The Lofty Twenty Thousand

Twenty thousand. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

Those words ricocheting in his head, Mr. Nagappa returned home from the funeral of his childhood friend. The sight of the burial had reminded him of his own old age. Until now, he had never thought of it. For a while, he had stood aloof; like death was staring right through him. He imagined about the crowd around his house. Will there be enough crowd? What about my wife and children? Will they contain that burden?

But more than anything, he was boggled with the words of a peer.

At the funeral, while he got involved in a random talk with his peer group. Someone said, five years back when his father was dead, he had to spend nearly sixteen thousand rupees. The amount elevates because no one wants to come around to help if there’s no alcohol, said another in the group.

Looking at the son of the dead, another said, look at that poor fellow; he doesn’t even have the freedom to express his grief. Given his economic challenges, I wonder how he’ll manage the expense. These days, man is not free even after death. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

After the funeral, all Mr. Nagappa had in mind was the Twenty thousand. Not that he didn’t know about the rough estimates previously. It’s just; he had never really paid any attention to that. Now that he is relating himself to the situation, he’s too concerned. How will my son manage after my demise? The question had turned him weary.

By the time he reached home, it was dinner time. He took a quick bath before entering his home; ate some food mechanically. Without bothering to talk to his wife, he spread a mat in the kitchen and laid down his aching body. The death comes demanding a lofty price. Twenty thousand said the glow of incandescent bulb.

After his wife went to the backyard to wash the utensils, he surreptitiously, sneaked in the hall; opened his old sanduk (metal box). Found his way down to some notes he had stashed. He started counted them. Some new, some old, some crumpled and some worn out. Then he reached for his banyan pocket for few more notes, shuffled them all to count. In the dim light, diving through the quietude…the rustle of currency paper preceded a meek voice,.. one.. two.. three.. four.. five…

Nostalgia

Doesn't this
Lavish lush of
the greens and
The gentle gush
Of the winds...

Tickle some old
Melodious memories?

The monsoons,
Dancing on the roof,
And the birds
Rolling heads
And chirping...

Invoke the forgotten?
Scratch some scars?

While a cup of tea is
Coloring this evening.
Nostalgia is riding it.
Few sweet. Few salty.
Some mixed vibes.

Insomnia

The days are not
Like days anymore.
The nights are not
Like nights anymore.

I'm just,
Differently awake.
Differently asleep.

Thinking of the days
I was alive,
Waking up in the
Worst nightmares.

Most of the times,
I'm more dead
Than alive.

Me Freaking Myself

In my cranium,
There's a den;
Full of beasts.
Some are hungry.
Some athirst.

They feed on,
My emotions
And grow.

The one that
Thrives on
My silence
Is too noisy.

The one
Feeding on
My loneliness
Is most violent.

The one
Brooding over
My insecurities
Making me inferior.

And the one
Trying to control
All of them is
Freaking me out.

Transience

Love, longing,
Letting go.
Why is life this
Obliviously rude?

Why this limerence,
All little emotions,
Were meant to
Fade away one day?

Beyond our emotions,
What are we?
Just stacks of bones,
Sacked in rags of skin?

Tables Turn

A good, a bad.
A strong, a weak.
A demon, an angel.

It doesn't matter,
At what end of
The gun you're.

In the end you will
Also be a good hunt,
For a better hunter.

Predator to a prey.
A matter of time.
In between lies life.

Withering to Sleep

I wage wars on
The ceiling of
My room.

Write theories
On walls with
The flutter of my eyes.

I wrestle with
My pillow from
Left, right to wrong.

My bed knows it all,
About the
Bloodshed in my mind.

I don't fall asleep
Just like that.

Caught up in the
Whirlpool of
Over-thinking.

Fighting the
Leech-like
Thoughts of mine.

Dreaming,
Drowning,
Hoping, Choking.

I wither to sleep.

Answers

Went to the
Mountains
To find
Some peace.

Hit the bottom
Of the river,
In search of
A purpose.

Slept under
The night sky,
An attempt
To find myself.

And then
I found you.

The reflection
I was keen about;
The depths
I wanted to drown in;
And a place
I wanted to belong;

Your gaze
Contained it all.
A world.
A home.

Night- Bike- Chills.

My job involves conducting farmers meetings occasionally. Usually, we conduct meetings in the evening. Yesterday, the meeting got a formal start around 8 pm and was stretched up to 10 pm. And I started my return journey on my bike by 10.30pm. Winter night, cloudy sky, empty roads, slow ride and upon it I sat shivering. Counting down the kilometers covered, all I had in my mind was to reach home without getting robbed.

My home was some fifteen kilometers away I suppose; when I spotted a man standing his hands extended. Giving someone a drop at that hour, I was skeptical. As I approached him, he almost tried to block me. So, I had to stop by. He was a well-built adult; in his 30s I suppose. Looked like a farmer. Tough I was averse, I couldn’t deny him the ride. Then the usual conversation began. He said why he was stranded there. Where he was heading. What he does. Then about his family.

He said he will get down at Neginahal, which is five kilometers before my village. As I talked with him and became familiar, I was relaxed. Yet, in some corner, I had some sort of suspicion. Our conversation took a different turn when he said, sir don’t travel late in the night in this route.

Me: Yes, I have heard of thefts. But my job demands this sometimes.

He: Thefts are okay sir. But there are spirits too.

Me: Oh! Come on man. People just tell stories. Tell me if you yourself have seen any.

He: (In an assertive tone) I have not sir. But a couple of days back one of my closest friends did encounter one.

Me: (In a denial tone) Oh like that. (I knew he would tell the story in which I had no interest at all)

He: He was on his bike late in the night; coming back from Bailhongal.

Me: Was he drunk?

He: Yes he was but that’s not the point.

Me: (sarcastically) So, he was on his bike late in the night and he was stopped by someone asking for a drop?

He: That’s what he said.

Me: (Cliché) go ahead...

He: While the stranger sat on his bike and both were deeply involved in the conversation. Suddenly the stranger stopped talking. And there was grave silence all of a sudden.

Me: (sarcastically) Must have fallen down on the way.

Then, he didn’t reply readily. I waited for his reply for a while. His village was another kilometer away and I was waiting to get rid of him. But there was no reply from him. I thought he got offended by the way I talked to him. Then to break the ice, I said, Annara(bro!). Yet, there was no sound.

His village was hardly a minute away when I asked him if he has to be dropped in first bus stand or second one. There was no response. Calling him a couple more times, I said to myself what’s wrong with this man.
I made a decision to stop by the first bus stand. There was no one there. Supposing he is upset with me, I was imagining his knotted face that would bid me adieu. Expecting the same, I looked back. There was no one. I searched around there was no one.

Head full of rushing thoughts. Confusion, anxiety, chills down my spine and I could feel my heated up ears and churning insides. The bike in the first gear roared. I raced the accelerator.

His words were ringing in my head. Late nights... Spirits... Empty roads... Grave silence.

The Kidney Thief of Neelgiri

Kanakappa entered the school when we were in the eighth class. He was from a really poor family. He way of social interaction depicted that. The questions he asked, the answers he gave; his ignorance and innocence incited lots of laughter.

He belonged to Neelgiri house. Back then, Neelgiri house was a refuge for the peons on the night duty. They would sneak into the house to take power naps in the night. Given their familiarity with all, they used to often get involved in random fun talks and pranks.

One of the popular pranks they used to was removing the pants of sixth class kids when they were asleep. The waking them up to laugh on their face.

One night. Past midnight, they were trying the prank on a kid. Unfortunately Kanakappa- who was oblivious to this sort of things- was shocked when he saw it. As he was a later entry guy, he didn’t have much knowledge of how things work around. If it were another kid in his place, things would have been too normal and mundane. But here we are.

The sight of someone gigantic in winter wear trying to remove someone’s pants; seems his childhood nightmares knocked down his sanity. And all he did was screaming as loud as he can. Calling for help from his seniors in a whiny tone, he screamed, “Yappa, ellaru eddelro yaro kidney kadyak bandar”. Meaning, Wake up ye’all, someone is trying to steal kidneys.

It was loud and shocking that the peons were petrified. They feared being reported that to the principal. But then first Kanakappa was consoled by other inmates. Then he was convinced to not to report with the housemasters or any other teachers.

Sure the guy had pulled the peons’ inside out.

Pretense

I suit up a
New kind of conduct.
Make up myself with
New masks daily.

There's an office
Attire and
A different kind of
Smile in home.

Content expressions
Socially and
Bitter ones
Within the walls.

I've been pretending
For so long that,
Even in a mirror,
I don't see myself.

Hid beneath layers of
Unfamiliar skin,
Seems I've become
A visitor in my own mind.

Let's Walk and Talk

One day.
One random, ordinary day.
I'll steal you from yourself,
And surrender me to you.

Then, we'll go on a walk.
A walk that's not contained
By the shackles of time.
A walk that's not pre-destined.

We'll talk from
Our mouths to hearts.
The moon to the stars.
About the myths of the gods
And glow of our scars.

About how butterflies,
Set themselves in flight.
And fantasies in the
Mysterious nights.

I'll sketch some moments,
You fill the colors.
I'll read the clouds and
You sing to the birds.

And that's how my dear,
We will stash our memories.
In a journey that's deep.
In a life that's bitter-sweet.

You're a Redeemer

It was monsoon. Again.
There was rain,
There was hope.
And in front of me,
There was you.

And there was me,
Seeing you,
Awed and confused.
Clenching my frozen heart,
Afraid and consumed.

Seems you were
A redeemer.
Hammered,
My stupefied heart to
Set the bird inside free.

Now,
There are symphonies.
A hauling storm,
Ricocheting rhymes,
And sheer harmony.