Lockdown Nightmares

Through the night 

I fight 

No sleep , forget "tight"

a strange plight 

Dark , not light 

yet 

toss and turn 

breath burn(s) 

Thoughts churn 

mind is an urn 

swirling flashes 

grains , ashes 

dreams are weird 

nothing is lucid 

a new term coined 

lockdown , sanity locked 

and downed /drowned ? 

fear paralyses 

Like mid sleep terrors 

inept   crooners

Putting rest 

to severe test 

 

 

Dreams

Lately , the dreams are upsettingly strange and vivid .
I mostly dream in the wee hours of the morning , when you are awake and not quite so . For the past week , a peacock has taken its temporary perch on the branch of gigantic eucalyptus outside . At precisely 4 am every morning , it calls out to its kith and kin , and yells a full throated war cry to the reddening sky . It might be a” good morning ” too , in fowl-ese . I don’t know . It is loud , piercing , and like a streaming liquid , it enters my dreams , through the cracks in my consciousness , and manifests strangely there .
Once it became the blood -curdling yell of a cannibal . On an other occasion , it became the call for solidarity , a marching beat , for a higgledy piggledy group of ragged soldiers .

My dreams are often infiltrated by today’s insecurities . Of Covid 19 news and deaths , debates and projections , lockdowns and curfew , sirens and slamming of doors. We are traversing uncharted waters and sleep is hard to come by . Any hastily snatched nap has a definite element of a nightmare .
In my dreams , I have negotiated flooded forest floors , clad in a nightie , with an umbrella for companion .
My better half is faring no better . Yesterday , I caught him groaning in his afternoon nap .Wide awake , I waited for the groans to end .
They didnt. On the contrary , they became more persistent and loud . Alarmed , I shook him awake . He says he was chasing a pack of black dogs off the terrace . Then he turned to his side and resumed peaceful . unbroken snoring .

The Peacock visits.

The peacock has stationed itself on a branch , high up in the tree , and gives a plaintive , enquiring call , every few minutes . Amazingly , the call is answered , from distant , unseen areas ,,by distant , unseen , cousins of the bird. 

It is a huge bird . And it has a powerful call . A call for attention in the midst of all that is going on in your kitchen , or life right now . A thunderous boom that derails your chain of thoughts , with the ease of an RDX explosion . 

Then , like all tourists , you film him . In the dark , it sits patiently quiet and still . You stow away your phone and the cawing /honking and moving around begins simultaneously . After five failed attempts , you realize , it cannot be a mere coincidence . The bird is playing you up . It can see you from its perch , doing all your silly little human things . Preparing dinner , washing your china , taking a walk on the terrace . 

Your online friends are not an equanimous lot . Some one is kind enough to croon "Ooh ! So lovely . You can see him in the perch . " 

Other reactions are not so kind .

"You live in a jungle bro . " Two min later "Of course , I meant paradise." 

" I can't see anything . You have mistaken a thick clump of leaves , for a peacock. Peacock indeed !!"

"Hahaha ". From the group monkey , who( ab)uses the laugh emoji. 

Of course , you cannot stroll into the woods like he can . He has the freedom . You don't . He is not under lockdown . He probably never will . So from his high perch , he can see what you cannot . He can see your follies and foibles . Ambitions and ambiguities . 

After around 9 pm , he hides his face into his ample wing , and takes a nap . No longer calling out , no longer shuffling around . Perfectly at peace in a totally new perch . 

At around 4am , a single cry signifies bye bye . He is gone by the time I get out to the balcony . 

How are you?

It was not all a good time to receive a call . The vegetable truck has arrived , some half an hour ago . Most of the small number of buyers are content to buy bread and milk . Ignoring the leaves poking out of the plastic milk boxes .

It is my turn to step into the barely visible chalk circle . A bad knee sprain has left me limping . Now my bathroom slippers gets caught in one of the gravels . Happens all the time with an injured leg . You just end up messing it further . With shooting pain clouding the details of shopping list in my mind , the phone rang .

“Hello ! may I know who’s speaking ? ”
This question unsettles me to no end , specially from unknown numbers . After strained introduction , the person spoke his name . It was an acquaintance from a remote past . A person whom I have seen just twice in my life . Both times fleetingly , at a dear family member’s funeral . I do not recollect his face . Just some sketchy details of his life . Wife , one son , businessman , suburbs .

“How are you ?”
A bead of sweat has trickled in the furrow of my upper lip beneath the mask , begging to itch /wipe . Can’t do either .

“I am fine . How are you ?” These are just pleasantries , they do not mean anything . “We are all going to die eventually ” The doomsday predictions ring in my ear . The itch gets stronger, the vendor gestures impatiently at the spinach and radish leaves crowding his seat .

I nod , wordlessly . He fills my bag with leaves . Now a radish leaf frond scrapes against my chin . More itching . I feel a sneeze coming on .

Breakfast

It is bright and sunny . The air crisp and mildly cold . Just right for a stroll on the terrace . But don't you dare carry your breakfast with you .

 Hungry and vigilant crows swoop down , in an aggressively efficient fighter plane maneuver. They dive at your omelet and toast , and narrowly miss your scalp . It is frightening and  mildly disconcerting . You wolf down your meal and slosh burning tea in your mouth . Looking up teary eyed and defiant at a crow regarding you as an oddity. Or a long lost brother . Then it looks away , browbeaten and embarrassed , it takes off into the early morning air looking for greener and more generously forthcoming avenues.

As I would discover later , the lady downstairs leaves two or more of last nights' rotis , torn up into shreds . on a raised concrete platform in her backyard , prays to the sun , and disappears inside . It is a daily ritual .

For few minutes nothing happens . Then two mynahs march in . Not fly . March . In tandem . Like soldiers . Wearing smart yellow  boots , masks . They take their pick , eat right there , then go off to inspect the dry tap and the dry birdbath for a drop of moisture .

The moment mynahs leave , crows hop in . They fly , hop . Looking right and left . Forever alert . Then they grab their pieces and fly off, to their own perches . Unlike the mynahs , they come singly . Every crow to himself .

All this long while , this entire event is being watched by squirrels , who have positioned themselves on bark of trees , their engines revving , noses quivering . Now that the field is clear and lot of food still on the ground , The squirrels move in with lightning rapidity , grab a piece in their paws , sniff and nibble . After the bite has passed the smell and taste test , they quickly grab the grub in their mouths and crisscross their paths , climbing up into unseen tree trunk holes , to "squirrel"their stash away . They swiftly come back again , for seconds .

Every tree in the vicinity , I suspect must have their cavities stuffed with molding bread , several weeks' worth .

The squirrels polish off most of the large pieces .

 The pigeons move in now . In groups . Wearing a weary air about them , that masks all the attentiveness . They show meagre respect to the stale bread . Actually , stamping on them their dirty claws .

Two small stray monkeys come , by around ten . One of them , obviously not hungry , is more interested in terrifying the staid mynahs , out of their perches on window ledges . The other , more practical or hungrier , stuffs his mouth , snarls at the smaller one , stuffs some more , looking elsewhere , picking up pieces of plaster , in haste ( so much human like ) . Drops , comes back for some tasty looking grains here and there , then lops off . The baby is by now , dangling playfully from an overhanging branch , by its tail , staring disinterestedly , at its mother .

By mid morning . the ants have sent in their troops . Battalions fan out . Methodically , picking , carrying , ferrying out  , in neat , parade worthy , single files . Unhurried , resolute march .

Sometime around this time , a stray dog comes . Not to eat , but to sniff out the ants and harry them . One large black ant decides to teach him a lesson , and rides on its snout , biting it with all its might . The puppy scoots , howling in pain .

By noon , the concrete patch is clear . Spotlessly cleaned by non human occupants of planet earth . Waiting for a refill , tomorrow morning . 

Short thoughts

The hairs on the forearm
flatten
with a blast of the hand
dryer


Like the standing crops in a field
flattening against
a blast from the rotor blades
of copter

                                                    &&&&&&&

My headlamps shone as
an aberrant daytime flash
caught in the rear
of the car ahead

In others eyes
I realize
the errors
and follies
Of my making


                                      &&&&&&&&&&&&&

She smiled
and grimaced
both at the
same time

Unwilling
to cut up
a conversation
with someone
she once loved

                                      &&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When the pain was over
relief flooded her
like monsoon
after a scorching summer

                                       &&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Fake Vacation

It was quiet in the jungle , as we climbed . The sun was almost obliterated , by the dense foliage . Sundry birds made strange , chirping sounds . We couldn’t see them . They could definitely see us . The chirping and gurgling stopped when someone stepped on a twig . The snap silenced the cicadas too. For a moment . Only the hum could be heard . A hum one hears in the forest , which comprises of , as the folklore goes , trees talking to each other , insects on the prowl , and sap running up gigantic silver oaks . It could be the grassy moss under your feet ,which you bruise at every step , robbing them of the protective nutrition of whitish dew . 

It smelt musty , and mossy . There were rotting leaves in pools of water , gathered from two days’ prior rain . There were cavities in narrow , precarious steps , that wound around the hill . Those stone steps laid thousands of years ago , by buddhist monks . Worn out , into smooth cavities , like molars of an old person . Some places the stones had fallen off , leaving gaps .

Some trees didn’t want us there . So they sent their branches to scrape on our bare , city arms . But mostly , they saw us and kept a silent watch. 

At a bend , the tree cover opened up . All stood silenced by what we saw . Someone gasped . There were caves methodically cut into the rock face of the mountain standing on the other side of the valley. The cicadas became louder , and so did the hum . 

The caves were rectangular in shape , with stone pillars . There are world famous carvings on the ceilings , and murals on the walls .There are stupas , viharas , and numerous statues of Buddha . There are vivid paintings of the Jataka tales , from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata , and from the tripathikas . It was discovered by a tiger chasing British official , in the 1900s , after having lain buried in deep jungles , on this inaccessible mountain range for thousands of years . 

For long moments , no one spoke . The early morning sun bathed the glory of the caves , in its fierce golden light . The interiors of course , from this distance remained , dark and mysterious .

That was when the bell rang , and Mom shut the pages of the album . There were groans of protest . One sprightly young girl asked ” But who built these caves ? And how ? Why ?” 

” Go and google Ajanta caves , Stop bothering me , now who is that at the door ?”