Crystal Tear Drop

Posted by Morticia of Mirth
You’d want my ‘tear-drop’ pendent To lie right on the pit of my neck, Right above the collar bones, “your prominent collar bones” you’d tease. when I swallow, you say, “the ‘crystal tear drop’ ripples down the hollow of softest skin.” When I tie my hair into a high bun, Strands would fall down my nape, You’d ruffle them, run your fingers through them, entangle them and say “baby’s hair, so soft”. Late at night, while driving back home, When the car windows are embossed with tiny rain droplets, You’d smile and say “your ‘crystal tear drop’ splintering down from above” One hand holding the steering wheel, The other resting on mine, Fingers intertwined, hands click into a lock, Right in place, a perfect fit. Though you'd say, “My God, your hands are tiny, I am afraid I’ll squish them!” And I wouldn’t take off my eye make up till next morning, Smudged khol, black eye-shadow smeared, teary eyes peering behind mascara thick lashes, And you’d laugh hard… I’d listen, listen to your laughter become a cackle while black tears from sleepy eyes, roll down my cheeks youd’ tuck my dampen hair behind my ears, kiss my forehead and whisper “black ‘crystal tear drop’ slithering down field of gold’
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Posted by Morticia of Mirth



Was listening to some oldies today...
"Would you know my nameif I saw you in heaven?Would it be the sameif I saw you in heaven?"
scribbled alongg...

He would polish his shoes on Sundays. He would sit in front of his little black cabinet and polish them; a frown creasing his fore head, a line of sweat glistening above his nicotine stained lips, delicate hands caressing footwear, time ticking away, not a care in the world, clean white cloth running over black leather, brown suede, veins bulging in and out, strong dark arms stroking the pumps, gentle touch, intimacy with “Cherry Blossom” black polish….
Each shoe box was labeled, the first letter always a curlicue. He would also methodically label the bottles of all his auyurvedic medicine-I don’t remember if he also had a day for labeling.

If anyone at home was looking for anything at any time of the day, they would go to him. He had it all, under labels: boxes of paper Clips, different sizes of scissors, band aid boxes, various kinds of ointments; my favorite one was the magic syrup that would melt a bone stuck in the throat. The handy man was always equipped for the ceremonial healing of old and new pains.

I remember running to him even for the tiniest of scratches. I would jump on him, show him the place I claimed was hurt and say “now I need a band aid’. He would say, ‘were you fighting with the tiger, on the secret tunnel, on your way to save the princess held hostage by the naughty pirates?” I added aliens and giants and pixies to the story. And he too helped me with the details. I went back to my room, healed and proud.

He would oil his hair right after taking a shower. He parted it with the thin comb like chiseling a sculpture. He buttoned the cuffs and collars of his shirt, wore the trendiest of pants and carried his fashionable umbrella that he bought back from England during his college days. Then he would knock on my door and say, “would you like to go and look for the Aladdin’s lamp? We would then go to places which I don’t remember and he knew so well. He would buy fabrics, tools and shoes with the cheapest of deals. We would walk for hours and then he would smile and ask me on our way back, “we got some very good deals today, did you notice, my little princess?” I would still nag about the Aladdin’s lamp till I got what I wanted. How could I have not? My genie was right next to me…

I still remember his morning chores….his ritualistic ‘shave’ “Sokinaaa, the water is not warm enough. I told you I want Luke warm water.” “Did I ask you for boiling water, I said LUKE WARM, L-U-K-E-W-A-R-M. Don’t you get it? Why does it have to be like this every morning? Can’t you do something right for once?” Poor Sokina would run to and fro with the bowl of warm water, until it was perfect according to the standards of the perfectionist.
Then he would bellow and scream for a little while because of the disarrangement of his shaving tools; the razor had to be on the left hand side of the sink, followed by the shaving foam and the brush. His tooth paste and brush had to be on the right hand side. If anything was different from the way he wanted, Sokina had a rough morning, and a rough morning is what she had on most days. But she never seemed to learn, she was in some ways, a bigot and as rigid as him.

He would then have his regular breakfast like he did since he was in college, dress accordingly and go out in the streets of Dhaka looking fashionably crazy.

At night before going to bed, he would rhythmically move his Rolex watch from left to right and tell me “you know what its like with good chronometers, that don’t run on batteries, right? They have to be treated right.” He would treat his right by moving it from left to right thirty six times. I grew up watching him move his watch thirty six times, while I waited helplessly for my bed time story. But who could rush him? He would do what he had been doing all his life. He would keep his spectacles on the bed side table, beside the glass of water. Then he would set the alarm clock without which he could just as well wake up.
I fell asleep while he read about the far, far lands that he believed I'll one day see and the vast ocean he knew I'll cross. He had a sac full of stories that lasted till the day I finally grew up. But first things first; first he would have to move his watch thirty six times while I waited impatiently for my story...one, two, three, four, five, six...”once upon a time....”...I could see Sinbad being lashed by the princess because he smelled like garlic....the smell of garlic lingered the next morning...

He was my father’s father, with his nicely parted hair, stylish umbrella, arrogance and polished shoes, who lived in his time when the time was actually ours.
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Posted by Morticia of Mirth

"And it rained all night and washed the filfth away Down New York airconditioned drains The click click clack of the heavy black trains A million engines in neutral ......"



People scurry down the dark chute that will eventually suck them in and devour their energy. There is a bright glint of light coming in through the grille-teeth and the gaping mouth up the stairs. Bank of two escalators and a very sunken staircase in the middle vein down. The staircase makes midgets out of people when you look at them from the elevated escalators. I have a $76, monthly, unlimited pass that I swipe in the multiple-hand turnstile and with a metallic beep, it gestures me to go inside it.
Several exits, too many entrances too, yet the jostling. They won’t let you walk in your time. They want you to hurry, to rush, to move-it or they’ll find their ways through you, push you down/away, trip you and when you fall, they will crush you with their high heeled Manolo Blahnik, flat soled Nikes or Payless slippers, nonetheless batter you till you succumb. And sometimes offer you hand after they make you crumble….

NY subway: 63rd ST, Lexington Avenue, Manhattan.

People pocketed portions of the scorching sun, hovering like a bad omen outside and dumped it haphazardly in this underground tunnel. Passengers awaiting the last train sat at the plywood seats and left them warm from human-contact; now the bench bolsters four people, two hours prior to the evening Rush, the high of getting home, marking the end of another work day and calling it quits till the next morning...

The woman next to me has this upper-east side air about her with her pearls, beaver hat, French manicure, and elongated fingers fanning with a hand-painted fan…. The fall air has no way of getting down here, yet the woman exudes the fragrance of autumn flowers, probably the tinge of maple yellow. The sweaty man on my left reads the NY Globe…Sweat and Sweet talc merge.

The monster sized rats bustle in between the tracks, nibbling on the scraps, wrappers and plastic bags. One can’t figure them out if they don’t look long enough; they are camouflaged by the dark underground earth. Silhouetted against the blackness of the black iron tracks breed the mutated subway mice that dont know natural light. Right before rush hour, when the local trains run slow, sits beside me a woman who smells of autumn, a sweaty man who causes a ripple in that diffusion of scent and right ahead of me, in burrows and in between the track are, mice; dashing past one another, knocking each other down, some bleeding and others feeding on that blood.
Man and Beast coexist below ground level in striking resemblance and harmony….
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