The Fourth Seat

  I first met Shimmy in 2017. He had moved in with my grandma when his previous owner relocated elsewhere. He growled at me first and then became playful, like all good home dogs. He would keep my grandma company throughout the day while everyone was at work. But at 7 PM when the Angel bell of Victoria Church rang, he would howl. We figured he was remembering his older master. He was a good dog after all. I kept meeting him every time I visited Mahim. And each time I would visit - we had the same routine - he would growl at me at first and then become thick friends throughout the evening. He would come to see me off till the main road and then run back home.  But in the Diwali of 2021, Shimmy ran away. Traumatised by the fireworks going off, he would often seek shelter elsewhere and return late at night. But this time he did not. For weeks, my cousin, aunts and uncle kept looking for him but to no avail. Then in January a friend of my aunt Hema casually showed her some photos ...

You are a dream. An impossible, recurring one. The sort that you expect on a particularly lonely night. It is set in the same wondrous locale where the buildings are of uneven sizes. There is no uniformity but the roads largely run straight, only to curve sharply when you least expect. In such a dream no one dies instantly but everyone is not fully alive either. No no, not the Zombie-type. You are more beautiful than death. The roads run around cliffs which overlook the sea, the kinds which you don't care about. Perhaps that's how much you think about me too. Not much.  I wonder if you ever wonder about such things. But dreams don't bother about who dreams them. Though the dreamers struggle with many different dilemmas. Neither of which concern the dream itself. You play hide and seek but I always lose. Though I also always play. I am not a big fan of losing but losing to you, I don't mind so much. Other dreams don't matter so much to me but you do. Such a strange b...

There are stories untold of the places I have been to which I cannot seem to tell.  Why? You might ask. What is so special about those places? Or perhaps there is nothing special at all. Maybe that is why you keep them hidden, like a secret. A skeleton in your backpack.  Oh nothing of that sort I retort. I have just lost my ability to tell you stories. Stories that sparked joy and mystique, perhaps even intrigue.  Why? You might ask. Have you lost the storytelling ability to the temptations of the predictable routine? Maybe you have just grown old and your memory is not keeping up. Like a forgotten old legend. Lore of the past lost to the annals of unrecorded history.  Oh nothing of that sort I retort. I have just lost all my listeners. They have flown away and are not fond of my stories anymore.  Why? You might ask. Are they not fond of stories or your stories drove them away? Like a broken record which keeps playing the same songs. A redundant showpiece. ...

  Is it the sound of silence  which keeps you up at night?  Is it the dying song of dusk Or the murmur of the midnight?  Would a lullaby help?  Or perhaps a bedtime story? Are these remedies of childhood of no use for the grown up you? Perhaps it is the day  which we need to worry about For it is what we do when awake Is what lets us sleep at night 

The clock would read after 9:30 pm. Some chatter would be going on the television. A Friday special movie, it could have been I don’t know. I must have been 8 or maybe 9. It was a routine which I was used to. No sign of my father anywhere. He would normally arrive by 7 when he worked in the Headoffice, earlier if he was nearby. But on certain days, on those days, when my mother would prepare fish or eggs for dinner, he would come later than his usual hour. After an evening out with the boys, as if it were. He would arrive post 9, sometimes around 10. That is how life was back then.  But I waited in anticipation when he would be delayed. He would not come empty handed. He would carry home a parcel. A parcel is what we now call a takeaway. A tandoori chicken - half or sometimes nothing but a Calcutta paan with a cherry in the middle, which we would refrigerate and savour after dinner. We would often wait for him to arrive, even though we knew he would have had something at the bar. B...

Far away, from here and far away from there. By the moonlit shores of Bombay. Where a gentle breeze always blows. There lies a wall. Which faces the sea. I often think about that spot. On which you and I sat. Speaking about nothing in particular. Watching the moon dance over the muddy waters. Slight sea spray on our faces. And a girl selling roses. Desperation in her eyes, tiredness in her limbs, hope and hunger keep her going in equal measure. We look away. Our life is better. We sigh. We hold hands under the golden necklace. Legs dangling over. We don't know what is life hereafter. Life is now, maybe life is never. Silence is good. But silence is not enough. Words fall short. But who needs words. When you have touch. Is touch enough? I am not sure and neither are you. Doubts and anger. A bumpy ride. In the Kaali peeli - our favourite. Words lie and so does my touch. What do we do now? Where do we go? Life is motionless but our minds keep racing. The sea is beautiful and so are yo...

Bonfires of bodies light up, the deathly night skies.  A storm within kills us slowly; Making us gasp for air  Tiny machines on our fingers, predict our fate now. Swabs, scans and pricks, confirm our worst fears.  The streets are silent. But for the ringing sirens. Death plays hide and seek; while panic reigns free. You and I try to sleep, dreaming of better days While a nightmare rages on; As we shut our eyes tightly.   "All our fault this is", we say we only let our guard down "What to do now, boss?" "Happens like that sometimes" we say Cocooned in our lies; We pretend that all is well. Help is here from near and far. "This too shall pass, soon someday" But you and I must awaken. From our slumber of delusion. For the time is now to not surrender; But rise to reclaim and conquer.