Secret lover

​A lover waits for me at the
Dark end of a green
Road, under a dead tree.

I said hello to a catatonic face
Craving, for a lovers touch.

Walked, into the horizon.

Our demons, bonded faster than us.

Like darkness and light, our fates
Intertwined, to build a nightmare web.

We stumbled into hell and parted
Ways on the end of a highway
Fork, to meet at the next junction.


“There are more fish in the sea.”

Subramanya Swami, that was the name of my gold fish. It was the only fish that survived in the bubble like gold fish bowl on the dining table for a year. Many fish came by and they went, some looked just like it and the others nothing like it. But Swami was one for solitude.

Into the bowl of bright orange base came another fish, darker than a new moon night, eyes brighter than the sun, and moved like an angel of the darkness in the bowl. But that too disappeared in to the darkness of the night. 

One evening a cousin had come to leave a big ugly fish in the bubble because it terrorised the other fish in her aquarium. It was a nasty looking thing and was almost as big as the bowl. During dinner I went to feed Swami; but swami was already this awful fish’s dinner. All that lay on the bottom of the bubble was a headless body.
I threw tantrums and fights about the fish being taken away and when we got back from our vacation, he was still there in the bubble. “Either the fish stays or I stay.” Threw an ultimatum at the family and went to bed. The next morning, big darky was floating in the bubble.


I want to be admitted to a hospital. No, not a mental hospital, visiting hours there is horrible. I want to be admitted for something physical like a broken bone, appendicitis or some other surgery because we’re not equipped to deal with the injuries to mental health.

After the surgery I’d be placed in an semiprivate ward, where there would be another patient and his family, with whom we’d make a single serving friendship. We’d share meals, gossip, dark secretes (not that dark also) and phone numbers that we’d never use.

After the surgery I’d have all my relatives, family and friends (if I have managed to not piss them off) waiting to see me. I’d be passed out and under observation in the ICU or if it’s nothing that major I’d bed in a ward bed couple of hours later. Once I regain consciousness I’ll be flocked by a lot of family members, aunts, uncles, both my great aunts, my mother’s oldest brother (for as long as he lived), my brothers (when they were still alive), and sister. My grand mother didn’t ever show up, and nobody ever complained.

The many white polythene bags will be filled with fruits, bread and rusk. Sometimes smaller paper bags carrying sapota or grapes fills the room up with it’s aroma. There would be another big jute bag from Anugraha / Anuyogya (clothes stores my family shopped frequently from) or some clothing store with two steel plates, spoons, a bowl, blanket, towels, steel water glasses, knife, Thermos, clothes, and anything else they felt would be required for someone who’d be staying the night.

I have watched my mother or aunt (Dad’s older brother’s wife) pack such bag on multiple occasions for the night because someone met with an accident, tried to kill themselves (has happened often), is having a surgery, or giving birth. My aunt with the hardened facial expressions, moving around the house and packing things or my mom is panic or grief stricken and deals with the moment by distracting herself with the packing and making calls regularly.

It wasn’t scary or worry some as a kid because I was very confident the adults would fix it, because adults and they could fix everything, right?
My fear for hospitals only arrived with an awareness towards death, simply that people who die don’t come back and if I miss someone who’s dead I can’t just call them up, listen to their voice and feel okay, because…

This fear gained more strength when my brother died, I sat with his lifeless body in the ambulance while everybody else was crying, shrieking, and getting things in place for the funeral. I cried too, to my hearts content and this is probably the only reason I’ve been able to accept he’s dead and not try to reason that his death is a conspiracy theory.
I wish as kids we weren’t inculcated with this awkwardness for touch, because I’ve never hugged my brother but once on my birthday he held me awkwardly and that’s the only thing I have to hug.

The fear of hospitals only got worse when my Uncle (mum’s oldest brother) suffering from liver cirrhosis was in the hospital. Looking at him as anything less than his grand and majestic self seemed was too painful, so I never visited him at the hospital.

Hospitals and I shared a very awkward relationship, I’d go to one only if I was too sick to go ahead with daily routine. Then I visited a friend at a hospital and it was so hard to keep myself together and not fall apart.

But days later I constantly put myself in a hospital and realised how much I miss some of aunt’s or uncle’s who won’t come under the same roof without bickering unless someone died, is dying or hospitalised.

Random guy

It’s still not complete, pretty bad form. It’s the first draft and I hope to write more and give the story a better shape.

Hands, fingers, nails, and a lot of blood, nothing made sense. I dropped to the floor, my skinny butt hurt from the crash but my face didn’t twitch. I stared at the lifeless body –at least what was left- of once a very pretty girl with a beautiful mouth and lovely lips; aesthetically she’s prettier now. This was four years ago, and even today the rush feels just as good.


The original Pokémon theme song shouted out of the phone, “I want to be the very best, that no one ever was…” and he dips his hands in the bucket and wipes his hands dry before picking up the phone. It was his mother, “Yes mum, I did eat and will be heading out for a walk in the evening. Okay, I’m busy now will call you at the usual time. Bye mum, ya I will… BYE.”

Picked up the carving knife, to carve out the flesh and meat of her bones because it was time to get rid of the body. I made sure there was no evidence that she and I were here right now, after 13 bodies and counting and they still don’t have a single clue. I know what I’m doing right, and it’ll stay that way at least for now, I will want the attention and take all the due credit my work deserves in the end, but just not right now.

The boning knife was wearing out will have to go to the guy next ‘Shakti Super market’ but the store guy did want some liver kababs after our last conversation when he was sharpening the chef’s knife. This is one beautiful liver, well that’s sorted. The bones can be melted, will pack the flesh, muscles and skin in the respective bags. I will drop the meat bags off with the zoo meat supplies and they will not suspect and feed the meat I steal to the dogs outside the butcher’s store. Her hair goes to cancer donation, like the others. Her head and the rest will land up at the bottom of a brick furnace and cleared before they get there, the usual. I’m washing down the blood and her clothes going to be donated after washing and cleaning and the shoes each one in a random part of the city, that will reach the garbage pile.

The landfill was a beautiful place to burn the bodies, till the city had too much waste and now had their butt’s people there all day and night. But that did help discover the over-night burning brick kilns and I guess it’s time to find a new spot for the burning. Sneaking bodies into the electric crematorium still sounds brilliant, but to get the night guard job there I need those fake papers which are still not ready.

I’m done cleaning at least, time to enjoy my joint and I think I’ve heard enough Pandit Ravi Shankar, it’s time to let the Rock star M S Subbalakshmi kick some ass.


In the Staffroom of the XYZ International School

“Isn’t he that quiet English teacher, who helped us with the exam organising that day. He was polite, not too creepy, and always playing Pokémon on his phone or smelling flowers in the reception?” asked Shardha, a high school science teacher.

“Yes, but the police say he confessed and has a list of names of all his victims and given them a diary detailed with how each one was killed and disposed” said Lavanya, the History teacher.


In one of the XYZ School classroom

“But he was always talking about things with passion and said our country is sexist and made so much sense! He couldn’t have killed, tell me he’s been set up” said a sobbing random teenager.

“He is awesome, but like we don’t know anything and shouldn’t be so hasty in judging people” said the other random teenager.