First Published in Efiction India Vol. 02 Issue 08
The air is still. The room is empty. The dim glow of the light bulb
still continues to illuminate that lonely corner. The falcon still
cannot hear the falconer.
In that empty room filled with stagnant air sheltered by the darkness
the light bulb so conveniently nurtures with its embers, sits an eerie figure,
glasses in hand. A hand that is infected with a deadly rash dangles in front
of you, in front of me.
There are worms fat, round, thin, shy, hungry, greedy feeding on her.
The serpent consumes itself in the labyrinths of his mind, in the caverns
of silky soil. The ground beneath his feet is infected. They tell of a tale
only Samsa can hear, and Grendel and the whore of Babylon and the fallen
angel…
A silhouette shifts, rises and falls to the ground. The scene acts itself
out in silence, over and over again. Some stories need retelling to live.
Some need to be told to be forgotten.
‘There must be some kind of a way out of here’ the joker chants into
the fallen ears of the thief. The chanting grows violently strong, my ears
bleed, and the silhouette squirms like a worm. His body begins to coil.
Coils of memory unfold. The sea of stories surely gave birth to this
monster. The serpent struggles to consume itself.
In opposition to the shimmering slither of scales all around, a tender, plump arm is seen. It’s fair, untouched and sways in front of you, infected
with a rash of guilt, it seeks to haunt all of us. The silhouette grows feverishly
scared. His scales tell of a tale. A tale grotesquely different from that
of the severed nymph. Arms collide. The worm squirms. Guilt explodes.
A scene unfolds.
“It’s not mine.”
“It can’t be.”
“Grotesque, disfigured, lump.”
“It is your fucking fault. Whore. Demon. Sorceress.”
The phallus rises, grows, towers above the entities in the room, consumes
them and annihilates them, extinguishing them in a sea of rushing
blood, flesh and filth. A babe is thrown into the world, guiltless, thrown
out of it, guiltless. The child hovers, the falcon hears the falconer. The
second coming is almost here. The child is carried off to the bird’s den,
to live among beings that harvest the quill, the land of ideas, the land of
the real, it beckons her.
Some tales are told to be forgotten.
Blood rushes to its head as it falls.
The ground beneath her feet is cold.
***
The room is poorly lit, the silhouette rises, and moves around in frenzy.
The arm itches, the body burns, the eyes rot from within. Memory haunts.
Look who’s the grotesque, disfigured lump now. Tell me decipherer of
words has anyone forgotten laughter. No, no, no! The joker induces laughter
without laughing. The silhouette is caught up in the coils of memory. “Ahh! It hurts,” he screams.
The serpent devours itself. The whore sells herself. The fallen angel
explodes, there is light all around. The silhouette is obliterated. The guilt
remains, the shame remains. Its sole purpose is to haunt.
Darkness sets in once again. The stage is set for another protagonist.
The stage is set for another crime. The earth continues to dance around a
ball of fire. Guilt prepares to rise on the third day. Redemption is a myth,
salvation a bitter lie. The order of things are set. The worms are ready, fat,
round, thin, shy, hungry, greedy, they all gather. The curtain rises. The
lights search and find its prey. The show goes on.
