Thursday, 19 June 2014

Wadjet

Amidst the breathless blabber of shares and finances floating over the massive oak slab, blanketed shamelessly by a traffic of ceramics with mouthwatering, pocket-unfriendly food, he gawped powerlessly toward her face. She had a 50s hairstyle, with her hair mysteriously covering the left side of her face. The opaque ringlets of her frenetic tuft made the coiffure look almost uncouth. Only, it didn't look rude on her - somehow, the lush gloom flowing from her crown flattered the grainy freckles around her nose. He was certain, it was fishy the way she'd styled her hair. He watched her move, table to table, with an insouciance that wasn't, in the least, shoddy. She wasn't beautiful, or pretty; well, not in the literal sense of it. He wanted her to wait at his table, wanted to see her up close. He wanted to notice her freckles, if they crowded just her nose or were they lightly sprinkled all over her face. Unable to tame his resistance any further, he asked for a refill for water. As soon as she tracked the origin of the request voiced, she came walking towards him. Even as she refilled his glass, and the others', his eyes stayed secured on her every manoeuvre. By the time she'd revolved around the entire counter, he noticed. He noticed. When the glut of her hair moved in rhythm as she was returning, he noticed. He noticed the deep pink weal, trekking right across her left cheek before it dived beneath its jawline. He saw her growing uncomfortable, he saw herself being noticed. He could sense her discomfort. He diverted his gaze, he didn't want her to think of himself as another of those eerie people who might have ever looked at her with any indifference. He saw. He saw, as she moved away. He saw her turn around to look back at him. It wasn't a smile, no. It wasn't the curve that he had been eyeing all through his meal. It wasn't the professional gesture she'd been flashing while waiting through the restaurant. It was a trivial uplift. Like an approval. 






Scars. Funny thing.
Ak. 

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Breathe. Inhale. Feel.

It poured, that day,
Not the kind that puncture,
Your skin, slightly,
Like the injuries, in the shower,
You trace, after you make love.
But, the ones that,
Fall indolently, nonchalantly,
Like a quick kiss, inaudible,
Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills,
The ones, in funny places,
On your head, feel cooler.

Wind blew that day,
Not the kind that jumble,
Your hair, wildly,
Like a tree, in autumn,
Dancing riotously, before its death.
But, the ones that, 
Whooshes blindly, drunkenly,
Like that beautiful, you saw,
On the grass that was rather yellower,
Wallowing, laughingly, lazily,
In the dress which shone brighter than her smile.

He smiled that day,
Not the kind that spin,
Your head, magically,
Like the tresses, under the sun,
Of that woman, in the red dress.
But, the one that,
Was slight, and effortless,
Like the way, you breathed,
From across that table,
When his eyes, from his coffee,
Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly,
In the light which was carnally dreamier than ever.



Flushed,
Ak.