In the year 2040, we will eat money, and in the night, we will hear the clink of coins and ruffle of notes inside of us.
All night long, she whimpered and squirmed on the cold floor,
and twice she slumped against the nothingness on her way to the front door.
The wind rammed the windows, swirls of leaves swept outside,
While the moon’s presence grew scarce,
Leaning against the bed, I burst into a flood of tears.
Also, mother, do not forget the oxygen cylinders. We need to refill them for the night.
If there’s anything that you must hold on to for dear life, it is your memory. It is a reminder of a life lived, albeit etched with suffering and hardships.
I learnt the art of drowning at the delicate age of ten,
when I was neck-deep in the toilet bowl, gasping for breath,
my voice reduced to flailing arms.
Once upon a time, a morning had chanced upon me, as I sat curled on a cold bench wishing life away.
And lent a little glow to the otherwise dim and somber day.
Nothing can be said about history; torn shoes, a comb with broken teeth, a pail with a detached handle, a box of heirloom ornaments, a one-legged rocking chair, charred remains of a picture book, knick-knacks – flotsam and jetsam of ordinary lives pocketed in the ruins which will then be carefully examined, dusted and displayed in museums or auctioned to wealthy men. To whom did they belong? Who will return to claim these?
The spasmodic cough of father’s old scooter bellowing, “Leave me leaning by the Banyan tree, under its shade I shall remain for years hence.”