Last Tango in Orbit

Meanwhile, Moonchild was trying to cup his ears with his hands to shut out a terrible, ghastly noise. A noise he was all too familiar with. There, in the suffocated air between his palms and eardrums, all the memories were trapped. But the noise was the queen of a planet called Obstinate. She found her way (she always does) through his fingers and entered the wormhole of his cochlea.

And then she danced. She tore the cement membranes of his ear apart with her graceful pirouettes. She mangled the remaining vestibule in seconds with her acidic choreography. He felt a dark pain. Darker than the colour of Infinity’s eyes. But he didn’t move a muscle. He stood still and waited for her to finish her dance. And finish, she did. After which she took a bow.

Now that he was clinically deaf, it was time for her to leave. She proceeded to find her way out through the wormhole, oblivious to the fact that a cosmic exit point was as unattainable as Contentment.

The noise got stuck in the throat of the wormhole. And has been stuck there ever since. Sometimes, on certain viscous days, she tries to get up and dance again in the hope of finding a shortcut to the opposite side of the universe.

On those days, the cosmos reverberates endlessly.

Sunshine City

Pune, The Protagonist. Pune, The Paradox.

Turn Pune upside down and shake it hard. The part of the city to fall off first would be its swanky new malls and its recently baptized monuments of commercial enterprise – their glue's still wet. Next in line would be the multitude of students who converged in the city not too long ago with pockets full of hope, in search of that elusive degree and some fresh air. They will be followed in their free fall by the jaded Pune-ite. The one who was born there, went to school, fell in love, took up a job, quit, re-married, had children, opened a restaurant, got a club membership, burnt down a library, changed his name, bought another car and perhaps inaugurated yet another housing society.

Keep shaking.

Gravity’s next prey would be the ones who don’t belong in Pune. (Don’t belong to Pune?) The ones who’re there simply because there was nowhere else to go. For whom Pune’s not home, but a refuge. For whom, Pune’s not a city but a job. Pune, The Profession. And yet, somehow, the city seems to need them more than they need it.

And finally, spiralling downwards reluctantly would be a million hearts. Abandoned by the bodies that once assumed them. Rhombic hearts. Oblong hearts. Hearts of those who might have been to Pune only once. Hearts discarded by those who loved Pune once. Hearts with Pune-withdrawal-symptoms. Longing hearts. Bleeding hearts.

And while you're at it, do shake it one last time. Let me know if you see a handkerchief soiled with cheese and bread crumbs falling to the floor.