Sitting in a poetry reading.
All the lovely pristine poetry
Going right over my head,
Like butterflies.
And I, watching it, smiling,
Listening to the little fluttery sounds,
The pretty pastel shades,
The crassly familiar sunset backdrops,
The whole shemozzle.
I, in the midst of all that,
Unsuitably clad in plain t-shirt and jeans-
A nice green colour, but sadly plain,
Smiling at the thought of how silly
A hot guy would look in a green-blazer-brown-pants uniform,
Amidst a gathering smiling at the aesthetic sensibilities expressed in the use of the word 'bubbles' in the third line of the fifth verse.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Noise
Mother is shouting.
Her eyes are big, and very black, though they are actually brown. Her hair is flying up because of the fan, but also because when you are angry, your hair is supposed to do this, so that people can tell. My hair is too short to stand up, but that's okay because I don't get angry. The skin on her face is all scrunched up onto her forehead, and her mouth is stretched very big and wide so that the words can come out properly, and loudly, both sideways and upways. Her ears are turning red from the shouting, since she's closest to it. Her fingers are digging into the sides of her stomach. It must be hurting her, but maybe she wants it to so that the other pain in her head that makes her shout so loudly will go away.
She's shouting at auntyfromnumberfourteen, who came over to give us biscuits she baked. Every time aunty comes to give us biscuits, she stays to tea for a long time and eats half of them. And the rest of them get soggy and soft because they sat on the plate too long, and mother doesn't let me eat them. this time, mother is doing all the talking, though. But the biscuits are getting cold anyway. Maybe I can wriggle there and get them. Pintu is crouching in a corner of his room, upstairs, holding his ears. I never need to hold my ears. I can't hear anything. Maybe he'll feel better if he has a biscuit.
Mother is crying. Her mouth is stretched only long now, she's saying confused things. She's holding the sides of her head very hard, as though she does not want to hear anything again, ever. She's standing by the bed, and the phone is lying on the floor, but she hasn't switched it off and the little red light is blinking very fast, ever since it hit the wall and then the bedfoot. Now the little red glass box in which she keeps all her pretty things is blinking like the phone light because mother is holding it in front of the lamp, and her hands are shaking. And now it's flying across the room to the wall, and it hits, and it breaks into small pieces, all lying on the floor glinting sadly, among little bits of the pretty things. Ma's chest and stomach are breathing big and shaking, she looks very sad. Her hair is all flat now, but all messy and tangled. She's closed her eyes and sitting-lying on the sofa, and two lines of tears are coming and dripping down her face, like the tap in the bathroom which doesn't stop, however tightly you close it. Maybe I should ask her whether aunty has been bad, or somebody else. But it might be rude. Father says that you shouldn't ever, ever be rude, even if you don't mean to be. But Father isn't here to ask her nicely. Father hasn't come back from his work. I hope he brings me a nicer book this time- he's two days later than normal. Maybe Pintu can phone Sara aunty about mother, and ask her to come. And maybe if I hug mother she'll feel better. She likes it when we go close to her, and Pintu also likes it. Maybe he can hug her. I don't want to, because it makes me feel squirmy and hurts inside and I want to run away. But you should do things you don't like for people you do like. It said so in some book. I hope mother's ok. Maybe she'll fall asleep like that. And then she'll be happy again. Her face will become all straight and smooth, and her mouth will open very small-ly, and Pintu won't have to cover his ears any more.
Mother is dead. The aunty from school who talks in sign language told me, and she is staying here today, to tell me what all the aunties and uncles are saying. She said she'll tell me what it means when everybody goes away again. Mother's room is empty, but it's very clean, and all the clothes that lie around and her smell are not there. I don't think mother is coming back. Like Father said he wasn't, that night when we asked him what to do because Mother was crying so much. Aunty said he might come back now, but I don't think so, because he said that gentlemen never go back on their word and he said he was a gentleman, and he never gave us his word that he would keep coming home, we just always thought he would, because he did, and he did give us his word about this. Sara aunty is also staying here now, because someone has to give all the people dressed in white some tea and talk to them. We have new clothes for the funeral tomorrow, but this time we have to sit in front, so I'll be able to see what all those people say to the long box. But now I don't much want to know about it any more, and I don't want to sit in front, and I don't want all these white people in the house. And the lady doesn't understand our secret jam-and-cereal sign, and everybody cries a lot and I'm feeling hungry and Pintu isn't letting me into his room. I think I know what noise sounds like now. This hungry, angry feeling, where nobody understands anything, and everybody is all confused and sad and talking to hear something they can understand. Now I want to sit in a corner with my hands on the sides of my head, pressing, pressing, till my head hurts outside so that it won't hurt inside anymore.
Her eyes are big, and very black, though they are actually brown. Her hair is flying up because of the fan, but also because when you are angry, your hair is supposed to do this, so that people can tell. My hair is too short to stand up, but that's okay because I don't get angry. The skin on her face is all scrunched up onto her forehead, and her mouth is stretched very big and wide so that the words can come out properly, and loudly, both sideways and upways. Her ears are turning red from the shouting, since she's closest to it. Her fingers are digging into the sides of her stomach. It must be hurting her, but maybe she wants it to so that the other pain in her head that makes her shout so loudly will go away.
She's shouting at auntyfromnumberfourteen, who came over to give us biscuits she baked. Every time aunty comes to give us biscuits, she stays to tea for a long time and eats half of them. And the rest of them get soggy and soft because they sat on the plate too long, and mother doesn't let me eat them. this time, mother is doing all the talking, though. But the biscuits are getting cold anyway. Maybe I can wriggle there and get them. Pintu is crouching in a corner of his room, upstairs, holding his ears. I never need to hold my ears. I can't hear anything. Maybe he'll feel better if he has a biscuit.
Mother is crying. Her mouth is stretched only long now, she's saying confused things. She's holding the sides of her head very hard, as though she does not want to hear anything again, ever. She's standing by the bed, and the phone is lying on the floor, but she hasn't switched it off and the little red light is blinking very fast, ever since it hit the wall and then the bedfoot. Now the little red glass box in which she keeps all her pretty things is blinking like the phone light because mother is holding it in front of the lamp, and her hands are shaking. And now it's flying across the room to the wall, and it hits, and it breaks into small pieces, all lying on the floor glinting sadly, among little bits of the pretty things. Ma's chest and stomach are breathing big and shaking, she looks very sad. Her hair is all flat now, but all messy and tangled. She's closed her eyes and sitting-lying on the sofa, and two lines of tears are coming and dripping down her face, like the tap in the bathroom which doesn't stop, however tightly you close it. Maybe I should ask her whether aunty has been bad, or somebody else. But it might be rude. Father says that you shouldn't ever, ever be rude, even if you don't mean to be. But Father isn't here to ask her nicely. Father hasn't come back from his work. I hope he brings me a nicer book this time- he's two days later than normal. Maybe Pintu can phone Sara aunty about mother, and ask her to come. And maybe if I hug mother she'll feel better. She likes it when we go close to her, and Pintu also likes it. Maybe he can hug her. I don't want to, because it makes me feel squirmy and hurts inside and I want to run away. But you should do things you don't like for people you do like. It said so in some book. I hope mother's ok. Maybe she'll fall asleep like that. And then she'll be happy again. Her face will become all straight and smooth, and her mouth will open very small-ly, and Pintu won't have to cover his ears any more.
Mother is dead. The aunty from school who talks in sign language told me, and she is staying here today, to tell me what all the aunties and uncles are saying. She said she'll tell me what it means when everybody goes away again. Mother's room is empty, but it's very clean, and all the clothes that lie around and her smell are not there. I don't think mother is coming back. Like Father said he wasn't, that night when we asked him what to do because Mother was crying so much. Aunty said he might come back now, but I don't think so, because he said that gentlemen never go back on their word and he said he was a gentleman, and he never gave us his word that he would keep coming home, we just always thought he would, because he did, and he did give us his word about this. Sara aunty is also staying here now, because someone has to give all the people dressed in white some tea and talk to them. We have new clothes for the funeral tomorrow, but this time we have to sit in front, so I'll be able to see what all those people say to the long box. But now I don't much want to know about it any more, and I don't want to sit in front, and I don't want all these white people in the house. And the lady doesn't understand our secret jam-and-cereal sign, and everybody cries a lot and I'm feeling hungry and Pintu isn't letting me into his room. I think I know what noise sounds like now. This hungry, angry feeling, where nobody understands anything, and everybody is all confused and sad and talking to hear something they can understand. Now I want to sit in a corner with my hands on the sides of my head, pressing, pressing, till my head hurts outside so that it won't hurt inside anymore.
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