Discovering the Power of Minimalism

Raymond Carver (1938–1988) stands as one of the most influential American short story writers of the 20th century.

Carver transformed ordinary lives. Failed marriages, economic struggle, and quiet desperation turned into profound literature through sparse, precise prose. His stories feel like fleeting photographs. Unflinching, intimate, and deeply human.

Carver’s breakthrough collection What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (1981) redefined contemporary fiction. 

Edited by Gordon Lish (expect a post on him), these stories showcase his signature minimalist style. Short sentences, withheld information, and endings that linger like smoke. 

In "Cathedral," a prejudiced man’s worldview cracks open during an evening with a blind visitor, culminating in one of literature’s most moving final paragraphs:

“I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything. It was like nothing in my life, the place where I was.”

Another favorite, "A Small, Good Thing," explores grief, misunderstanding, and unexpected kindness in the aftermath of a child’s death. Carver’s later work, especially in Cathedral (1983), shows a subtle shift toward redemption and grace while retaining emotional honesty.

His own life was marked by alcoholism, poverty, and eventual sobriety. All that infused his writing with authenticity. As he once reflected: “I’m a writer who is interested in the drama of ordinary human beings.” 

 How To Sell Your Soul

For the life of me, I couldn’t say anything helpful or sympathetic to Rashi. Because we were partially hidden from other people in the park, I placed my arm around her delicate shoulders and held her tight. After a long moment of hesitation, she relaxed and threw her slim frame against mine. She silently sobbed into my hands till she ran out of tears and breath. I waited for her to say something, but she wouldn’t say a word, not today.

“I am with you no matter what you do,” I said.

Rashi sat still, as if trying to match her breath against mine. It grew darker and quieter in the park, and the pole lights blinked on along the walking track, among the trees and beyond the vast park. The massive neem trees with their entangled branches above us threw strange shadows as a light November breeze caught on. The chill had begun to set in. Most people shuffled up from the slatted benches around us and made for the gate.

“Let’s go,” Rashi finally made up her mind and shook my wrists.

We walked swiftly out and climbed into her plush SUV. She drove straight to the hospital. It was almost dinner time, well past the official visiting hours, when she parked in the dank, poorly lit basement. The corridors along the special rooms were shiny clean, and deserted as we walked out of the elevator on the seventh floor. Rashi held my hand and showed her Family Entry Pass to the security guard on duty. We entered the soundproof, air-conditioned room 708.

The hiss of the respiratory machine was low and rhythmic. The heartbeat monitor showed a regular pattern - two irregular spikes of different height and elongated, lazy waves in between. The catheter hanging from the stand, with its tube running under the patient’s blanket was almost out of IV fluid. Without realizing, I held my breath against the smell of stale urine, antibiotics and overpowering disinfectant sprayed in the room. Rashi pulled the curtains and switched on another light to dispel the gathering gloom in the room.

Rashi’s father suddenly opened his distant grey eyes and struggled to lift his free hand under the hospital blanket. The blanket slid down from the bed and the old man lay there exposed and crumpled, various tubes running into his frail body, and his cotton gown pulled down at an absurd angle.

Rashi quickly grabbed the blanket and covered her father as I heard a series of discreet knocks on the door.

“Must be the nurse,” Rashi said without turning as she adjusted the tubes to a comfortable position.

I opened the door and let the nurse in. She asked us to wait outside till she cleaned up, and changed the bed sheets and catheter. Rashi and I waited in the deserted corridor.

“Dad has pleaded with me so many times, but I don’t have the guts,” Rashi said. “He could never ask this to anyone else. Not my brother, certainly not my kid sister. Mom is way beyond this. I am his favorite, the cursed one.”

I looked up and down along the long corridor. We had nothing to say to each other till the nurse walked out and signaled us to go in.

“He is awake, but do not make him talk if he doesn’t want to," the nurse said and left in a hurry.

Rashi’s father opened his eyes when we entered the room again. Rashi, the favorite daughter, ever so gently removed the transparent plastic tube from his mouth and kissed his shiny, sweating forehead. She whispered something gently in his ears. The father’s eyes came alive for a moment and tears rolled down his sunken, bluish cheeks.

“Water,” he tried to clear his throat and whispered after a moment of struggle.

Rashi reached for her purse and pulled out a fist-sized copper urn with Sanskrit engravings - the water of the holy Ganges. She deftly broke the soft metal lid. I held my breath as Rashi poured a few drops into her father’s dry, delicate mouth.

“Thank you dear. I trust you and your judgment. Now and forever.” His voice was breathless, scratchy, and barely audible.

Rashi held the old man in the crook of her arm and kissed his head again. Her face now totally devoid of any expression, she replaced the Oxygen mask on her father’s nose and looked at me for a second. She leaned on the instrument panel behind the headboard. I stood still, unable to react in any way. Rashi twisted the metal lever marked Oxygen to the Off position.

In less than five seconds, her father convulsed briefly and violently in her arms. The heartbeat monitor emitted a steady warning beep and showed a straight green line instead of the usual oscillations.

Rashi twisted the lever again to the On position and chose to wait for the nurse to make everything legal and official. She gently closed her father's popped eyes and straightened the blanket over his lifeless body.

© Copyright Mahendra Waghela

Summer in Ahmedabad reminds me of winter in Bhutan

        Last winter, I was in Bhutan, probably the happiest place on earth, and topper in the negative carbon footprint index. Our trek, the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop a mountain cliff like something out of a dream. 

        We started early from Phuntsholing, a town near the India border. The temperature hovered between 5 and zero degrees. Our group of six and our wonderful local guide Sonam. He wore the traditional gho — sounds ghostly, but at least it is pronounceable. This knee-length skirt-like garment is paired with a matching jacket that serves as the national dress. 

         We had seen the Nest’s photos in travel brochures: its whitewashed walls and golden roofs clinging impossibly to a sheer granite cliff, with a final heart-stopping drop (and climb) of 800 feet. The travel posters don’t do justice to the reality. Or the challenge. 

        Our base Paro, the nearest pronounceable town, is a picturesque valley settlement straight out of a fairy tale, with small restaurants, a disco(!!!!), and squeaky clean streets lined with antique shops and cafe-bakeries that serve pink butter tea as thick as it can get. 

        Three of us were over sixty, including a retired policeman from Kerala and his friend. The night before the hike, they opted out. That left a young Marwari couple on their honeymoon, an IT girl from Bangalore who had undergone a cosmetic surgery, our sporty 40-something guide and yours truly.

        The early dinner turned dramatic and a bit sad. The newlywed couple fought at the table. The bride broke down and cried. The level-headed IT executive tried to console her. To ease the tension (and to cut back on my craving), I shared my sinfully rich cheesecake for dessert. I had bought it during the pre-dinner stroll and kept it in the fridge. I don’t know if it worked, but the couple decided to opt out of the Tiger’s Nest climb. 

         Our guide suggested a gentler trek for them and turned to the rest of us: “Do you still want to go? Three of us. Thin air, cold and steep climbs?” 

        We started before dawn. On an empty stomach. The trail was uneven, the air thin, and the views increasingly breathtaking as we progressed. The cold bit at our faces, but the anticipation kept us moving. I had tea, skipped breakfast, and deposited my heavy jacket, muffler, and thermos at the only restaurant on the way. 

        Now, the 8th-century lore about the nest. The great tantric master Guru Rinpoche (also known as Padmasambhava - probably pronounceable) brought Buddhism to the Himalayan kingdom. Unlike us, he didn’t arrive on foot or horseback. Instead, his enlightened consort, Yeshe Tsogyal (no, your pronunciation is wrong!), transformed herself into a flying tigress. On her back, Guru soared through the skies and landed in a small cave halfway up the sheer cliff. 

        For centuries, the cave remained hidden. In 1692, the Fourth Druk Desi (almost pronounceable!), secular ruler of Bhutan, Tenzin Rabgye (don’t try!!), ordered the construction of the magnificent monastery complex. Built in a few years without a single fatality (no small miracle, according to locals), the temples seem to defy gravity, clinging to the rock at over 10,000 feet above sea level. 

        Hours later, the guide and I reached the monastery all in one piece, tired but triumphant. Inside the temple, a tourist separated from his bunch cornered me and whispered, “I am from Hong Kong. Not China.” 

        The IT girl had wisely skipped the last 1000-odd steps. Sheer drop and climb. My knee brace felt like a burden by now. Climbing down was easier in the fading sunlight. We regrouped on the way and rode back in the waiting vehicle. 

         Back at the hotel (the best room with a view I have ever stayed in), I returned my climbing stick to the girl at the reception. She grinned and said cheekily, “My grandpa has done this climb many times!” 

PS. This is less about climbing and more about wanting to climb.

An unparalleled journey into the depths of darkness!

Ancient Curse features a handpicked selection of bone-chilling stories from horror authors around the world. My story Boomerang Scar in Volume Two!

A portion of proceeds goes towards the care of street animals.

ConversAn unparalleled journey into the depths of darAncient Curse features a handpicked selection of bone-chilling stories from horror authors around the world. My story Boomerang Scar in VolumAn unaprllel journey into the depa portion of proceeds goes towards the care of street animals.My story Boomerang Scar in this anthology of the best horror writers from the world. Lulu link in the sidebar.

 Results In: The Judgment Day

The results came in on the net at 7.30. I downloaded the file at the cafe and returned home at about 9.30. Only my younger sister knew the exact date and time, most probably. I walked into the front door and froze for a moment because Dad was on his first whiskey, going by the level in the bottle. It was not Friday, but it was one of those nights for Dad. He may have more than two but, there won't be ice or soda in the fridge, mom would make sure. Dad poured a spoonful of ketchup on his chips and sprinkled black pepper on the salad as if there was no tomorrow. He emptied his tumbler. Chini walked in and stood over the proceedings without fear of repercussion because being the youngest daughter, she had some advantage over us.

"Dad, Mom says dinner is ready," she announced as I slinked into my room. I stood next to the door, trying to catch the conversation. Beyond two drinks or 10.15 pm, dinner would be ice cold, my mother's iron-clad rule. Dad wouldn't go out after drinks or bother to turn on the stove to warm the food. Meaning I would go get something for him. That rarely happened. 

Chinni sat down next to Dad.

"Shanu results came on the net, a few hours back."

"11nth?" Dad asked and took a sip.

"12th. I am in 10th."

"Of course."

"No college in the city will take him under 90% on the mark sheet.

"Hmm."

"No one in the state will touch him for entrance if it's less than 70%."

"Hmm."

" Are you with me Dad?

"What's his score?"

"Dad, you know this, he tells no one. This is not a test match score we are talking about."

"Hmm."

"You should be talking to the nutjob girl he is moving with. Her dad works in RTO. He can get you a driving license without showing up. Changes his car every two years."

"Is that how you want your license? Without a test?"

"No. I am for the test."

"Later. I'll finish dinner soon."

"You'll forget by the time you eat dinner." 

Chini answered her phone and went out to see her friends nearby.

I closed the door and waited behind the wall as the TV volume went up. Finally, my dad walked in and sat down on a chair facing my table, diagonally across the bed. I silenced the game on the phone.

"Chini reminded me. Who knows? But I might forget this conversation or your score in the morning."

Dad has two distinct modus operandi. Immediate marching orders without much regard for the consequences. Or prolonged, studied silence till the moment is ripe for maximum damage to the opponent. I didn't have to wait.

"Do you have the printout or do you see it on-screen these days?"

Untitled Chef

A glossy cookery book, not a grown man’s hunger,

That cast an irrational, evening spell

And set the strange chain reaction of

Wayward memories and misty images.


The aroma of onions rings fried to golden brown perfection,

That mixed with the special dough fermented overnight

To achieve a rare, fluffy consistency the following day.


The Interminable wait as I sneaked around our cramped kitchen

Eyeing the old-fashioned pressure pan on blazing blue gas flame,

Forgetting the coins on my carom board and my classroom buddies.


The steaming dish would finally arrive on Formica centre table;

Thick, round, sizzling, crunchy monster masala handwa loaf

Laden with dabs of melting butter and spices on top,

And a deep China saucer full of secret-recipe chutney,

Held with the wrinkled white hands and smile of my shiny-eyed mother.

How to Sell an Eight Million Apartment

I climb in carefully from the passenger side. The swanky car smells as if it is barely out of the show room. What is she making as an estate agent? I wonder as I try some small talk with ever-smiling Nina. 

“You didn’t sound so young, organized and efficient over the phone.”

Nina shoots me a sideway glance and shift gears with a veteran’s ease.

"Both sides of my family have an army backdrop. If that could be an explanation.” She turns the car into a side street and parks outside the apartment block.

"I have the keys,” she tells the uniformed security guard.

The elevator takes us to the fifth floor and she rings the door bell on 501. A short man with a paunch and powerful smell of Brute about him opens the door and says "hi" in a thin, precise voice.

 
I can’t possibly afford this, I tell myself as soon as I enter. The hall is larger than the apartment I currently live in. 

"This way," Nina leads me to the terrace lined with potted palms and terracotta tubs of Marigold. "Nice view of the Jogger’s Park on one side, school compound on the other side. Plenty of sunlight from this side and excellent ventilation all over the place. 

"One bedroom on either side of the drawing room," Nina says as we walk into the master bedroom. 

Dusty furniture is stacked in a corner. The double bed is covered with suitcases and stacks of old COSMOs and Vogues.

I draw the velvet curtain to look outside. 

Nina is right behind me. She knocks on the glass pane. "Air tight and insulated. No traffic noise. See?"

She takes me to another bedroom that too looks unused and dusty. 

I check the night lights and taps in the bathroom. Then we walk over to examine the kitchen.

"Black marble platform, double exhaust fans and electric chimney. I know you like it," Nina tells me with a smug smile.

The short man with Brute smell reappears. He smiles a cryptic smile and lets us out from the drawing room. 

“He has fifteen like this. He treats the real estate business as stock market. The cycle is longer, needs deeper pockets and steadier nerves, that is all. He has lawyers. Powerful friends in local registry and banks. He has a dozen agents like me who works for commission.” Nina informs me in the elevator. 

“What do you mean?”

“He waits to sell till the market hits upper circuit. He buys whenever there is a slump. Every thing is safe. Legally protected, frequently funded by banks, marketed by experts like me,” Nina winks.

We are out of the compound gate now, standing next to Nina’s silver blue Skoda. 

“I can drop you at the taxi stand on the way. When do you want to shift your household?”

I shrug, still very much non committal. “Eight million is way up for me. I can use a smaller apartment. We are just two of us, me and my husband.”

“Let’s talk in the car.” Nina turns the door key and climbs in. I follow.

Nina points at the apartment building as if it is Taj Mahal. “Look! This is made for you.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“I will knock off fifty grand or half percent from my commission. More discounts if you do something right.”

“I am not in a hurry really. Let the prices come down.”

Instead of starting the car, Nina turns sideways and looks in to my eyes. She is not smiling anymore. 

“Your second cousin Joseph. How often do you meet?”

“Joseph Gonzales.... who works in some IT or telecom company? How do you know him?” 

“Through his girl friend. Her name is Elsie.” 

“I don’t know her.” 

“Like Elsie, we are Ismaily Khoja, not more than five hundred odd family in this six and half million strong city. Our community is getting smaller because of too many marriages out side the cast, like Parsis.” She licks her lips, pauses to let it sink. “We are a smart, sensible, business community. We don’t fight. We don’t go to court. We have an informal committee that is much swifter than the government courts. We patch up, make piece and pull up, get help for each other.”

“That’s good but…”

“Elise is pregnant with your Joseph’s child and he has to marry her. Someone will put one fourth for your apartment if your Joseph says yes to the marriage proposal.”

“My Joseph?” I laugh nervously. “Two million for convincing my second cousin to marry the girl he has made pregnant? I don’t know Joseph all that well but I can try…”

“They can marry abroad. In the US it doesn’t matter if a woman bears a child six months after the marriage. They will be a happy couple, I know that for a fact.” 

“How do you know he is going abroad?”

“The company will send him. He will earn in dollars when most of them are accepting pay cuts or loosing jobs out there.”

“That’s nice but how…”

“Somebody owns twenty percent of the company Joseph works in. Things can happen.” Nina inserts the keys into ignition and releases the clutch.

I look away. An elderly man is walking out of the gate with a shiny Labrador. The dog sniffs the ground and drags the owner behind him.

“Have you met Sheila Mukadm lately?” Nina spits the question at me.

“Sheila? How does she come in this?”

“Your maternal uncle’s niece. She has two adorable kids, third on the way, her husband is working in a five star restaurant kitchen…” 

We are on the main road now.

“Yes, of course.”

“Her husband can lose his job, can get transferred to Beijing, he can walk out on her…”

“Wait a minute, what is happening? That wasn't an arranged marriage for sure. They met during college, he courted her for five years for all I know. That was a love marriage. "

“This too will be a love marriage, your Joseph and my Elsie.” 

Something is churning violently in my stomach and it probably shows on my face as I say:

“I love it. I want this apartment.”

   

A Grassroot Solution

It is two thirty in the morning and the place is quieter than a tomb. Four full-blooded man are locked inside the hostel room, all of them under twenty five, and in various stage of drunkenness. One of them is myself, yours truly.

The air inside the room is thick enough to choke a diehard smoker. No one has spoken a word since Hardik's phone rang. The call was from one Mr. Kasim. He has promised to sort out everything if we do what we are told to do. He is the point man controlled and recommended by Hardik's father.

Our collective adventure last weekend has gone terribly wrong and we are supposed to travel in different directions within next few hours and not get in touch with each other for six months or more. The girl's father has lodged an FIR at the district head quarter near Bhopal, stating that his daughter was gang raped by four unidentified thugs from the Maulana Azad Institute of Technology. According to Mr. Kasim's information, the girl managed to swipe the college ID of one of us. Police will be here soon.

Hardik is second-oldest and a natural leader among us. His father is a class one gazette officer who has survived five changes of government and thirteen transfers across the country. He know the system, its joints, and the special lubricants that make it work.

Unlike any other night, Hardik tosses his drink into the wash basin and looks at us, like we are his sworn enemies. "If anyone can get us out of his mess, it is my father and his network." Hardik speaks in a trembling, low whisper as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His thin frame and shrunken chest not withstanding, he reminds me of a determined boxer in his final rounds.

Mohan ignores us and gets up from his chair. His cut-off jeans and torn T shirt make him look like a charity case but his father owns a string of sugarcane farms and molasses factories along the Ratnagiri belt. He chain smokes Bristol and he is known as Loaded M in and around the campus. He can catch the next plane to Tahiti or Bahama if he wants to.

Hardik fixes his gaze on Mohan. "You are not going anywhere till the we turn this right side up."

"I had to accompany you that fateful Friday, as if I can't get laid any other way," Mohan tosses a butt out of the window and lights another cigarette.

I see a thin opportunity to make a point here. "No way I can travel out of my state, my brother is getting married in the next month."

"No way, indeed," Prakash (not his real name) joins our conversation and scratches his arm. His face wears a clouded, uncertain look. He is a member of Lal Zanda-his nick name for the communist party of India, and writes in a four page monthly pamphlet no one reads.

Hardik looks down and studies his battered Reebok before speaking. "Prakash, you are the one who planned the little picnic and promised us that it will be harmless fun. What is the alternative you have to keep us out of the jail?"

Praksh looks at me.

"I need a job after the college more than anyone of you. Police case will result in instant professional suicide. And my old man, my family, I don't want to think about it," I say.

"Everyone wants out, but how?" Mohan asks no one in particular and drags hard on his cigarette.

Prakash takes a minute before reacting. "I know a way out of this. She, the girl will survive. She doesn't know us by face. It was too dark and she will be in shock for a long time. I will take care of her."

"You will take care for her? To bury something like this is hard, if not impossible," I say.

"Kasim know the system inside out. From local constable upwards. PSIs. Sarpanch. DIGs. District Judges. Ministers and the people who can make the files appear and disappear at will," Hardik says. "We just have to pay up fast, that's all."

"How do I tell my old man that I need Rs 5 laks for pocket money this month? That too here and now?" I spill the rum in my hand as I imagine the maddening scene with my school teacher father.

"We have a day or two. Kasim can buy some more time. I can pay something upfront on my own and Mohan can chip in a bit. Don't worry about that," Hardik looks hard at Mohan and turns to me.

"What is the alternative?" I ask. "Apart from the dough delivery?"

"Self immolation." Mohan spits the flakes of tobacco in the wash basin and glares at me.

"I never thought she could go to police. She was almost enjoying it by the end," I say.

"She will enjoy the court proceeding even more." Hardik says. "You don't know these things. Do you remember that girl in the Baroda riot case who became the national media icon overnight? Everyone loved her and lapped up everything she said. Whatever she said."

"There is no way this tribal specimen can make anything stick to us."

"If the investigation does not start, that is."

"There is another possibility." Prakash says.

"Oh yes?"

"I marry her."

For a minute none of us know how to react. Hardik sits down on the window ledge and looks out at the night sky. Prakash looks dead serious.

Hardik turns his head and looks at Prakash, speaks for all of us now. "You are nuts. You are the one who suggested the cheap-tribal-girl-in-the-dark-woods idea. You are the one who made a deal with her tribe. Your contact paid them to shut up and apparently, they didn't stop a thing."

"I can marry her if I get the money you are going to pay out there. Believe me, in the long run, you will go over budget."

"Assuming that you are not insane, what is the guarantee that she will not talk and case will be buried after she becomes Mrs. Prakash."

"I am a tribal, not far from that village. I know the customs. I know their psyche and their limitations because that's where I come from. I can see this through without any hang ups, without looking back. I am going back to my roots. I will raise corn and rice, become a farmer again and never see the wind tunnels, flight simulators and you guys again." He looks at us in turn, his face rigid. "What are the alternatives you have if everyone here can't pay up and disappear without a trace?"

No one in the suffocating room has an answer for that. Prakash doesn't look like an aeronautics engineer anymore; he looks like a brown skin tribal man from a dusty Hamlet of mud huts we have never seen. He shakes his head, clears his throat before speaking. His voice is cool and precise now.

"I don't have to wait for the result date to find out I haven't got through the final, I know that for sure."

I believe him because we are in the same class, stay in same hostel room. After years in the making, he still can't get through the most basics of math and formulas. He is lagging behind in every semester. I have written half of his research papers. Despite being his best friend, I have to say this - a reserved ST class or a BC is forever.

"What will you do with the money?" I ask the stupid question to fill the deathly silence.

Prakash's face goes blank. "What can you not do with half of that money," he asks in return. "It's a different world out there. You can travel ten kilometres on a bullock cart for a cigarette. Change a course of life for a few thousand."

Hardik takes control again and stomps his Reebok on the floor. He decides for all of us. "Okay, let's do this."

So we come to an agreement that should save every one's careers, reputations, well being and future. There will be no records, no loose ends, no cross connections, no reunions and hopefully, no memories.

A Call After Midnight

These little flash jobs are great exercise in plotting. Nine out of ten times you know beforehand if the extended version will be able to hold reader's interest, or it will fall apart like a cardboard cutout. While writing the compressed piece, you also test your passion, commitment and stamina to write the full version that can take months, if not years to develop. If you, as a writer, don't find it worth sticking to, the reader definitely won't.
............................................................................................................

A Call After Midnight

Madonna in black velvet costume disappeared. Bulls charging at her stopped dead and fell into yellow dust. Wild roar from the stadium turned into a shrill, incessant ring of a telephone.

I opened my eyes and absorbed the blurry details. Reflection of a blinking neon behind the drawn curtain confused my senses for a full minute. The outline of a dresser and ornate stool with cat's paws. Dull shine of the pewter water jug sitting on the night stand. I was in a hotel room, Grand Central, Simla. Despite the woolen blanket I felt the shiver run down my spine. I found the remote from under the pillow and switched off the AC.

It was the hotel phone, not my mobile that was tearing the smooth, surreal quiet of the hour. I switched on the night lamp and looked at my watch. Who could that be at 2.30 in the morning. My mind felt numb but an important fact registered - only eight people in my world knew that I was in Simla tonight. Three out of them knew about my hotel. My wife would never call me except in case of emergency. Can a woman make up her mind about a divorce at three in the morning? I doubted it. Could it be Derreck Brown ? I was negotiating a contract with him since last four months. Do I get an outsourcing business worth thirty million or my company goes down under? His day in Germany begins when I have my evening coffee. It must be 10.30 in Frankfurt now. The last, the wildest and the most mind-numbing possibility - a versatile fixer who can put Michael Clayton to shame. He was the third person who knew my whereabouts because I happened to meet him in the lobby last night and we had drinks together. I had hired him 11 years back for a job that is unmentionable here. Can he call at this time to tell me something he couldn't tell in 11 years or after five pegs of whisky?

The throbbing in my head reached a crescendo as I pushed the blanket away and reached for the phone. It had stopped ringing.

Dear, You Should Be Near

I am missing someone. So here is my poetic license

................................................................................................................

Oh, what a sickly strange morning it was,
Milkman delivered a bottle of cold beer.
I saw a blue bird flying through the window,
It sang a sweet stanza I could barely hear.

The sun rose, tall trees shuffled in the wind,
Afternoon was no better, I could only fear.
I searched shapes of hopes, felt much worse,
How do I explain my plight—I am not a seer.

As the clock galloped, I waited and waited,
But I could feel only the spicy touch of a tear.
Then I saw through the blanket of loneliness,
The terrible truth is—Dear, you should be near.

..........................................................................................

The Business Of Life

I went under the 'Are you depressed' quiz developed by the University of Philadelphia. The verdict? Chronic. Immediate hospitalisation recommended.

Here is a story to match my mood.
.........................................................................................................

She took a quick shower and put on his favorite brown and black bra and matching panties. She splashed both sides of her breasts with fake Eternity. The doorbell rang when she was getting into her black gown. "Two short, three long. Him all right," she murmured and opened the door.

He lurched in. His beady eyes blood shot, breath full of cheap whiskey, faded brown hair over the furrowed forehead and shriveled tie half way across his polyester shirt. He whistled a Kishor Kumar tune from sweet sixties.

"Get me a drink." He handed over his briefcase and sat down.

She massaged his neck and asked in a small voice: "Hard day out there?

"As hard as it can get."

She poured a dose of whisky for him and sat down on the easy chair in front of him.

He gulped his drink in one swift tilt and looked around the dice-size room. A cheap plaster statue of Jesus was added to the small table by the door. He smiled and sprawled his fat self on the tattered sofa.

He lit a Charminar. His thoughts floated on the tired traffic noises.

"Women are either bitchy or witchy. What type are you?" He asked.

"That is some question. I am not bitchy, that makes me witchy."

"It figures. You scare me."

"Why do I scare you? I don’t get it." The woman smiled.

"I feel like I am playing in your hands." His voice was getting drowsy.

"I never try to-"

"That’s it. You make a soft putty out of me without really trying."

"I can’t argue with a drunk." She playfully punched his shoulder and removed his tie, then led him into her bed-size bedroom.

He put his head in her lap and stretched across the bed. She fingered his dry hair and pouted.

"Not tonight dear," he closed his eyes.

"It’s okay."

She patted his hairy chest as he started snoring. She carefully lifted his head and inserted a small pillow underneath. She kissed his feverish temple, turned on her side, and fell asleep in a moment.

Early afternoon noises penetrated her sleep. Instinctively, she reached for him before opening her eyes. He was gone.

His forgotten toothbrush and razor rested on the sink. She went to the door to get her milk pouch and noticed a folded paper tucked under the ashtray. She read the note: Please don’t do a lip-to-lip kiss with anyone else. Five hundred rupees were stapled to the perfumed note.

She kissed the note and stuffed the money in her purse. "Back to work," she mumbled and fought her tears.

She hated to do last minute errands before the business begun. She checked the wooden cabinet in her bathroom for scented soaps, Dettol and towels. She always kept condoms, silk ropes, handcuffs, and things in a handy plastic box. And one strip of Viagra in her tiny fridge for special customers.

"How cleverly I have separated my love and my work life!" She smiled and prepared for the night ahead.

..................................................................................................................

To Whomsoever It May Concern

I enjoy reading good poetry. Robert Frost is one of all time favorite. I like the work of late Mr. Arun Kolatkar, P. Surendran (very depressive) and Jeet Thayil. I am a hopeless fan of Tishani Doshi.

I write terrbile poetry but writing them them is very useful when I feel blocked. Probably because it is a practically sensor-free form. I don't have to show off my junk to anyone else.
This one has no claim to high brow literature; it is written for an entirely different reason.

To Whomsoever It May Concern - a poem in shape of a flower pot.




Instead of your slow smile,
or a warm, self-conscious hug,
I had to face that cloudy look
in your eyes.

You didn’t cry,
But it was worse.
Tears gleamed
Despite your
feminist bravado.

You smudged your
fautia lipstick by mistake,
And ran into bedroom while
I stood in the neutral territory,
Of our modest drawing room,
Under the eyes of nosy neighbors.

I felt like a thug who had kicked
a helpless child. I had broken the
promise to fetch you for a boring
done-to-death tearjerker movie.

You probably forgave me later,
But I could not, and learnt to
sleep through the tearjerkers
So that I do not have to see
the real thing in your eyes.

.............................................