27 January 2024

Special

As I sit in this coffee shop, I can’t help but look. I look at the smudges and sticky rings on the tables and counters. I look at the yellow tube lights and smile at the warm glow they give off. I look at the month’s specials scrawled in a large, legible, loopy hand on the chalkboard. I wonder who takes the time to make that sign.

I picture a young, underpaid barista clocking in for an early shift. It’s her job to open the store, turn on all the lights, rearrange the chairs, turn on the coffee machine, perhaps. She wipes everything down with a moist sponge, erasing what little dust would have coated the furniture overnight. Is she the one who draws the vines and flower petals that frame the day’s specials?

I picture her stretching to draw the higher parts of the image, juggling sticks of chalk, each one a different hue. In one hand, she holds a glossy flyer that lists the specials of the month. She looks down, wrinkles her brow, and then focuses on the board. She pauses to imagine what the final product would look like. The first time the manager asked her to do it, she had been given an outline and told to memorise it. At first, she had to keep glancing at it to make sure she wasn’t deviating from the prescribed design. She needn’t have bothered. Her manager never noticed her mistakes except for this one time when she’d lost the pink chalk. She decided to use blue instead for the vague, unidentifiable berries that grew on the vines just above the large capital “S” in “Specials”. Her manager had stared at the board for a few seconds, frowning—then turned and gave her a hard stare, saying nothing. She apologized, staring at her shoelaces the whole time, and got a curt nod in response. And that was it. Still, she was a people-pleaser. She made sure never to repeat the same mistake twice.

When she quit her job because her family was moving out of the city, she had expected some kind of goodbye. Nothing much, but at least some kind of acknowledgement. All she received were bored, half-distracted instructions to teach her replacement how to write the specials on the board.

16 January 2024

In the New Year

The leaves of fresh progress grow green in the new year.

The flabby folds of dreams grow lean in the new year.

 

My handwriting sticks together at winter’s end.

Its ample curves are so obscene in the new year.

 

Streams of black ink flow down politicians’ brows.

How shamelessly they shine and preen in the new year!

 

Demagogues turned real estate agents burn down mosques

And squat on peacock thrones, serene in the new year.

 

The émigré turns to Bharat like it’s Mecca.

The slums he remembers are clean in the new year.

 

All my socks have holes as big as exercise shoes.

I swear, such voids will not be seen in the new year.

 

Metacognitive pundits meditate out loud.

They count breaths in cups of caffeine in the new year.

 

Aged Merlin, they say you live life in reverse.

Tell me, where have your whiskers been in the new year?

 

My selfish heart saw need and looked the other way.

It will beat for all now…I mean… in the new year!

 

The next revolution will not be televised.

It will be streamed on your phone screen in the new year.

 

The dove flies in circles in its gilded birdcage.

Even Chaplin turns into Wayne in the new year.

 

Sameer—come, come—you must turn over a new leaf!

Your glasses must boast a new sheen in the new year.

05 January 2024

Image

Like watercolours fading with time,

My imagery has dried up.

The sights and sounds of my imagination

Are closed for repairs.

Now, only stillness remains--

Like light shining from an old photograph

That you pinned to my corkboard

Before you were gone.