Of luxury, old ladies and winged creatures

I am sitting in the lap of luxury as I write this. My room is a suite- bigger than an average upper middle class person’s flat. I am wearing white slippers and have central air conditioning. A bath tub with pebbles around it; half resembling an oasis in sub Saharan Africa. Separate enclosures for taking a shower and for the water closet. The bathroom unit can easily accommodate two people for days on end.

The patio has all sorts of exotic plants and that piece of heaven is at my disposal for as long as I like. There is a 6 seater dining table that makes me want to keep eating. A pleasing omnipresent fragrance (whose origin I’m yet to find) surrounds me 24/7.

Every time I look at the many mirrors in the suite, I feel like a different person. As if this life was meant for me. I feel beautiful. All of a sudden, my Levis jeans is not good enough for me. I need Secret Circus. I crave for the Jimmy Choo handbag and the Victoria’s Secret bikini set I had seen in the last issue of Vogue. Now I want it. Moreover, I want to flaunt it- that perfect hair, the perfect mind and the perfect life where I don’t need to think about my bank balance before purchasing a surface pro.

But then I feel guilty. Guilty for wanting more. How can I not be happy with what I have? Whatever happened to satisfaction? Moreover why do I need more?

At this conjecture, I meet a lady. She is a cleaning staff who comes to clean the suite. With greying hair and a warm smile, she politely asks me about the pain I need to endure every time I wear the 6 inch heels that are now lying on the floor. This innocent question leads to a conversation and she tells me about her daughter who recently got her degree.

“She also has a boyfriend now. He is a driver and about to purchase a new car,” she beams at me. She is happy for her daughter. She goes on to tell me how her favorite time of the day is feeding the birds left-over rice, early in the morning.

She recalls an instance where one of the birds had sat on her lap and demanded to be fed by her hand. Her eyes smile. That is when I realize that my joy at admiring my situation is nowhere compared to her joy at being loved by winged creatures.

Conclusion– I am never going to stop wanting more. After all, I am only human. But no matter which stage of life I am in, or what plate I use to serve food, I am determined to smile the way she did for as long as I breathe.

Miss Fake Cake

The past year Miss Fake Cake bid adieu to this world after swallowing a fly. This lady, if you can call her one, was sitting by her French window in her very elite town house, admiring her situation in life when a huge fly flew in through the window and started chasing her all around the house. After 20 minutes of running around, her temper got the better of her and she decided to eat up that ‘black-blue pest’ whole. She opened her mouth wide and that poor soul flew straight in, as if it had always dreamt of exploring the interiors of her large mouth.

The fly had expected to come out of her alive, however she was persistent in swallowing it. But our hero was a fighter. It bit her digestive tract as it journeyed down the gastric lane and did the tango in her stomach. By the time it reached her intestines, it had become a martyr. But good for it, it caused internal bleeding in Fake Cake, which resulted in her untimely death shortly after.

I knew her since college days. She was one of the biggest ass-biters in the history of ass biting females- the kind of person who is sugar sweet on your face and has a truck driver’s mouth when your back is turned. She was Little Miss Perfect to the world- always the best dressed; having all the right things to say; the teacher’s pet, etc. Back in college, she used to apply a thick layer of bright red lipstick and it resembled a traffic signal light.

All of us knew that it was our queue to run when that red thing opened to give way to black. The insides of her big, fat, mouth resembled a rotting corpse, metaphorically of course. Her tales of owning five villas, 6 Lamborghinis, Gucci- Prada and all of her pretty things, sounded like chanting of ABCs to us by the time we graduated college. Her boyfriend was the perfect guy, in her twisted little mind- tall, dark and handsome- straight out of a Mills and Boons novel.

After she married him, she got to know exactly how repulsive that creature was. She recalled, in one of the gatherings, that he barely ever washed his underwear and wore the same inners for days on end. Also, he slept on a bed of rotting bananas- one of his many fetishes and she had to do so too, by unofficial laws of holy matrimony. In the same breath, she sang his praises and gloated that he gave her a 50 carat diamond necklace every month and so on.

One would make the biggest mistake of their life if they asked her to speak about herself- she could fill pages which if stacked upwards, towards the sky, would reach the sun. The word ‘privacy’ did not exist in her dictionary. Our conversations were more of monologues during which she bragged about her parents being the richest folks she knew and filled it with unsolicited advice on my life.

In short, she was a pain in the buttocks whose only aim in life was to feed on other people’s grey cells. One could see the pleasure in her eyes when she bitched about some poor, unsuspicious soul. She got high on gossip and fed on other people’s life stories.

Since this is an obituary, I am required to say some good about her too. The best praise I can give her person is that she closely resembled Homo sapiens. Last but not the least, I am indebted to the fly for its courageous deeds.

The vitruvian man

Oh vitruvian saint,

and the master of my heart,

how your sight makes me faint,

how through me your arrows dart.

 

I have often wondered which God made you,

the secret that is your erudite bones,

how at dawn you fall like the dew,

and rise at dusk like the resonant tone.

 

To see you chant Chaucer in your sleep,

and recite the periodic table to your kids,

I fall in love with you deep.

Alas! She has already called her dibs.

 

Your beauty and her grace go hand in hand,

And i am left here standing alone in the strand.

 

 

On being happy

No it’s not a slow process;

It is spontaneous

like a cat’s jump onto the unsuspecting prey.

It is

just.

 

I’ve never felt this way before;

Or have I?

Maybe. Could be. Would be.

I am

just.

 

Uplifted, elevated and impregnated;

Sporting a smile and a funny eye.

My dog amuses me as does my sock.

They are

just.

 

Funny is the word of the day;

funny how black the black hole is;

funny how the whiskers are ticklish;

funny how the ant forgets its path sometime;

I am just

Happy.

 

And I don’t know why.

The penpal

I have an image for you;

One among many.

The rain drops and the coffee cup;

the grey sky and the wooden pane.

 

The parchment and the smudged ink stared at me,

“The end,” it said.

No clue as to why, what, where.

Just a tasteless goodbye.

 

3 years had been a long time;

It felt like decades or more.

But all it took was two words;

Was it so easy to let go?

 

I still remember the day we sang with words;

the day we laughed with the happy hand;

the day we cried with tear stains on paper;

the day we argued with drops of ink.

 

It was Moscow versus New Jersey;

Dostoevsky versus Bukowski;

Anna Karenina versus Dominique;

The fog versus the sun.

 

Separated by two seas and an ocean,

It never really mattered who looked like what,

or what color suited who,

or how one ate.

 

we lived by our words and words were our world;

but it was words that killed at last.

One article and one noun.

The end.