Not good with my actions
Not good with my words
There is more, yet to be seen

Growing with the night
Until tomorrow’s dawn
There won’t be scars of yesterday
just some healing, that the calm would have done

No fear
Not even the energy to look about
Life flashes past faster than the blink of my eye

It feels like ages ago
The smell of mountains and dusty roads
Another place
Another year
Past or possibly the sleepless future

Scared to move a muscle
Scared to open my eyes
In a place, where I once was
Only I look at it more clear

One more hour has passed by
Are you really out there?
Watching out for me
or Watching me

Hidden in lights
Unsuppressed, dark, fragile
Ominous, poisoned and Palpable

Set out for the truth
Drowned in voices
Uneasy and inquisitive

Residues of belief
Undying fragments of today
Living and its complete glory

An urge to abandon
this empty house
And quit on rage

Darkness in my brightest smile
Secrets in the way I carry
Holding myself at ransom
Trying to win back

Human in wanting to win
Cursed in wishing otherwise
Surrounded by disease
An urge to abandon

This play of words
Is making me mad
I no longer see me

What role does hope play
With such a hefty price to pay
Snapping at patience  and love
I see losing you someday

Turn around.
There was never a real me
Darkness in my brightest smile
We failed to see

Invisible

Camouflaged calm, and many stories hidden
Deep, deep in sleep
The waking mind attempt’s another conversation
That fluttering eyes may witness

Desires escape – warm and free
Glances from above and silver threads of hope
..Yet another chance through the veil of dark

Alive, awake
Unaware, unheard
Uneasy lies the soul
In wake of hidden dreams

Sometimes on days of accomplishment those years of youth do not feel like summers from history, but as vivid as last night’s dream. Not much has changed in me over the many decades, but there seems to be shift of things around me.

Everyday I pass many schools on my way to work, and each time I look at the 15 something old kid’s crossing the road, a pang of reality hits me. When I their age, these very kids were probably taking their first baby steps. Here they are now, vrooming on remodeled bikes and fancy hand me down cars. Much like in my youth, they seem to have it all, the advantage of age and a sense of unbeatable purpose and surety. Most of them would have already decided on the college they need to apply for, the specialization courses, what girl/boy to hang out with. While their last few days at school are cluttered with thoughts of future, present and a hint of nostalgia my last days in school were spend carefully calculating the pros and cons of participating in a school play.

**

It is a good thing I am writing this down, because  just thinking leads me nowhere ,when I am not penning down even the most focused of thoughts seem to end in a hive of activity, blurred out of comprehension.

School for me was exceedingly monotonous, there wasn’t much to life than the chore of attending classes and returning home. The only entertainment I got was the 5 pm music that my neighbour played every day, I would strain to hear the faint strings of guitar  as I pretended to walk causally in the lawn. This did not change, even in my senior year of school.

With not much else to do, most of my days were spend day dreaming – during classes, at the dinner table and sometimes even during the course end examinations. Day dreaming became a part of who I was, each sequence nothing short of a bright 3-D cinema with outrageously happy characters that would jump out at me – pure fiction that separated the dull and familiar with the endless possibilities of a charmed life.

One such February afternoon, when one such dream was reaching its end, I glanced at a flyer that advertized about orientation programs and university selection on the class notice board. It took that one flyer to change the feel of senior year, corridors were abuzz with activity and everyone was happily nervous. A sense of urgency seemed to have engulfed everyone I knew; suddenly life was being measured by its future firsts and the lasts that would define the present. The first contact with the big bad world, the last school report, the last lunch hour, last sports day, the farewell and the last annual day.

Emotions were high and I was hard-pressed to make this year special – for me. Days went by and this thought never escaped me, everyone had a plan of what to do, what final thing not to miss -  the annual science fair, the last school parade, the chance to hoist the school flag or to sing a farewell song.

I was perfect to many people, for I did things that would please them, my entire childhood and adolescent reputaion was pretty much based on not deviating from what was expected from me.My life was expected to be  a to and fro from school to home, and I never deviated except for one time the only time I bunked school. It was a hot summer day and a fabulous one at that, it was my first time in a mall and also my first time playing a video game, and a rush that comes from doing the un-familiar.

The choice to stick to what was expected from me as opposed to what I really wanted to do was never more difficult.  Just one of those moments when I was thinking this, the vice principal asked me what I planned to participate in for the annual day, my heart screamed everything, but I opted to say that I wanted to focus on studying.           “Remember, it is the final year of school”, she said. Adjusting her spectacles she continued, “The annual day is only 20 days away, but if you still try you may get some activity to participate in, think about it.”

Participating in an activity, would only bring trouble, I would have to lie at home and explain my absence during after school rehearsals and most importantly on the occasion of annual day. Dressed in my freshly ironed school uniform I made my choice and applied for a role in a play – a comedy which had already finalized lead roles but a two minute slot was open. Joining in so late, I had no right to complain. I was to blame for the delayed entry for auditions. There was no particular reason why I choose to apply for the play,  I could just as well have signed up for the easier to get into school  choir, parade team, volunteered as a ‘assistant’ in the  magic/hypnosis show or even signed up for the backstage committee. But I guess I wanted my two minutes to speak  out loud ,  say something relevant to a crowd even if it was dialogues from a play that lasted no more than a couple of minutes.

Six people turned up for the auditions from the eight who applied. Apparently you could get into a play if you could speak in a bellowing voice loud enough for students in the adjacent classroom to hear. Auditioning and selection was followed by immediate rehearsals- apparently we dint have enough time to practice, and a new member only added to the choas.  The play seemed ok, not particularly hilarious but reminiscent of a Woody Allen movie, demanding nothing more than brief chuckles and an occasional smile.  That said, it seemed to have a decent shot at winning the ‘best script award’. My lines were mostly words of endearment and longing of a child towards her mother as the crazy doctor babbled on.

I read my lines out loud every single opportunity I got savouring this ‘last chance’. A couple of days into rehearsals, and I could recollect word to word the dialogues of every character in the team. The teacher in charge was impressed, and my role was pushed from 2 to 5 minutes. Soon the dress rehearsals started and I had to wear a parrot green dress- apparently everyone had to dress in flourecent to ensure visibility even from the last row of the audience.

Every rehearsal session I would work on my dialogues, gestures and even help out the other participants with the dialogue delivery. “You are good”, the teacher in-charge would say, “in fact good enough to be the lead character, I only wish you had auditioned earlier”. I would nod vaguely, with a couple of days to go for the final day; it would be unfair to switch characters.

On the day of the celebrations I came from home dressed in parrot green, the colour turning my heads. This is it; the stage had been set and the props ready. Everyone was beaming in their crisp neon colours.  Twelve minutes into the play, I made my way through the dressing room to the side entrance of the stage, a few giggles from the row of children in the front row of the audience and the lead characters scream were my cue to walk in. My voice seemed to have lost its intensity, when I realized that the electricity was cut off, for better or for worse I spoke my lines just the way I had imagined, loud clear and heartfelt to a rapt audience.

**

I have not participated in any dramatics since, but I know just like all the things I have tried my hands at I would do a pretty good job at it …..  even now.

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

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

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 6^th , 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.