The Forbidden Seraglio

The dull sound of thunder far away suddenly rang out, disturbing yet again the uneasy quiet. The dingy seraglio in the basement suddenly lit up in frightening brilliance. Cobwebbed corners of walls; an ancient fan whirring noisily, emanating dust more than air; wooden boxes piled up one on top of another, untidily. A rat scurries on top of a box, nibbling rat-like at a tiny hole his forefathers had chewed into the tough wood and left behind for him to carry on widening. Layers of dust coat what had once been a floor of concrete, now just a beach of dust. A spider spins his yarn thicker and thicker onto the cracked yet solid walls. And then the flash of lightning. The skies conspire to reveal to the boxes hole rat spider dust cobweb walls: guests. A woman sitting cross-legged in a corner; corner newly devoid of dust, spider yarn. And cooped up, evidently asleep in her arms, a lump: Her child.

Fleshless, ragged, starving: the woman; plump, frightened, asleep: her child. The spider, slowly working his magician’s tentacles across the room, rests on the woman’s hair. Hair, once fine and cared for, now disheveled, dirty and greying. And the sorcerer spins on, spinning yarns of seclusion and lost promise on the unprotesting hair until hair and magic yarn become one and indistinguishable.

And then, the thunder and the rain outside are accompanied by another, duller, equally repetitive, unnerving sound: banging on the walls. Polite to begin with, then pleading, and gradually gaining in aggressive tenor, yet always beseeching and luring like sirens at sea, the banging breaks the monotony of rain, thunder, rat and spider. The child awakes from its deep slumber, clinging with alarmed fingers at the side of the mother’s rag. The woman holds it close, unwilling to let in an unknown intruder into her dingy haven.

Quietly, silently she waits.

Derozio Memorial Debate 2010: Behind The Scenes

Bang! Bang! Bang! I wake up. The century-old door to my hostel room is buckling under the pressure of some spirited banging. It’s Singh. I have a call. If you’re wondering what I’m doing in 2010 without a phone of my own, then the facts that I’m a heavy sleeper (or used to be) and that half a dozen missed calls don’t go far towards waking me up should suffice as an explanation. Back to the call. It’s Panickon. There’s a problem. I need to be in college in half an hour. I grunt back an affirmative.

Cut to an hour and a half later. I’m finally in college. Yet another breakfast skipped. The Principal’s room is dignifiedly serene. I rush across the room and enter the back-room we had made our office. ‘Dignity’ just disappears from the face of the earth, the word ripped out of every dictionary ever printed! Brace yourself: Gullu Eyes is sprawled on the floor, laughing maniacally at a joke he had himself evidently cracked. Panickon and Twilight are beside themselves in laughter. Veggie was standing in a corner, giggling and wondering what she was doing there. Napoleon had a bewildered look on his face; his blush meant he had been the butt of the joke. The latest budget sheet had weird elephants drawn all over them. There was a smiley at the end of an official looking letter. Elsewhere, the computer screen showed a distorted graphic of what was supposed to be the design for the newspaper ad, now edited beyond repair. Distant memory told me there was a problem? Yeah! But that’s another story! Welcome to DMD World.

Postcard from Far Away

A tiny box is hidden far away in a corner of a dusty cupboard. Feels like I have stored away memories of a time gone by. Out of sight yet never out of reach. Mere tokens today, what once meant so much? Yet more than just tokens. For was it just not yesterday when you had handed it to me, furtive eyes scanning the room, nimble hands thrusting it into mine? How much sand has flown through the hourglass since then? Neatly folded, fragrant with nostalgia; I rub off the dust to read. A hand I had read years ago to mock at. Only to long for it in due time. And although the turbulent land of my memories where you reside is worlds away from where I am happy and contented today, why is it that I hold on to your letter? And stranger is it not that I feel that you hold on to that copy of White Mughals? For love has died, and has been burnt away all that came with it. Yet I sit reading your verses, like a postcard from a stranger written long ago to an acquaintance I’d once known.