb the eternal ramblings of my daily life Like we are in some sci fi movie Pretending to be superheroes  I wish you called me once in a while My urge to write to y...

We are two detectives  on two ends of two telephones talking in verbal codes and sometimes in Morse Do you get it? Tip tap tippy tap a word of mine could save your world and I deliberately avoid  saying that word so that you can continue to rely on me we stay in this void that telephone line has created for us of electrical signals and discrete-time    you hate my incompliance  and we are stuck by the cords since you struck the chords i blinded you with science we're on the same case just against one another I chase you with these charges and you don't seem to bother We shout, we fight, we insinuate inside our heads  but the words on the wires are far more delicate The conversation is an  interrogation We are victims of doubt It's just a word to crack  Just a code to break Do you get it? Tip tap tippy tap The clues are scarce Witnesses won't talk  And while you drew me a Nancy  I fancied me a Sherlock

here I sit on a wooden chair inviting the birds of felony to scratch my skin and choose my nerves as the building block of their domicile here I stand alone on street staring at a dead twig menacingly the tree it left now soul bereft I pick it up and twist it in my knee here I walk with a girl under an umbrella beneath the roof she called me to join in her facade now I accompany the  drizzle in her heart

I saw the nail paint dripping on our mahogany table We bought it yesterday, I think, Sammy didn't let me remove the label We are still setting up our home The house is under construction The photo frame in our bedroom is crooked The refrigerator doesn't function I looked up from my trance away from the brick red liquid We are in this together, he said, Sammy believes we will be forever We are still shifting  The boxes with the word 'FRAGILE' The cupboard is now lined with our clothes The mirror shows me in flannel I can't stop the nail paint the color has now reached the edge We know we won't fight but Sammy will be upset  We are still drifting The table is no longer there The house seems to be spinning The red liquid is all I have. 

It conceals the blue-laden sky   Like a mirror;  Searching into the depths of silver    Painted on its back  A quest for a soul and perhaps more  To be savoured by spiritless self   Shall it find me, standing there   Awaiting the bleak blank of blue  A sight for the heavens or perhaps azure  To be prayed out of pique  I stare at the dark parchment  That is glued;  The window ate the ceiling fan  Hanging by the roof  Just some time before it comes for you  Takes up sorrow, grants nothing new  Will you be happy, asks window  I shake my head in disdain  The water would flow despite stones in path  You took my sorrow in vain  Then, it stood there like inanimate   As if dead;  The graveyard of which is storeroom  That lay in dark  A part of world that stood far, aloof  Filled of things from my past  There is this window in between   I lean...

 there was a knife bleeding with the blood of someone I killed  lying next to a corpse, white like paper I thought he used to be red until I sucked blood from him and now I stare lifelessly at his deadly being eyes open, like he knew it was me and wanted to be I am falling  falling from the standard of sanity I wish I shrieked but my throat was thin dry like I am choked by the sand of guilt there were two people until a minute and now there was one wondering if it deserved to be a l i v e and d e a d could one be? can we even live after we kill? there was a curtain and it was all turned red oh I wish I had some bleach bleach for the floor and some bleach for my head erasing everything just erasing everything      or I could take pills and sleep could I sleep? I will wake up dead like him tomorrow staring the world through empty pupils I will see many walking people again  but wonder if I can kill there was a knife and it was caked with the blood of som...

On a lazy Sunday morning I am lying on the couch Doing absolutely nothing Until I hear my mom shout “Skand, make yourself useful Help me with some chore We are painting the house Get some paint from the store” Off then I go  With my jolly prancing steps Entering the vibrant shop The colors waltz in my head I am muddled by the options  Even though I know what mamma said Had she not wanted ‘serene and bright’ We could really go for some black I wander in my search And find a color so perfect Everything about it was great  except the name it had I point in it’s direction They bring me the bucket for me to inspect Oblivious of nature of my inspection I simply stare at the object There’s a bucket full of white paint Right in front of my feet If you ask me, it’s white But they have named it moonlight   I stare at the white liquid Like a queen staring at her crown I ask the walls, would they mind, if I choose to drown?   Hearing all the silent responses From all sides ...