Picture perfect
Along the stone stair up on a fort up high
My hands are outstreched
Catching a cloud passing by
It feels like mist on a sunny day
In hues of blush
Orange pink and aglow
Reflecting the setting sun
And traces of the sea below
The piece of heaven in my hands
Zig zags as it finds its way
Up .. up
A dance before
Falling in place on a beautiful day
Through the day .
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Burning Barrel
People call me ‘tight lipped’ Ibuka, although quite literal in meaning, nothing else could be farther from the truth. I enjoy talking and sharing my experiences. Not having lived much of a life I am rather amused at the attention that is given to the tale I have to tell.
Even before the incident I remember making up fantastic stories to entertain passerby and was even quick enough to come up with anecdotes for the busy customers.
For as long as I can remember I have been working at the newspaper stand, since the time I was diagnosed with a rare condition of cataract that did not allow me to see very well, even as a teenager. I was just glad that someone would consider me for a job and let me keep it. As gratitude I went out of the way to generate sales and kept the store spick and span and the owner kept me in charge.
I remember people enjoying and laughing at the stories I had to tell, but no audience can match the one that gathered today. Many had a similar story to tell, but my eye condition and ‘tight lip’ reputation even brought me some TV coverage- and so I talk.
–
It was a year of much confusion and distraught, the war was on and the nation was confident with its young army. I had been working at the newspaper stall for years and the sudden military activity brought a scary yet exciting change to the now almost mechanical job. I felt it was a time for opportunity, although many restrictions were placed on civilians, the whole city seemed to always buzz with energy, activity and anticipation.
Youngsters from around become civilian helpers to the army. Engineering students in their second year were recruited for purposes of developing technology that would beat the worlds best. Everyone rode the wave; other news stand owners took off for additional job after the early morning sale. The neighbourhood kids were always busy collecting rubble and parts from broken down machinery or shot down B- 29 bombers.
The only real change of all this activity in my life was that I no longer had any toilet paper to sell, and was sitting on a steadily growing pile of paper. You see every weekend a paper dealer with a loud speaker on his cart would come collecting old newspapers and magazines and replace it with fresh packs of toilet paper, so I always had old paper disposed off and made additional money by selling the toilet paper.
With the increased surveillance of the police and the military, and many other higher paying jobs the paper dealer’s visits slowly dwindled down. The other newspaper sellers would dispose the waste paper as scrap, but I decided to collect the same and pay a monthly visit to the paper dealer for exchange.
My shop was no bigger than a roadside kiosk and I could not afford to waste it for holding a growing pile of old paper, and so I lugged a huge barrel slightly filled with sooty oil from the neighbourhood garage, cleaned it thoroughly and placed it next to my stall.
Every morning I would put the previous day’s newspapers inside the barrel, and forget about it for the rest of the day.
I first noticed that the barrel was almost full in the early hours of August 6th , it was now holding 3 months worth of news – unlike the American newspaper (The New York times) which I came to see months later - the newspapers in our country would be of one sheet- for lack of newsprint.
The paper dealers had shut shop just weeks after I had starting collecting the papers. For lack of any profitable means of disposing the papers I kept the collection going.
I now looked at a barrel full of waste and thought “Best, that I burn it”. The sky had just begun to fill up with the growing sunlight; it would be another hour before the stores open. It gave me time to sell to the morning rush of customers before I could buy the matches.
At around 8 am I walked across the street and bought some kerosene and a pack of matches. It was an unusually hot and humid summer day, burning the barrel full of paper would have attracted crowd on a winter’s day but today it would go unnoticed.
Like a ritual I poured kerosene over paper, fuel was scarce and the oil that came of the can was nothing blue and pretty, it was brownish and thick. I lit my match and dropped it into the barrel. What followed was a huge blast and massive heat wave, instinctively I moved away from the barrel. But my skin started burning, peeling away as I saw it, fragments of my shirt stuck to my exposed tissue.
There were many others around, surprised more than shocked and cringing with pain. I looked up and saw a huge cloud of smoke welling up at a distance – a bright flash.
The last thing I remember seeing is a barrel of burning paper with a backdrop of a spectacular cloud and a uncanny flash that didn’t cease to shine.
–
It was the next day that the nurse brought in newspapers carrying news of the bombing at Hiroshima. Since then I have a distinguishing tight lip, skin joined unnaturally, fused by massive heat.
Jealous eyes
Jealous eyes that look upon me
Eavesdropping on the colours as we speak
Draining the greens and blues to shroud with grey hues
Jealous eyes that look upon me
Blanket the music and breathe a shadow
Jealous eyes that look upon me
Jealous eyes..
Take away me with you
For no sound worth its beat
No colour worth a sight
Weave a neat bundle with no joy
An empty space much like me
Cold november
It was the eleventh of November, I had taken a personal day to finish all the pending house work. The weather was messed up, humid from rains and cold from the approaching winter.
I poured myself a cup of instant soup and settled for the TV news hour. It was around the time when the reader was summing the news in headlines that the home land-line rang- a ring that had lost its familiarity.
I almost left the ring die, but curiosity got the better of me- who could possibly have called me on this number?
“Hello”
“Hello” – a soft voice, female, almost like mine a year ago.
“Yes”
“Ma’am, could I talk to you for a few minutes”
“Regarding?”
“I have been told to contact you in case of any queries”
“Queries regarding what?”, I wondered out loud.
“Well I was told that I could ask you anything.”
I wasn’t quite sure who this lady was, what she wanted or where did she get my number. But, with the soup all cold and the next re-run of hourly news fifteen minutes away I settled into a conversation with the young lady.
“Can I call you again? ” she asked after 10 mins of chatting.
“Sure”
The call was over just as quickly as it had started.
I got back to watching the re-run of the news and thinking. Who was she and why did I tell her so much?
Something interrupts my thoughts, I wake up with a start – the monotone ring of the land-line calling out aloud. It has to be her.
“Hi, it’s me again” she sounds different this time. I cannot pin it but somethings shifted in her, or maybe somethings shifted in me.
“Yeah, tell me” – I ignore my thoughts.
“Just a few more details”
I let her ask and answer what I can, no big deal.
My thoughts are interrupted yet again, with songs of U2, its my mobile phone and it’s him calling.
“Hey, sup?”
” 
Hey, forgot my cell at home, will swing by to pick it up.”
We hang up. How much everything has changed, in a blink of a year.
Tring. Tring. The land-line again.
“Hello” I say.
“Hi, you hung up?!!”
“Uh Oh, got another call..sorry”
“Who was it ?”
“Him”
“Tell me about him”
I tell her, everything from the start to the final call today, that’s all she wants to know so I hang up.
The day has been moving fast, no work’s done and it is already 5 p.m. I start to open my office mail to reply to any priority mails, just then the phone rings.
Her, again. She is beginning to annoy me.
“Yes?”
“I want to know more ”
I instinctively bring him up, we chat – sharing details.I hang up.
I think again, how much has changed from the beginning of the year to now. From thinking of me to thinking mostly about you.
The phone rings again, almost immediately. It’s her.
But, I know it isn’t me answering it anymore. Nor does he answer the call.
The shift is palpable, perceivable to me alone.
It is me who has shifted, shifted enough to see that I am not me anymore. I am just what remains to fade into you.
My eyes barely awake
I drift along, into that land of sand where children are protected by cubes of life that drift and weave their way in canals like veins in the sand.
Just yesterday I was at a neigbourhood where Squash was played outdoors with gates wide open, replaced by sliding cloth mesh.
How could I see those rituals amidst the Pyramids and those goons that the three friends caught
Ancient traditions and modern neighbourhoods. Shopping with friends and movie premiers. Goats as lawn movers, block tournaments and parties.
Were these stories that you told me, or was I sleeping.
Over
As real as the countdown half way through the year
As real as I wash the world off and climb into dreams
As real as the bells that slowly will fill the year
As real as the closing of another chapter
As real as the feeling that life’s grace period is O..V..E..R