In-between

Another last day of the year. Feels like any other, like a birthday or any such day which offers an eligible opportunity to get wasted, lose ourselves in lights and beats and bottled up dreams so we can unbottle, loosen, find our real voice in a moment of unconscious, and arrive at the new year in a state of squirmish cognizance of Life from all the peeling deadness of the disappearing year.

The sun penetrates the skin. The shadow of the pearly earring, of cashew leaves, of a  few strands of hair escaped from the bun embrace the dead stillness of the concrete porch and shake it awake. 

Resonating in the background of this sleepy morning  is the sound of drums from the village yonder announcing an old man's death; a rich old man with many sons and several acres of land. The crow pheasant with its fiery wings hops around skipping gentle hollow sounds, looking for a mate. Frenzied beats of the drums grow louder and faster.  Clouds scowl, earth recoils into darkness. The spirit of the old man still tethered to his many desires, to his sons and grandchildren, to amassed gold and fame refuses to let go...The curdling sound of thunder sends a tremor through the very breath of Death. The frantic rolls of drums  hit a new climax tearing the spirit of the patriarch away from his earthly elysium and with one final jolt hurtling it across the lotus pond.

A butterfly perches on the blank coldness of the wall and there it stays in the haze of its own penumbra.






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