We are the Champions

 This one is dedicated to Darshan: Miss you buddy!

Grey furry wisps of burning nicotine made it hazy
To see where the exit door was. Or even to find each other.
Heads bouncing as far I could see – some blonde, some blue
I saw one that was pink. Leaps of joy, of agony, of liberation
Interlaced into one fabric by the strobe that kept the silhouettes
Dynamic that night. Someone I didn’t know bought me a beer
Just because she liked my earring. At least that was what she said.
Later that night at the stroke of midnight she kissed me
Happy New Year! Her hair was violet.

Somewhere near the bar I bumped into Sid. He was high on the
Free Vodka from the sponsor’s counter, on the remixes
From the DJ’s turntables, on the vibes shelled out by bare skin.
Happy New Year, Dude! It wasn’t long before he
Left to pursue a blond headed interest. Then I almost spit out my last sip
Jerking forward from a blow on my back. It’s how Dash always greets us.
Black turtleneck, dark brown corduroys and rimless glasses.
He’s the sober one among the three of us. The one who drives us home.

Lost again? He asked me, reading off my expressionless face.
I ordered him a Bacardi Breezer, after an awkward right shoulder hello-hug
And said Missed you champ! Through the grids of grime and gyrations,
I pointed to Sid. There goes Romeo! Dash spotted him just in time to see
Him catch a whiff off the blond hair. High fives and laughter a galore.
It had been months since our last high five. Since we last kicked Sid’s ass.
Since we last laid odds on couples on the dance floor.
Since we fought for the girl in the corner.
Eight years since we first fought in junior college.
I still loved the dance floor and Dash still hated the smoke.

A sluggish long weekend, this Tuesday noon, I stare at the
Trees outside my window. Then at visiting cards on my desk.
Trying to connect faces to phone numbers. Giggling occasionally,
Thinking about what Sid and Dash said about each girl.
It was the Hangover-Sunday analysis that gave us the real kicks.
Sonia had the quasi American accent, Rashmi was the hyper-intelligent one…
The list went on and on. We rambled on through the night until we realized that the
Streetlights that sieved in through the shears, was actually now the sunshine.

The last I remember from that Saturday night is the DJ corking down a remix of a
Freddie Mercury classic. Sid had to be dragged off some redhead.
Dash drove us back and had revealed to me
Something about his Dad abandoning them.
I was wasted this New Year’s eve too.
I’d seen two bouncers dressed in black sulk at us…
I look up and the tree catches my eye.
The Banyan tree was there last year too – right there. This year it’s taller.
Rolling my pencil between my fingers, I look at the tree again:
This time with a smirk.

This steam

So cold, living in this steam, watching a wagon go by every once in a while.

© Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

3 PM in the afternoon,
The cold and merciless winds bruise my naked skin through slivers.
As I watch ants on the floor carry morsels of sugar
Or something small and white – I really didn’t care.
The floor freezes beneath me as I crash down and close my eyes
To stare at the skies above – filled with electricity.
So much lightening. Not fighting anymore,
I just watch.

Somewhere in the distance, rice planters sing choruses
To amuse each other, to enliven a boring landscape
Of fall colours and clouds leaked by jets.
Every sinful sinew of mine shakes, wanting to storm into the green meadow
And embrace them. Yet I lay there,
Feeling these antithesised rags dimple the earth
The spasmic fabric giving way to my bare skin,
From this little celebration of fury.

Hoards of water wash my naked body, my shut eyes,
And the tremble off to the floor
As I lay there, entangled in the coarse hair of a mop. I open my eyes,
And the rice planters don’t sing anymore, the ants trot around me,
And all I see is this steam that I’m blessed with.
The walls are beige, the cell phone still in pieces scattered all over in a mess.
This mess that might leave a stain, this grace – this anger,
This marijuana my fears feed on.

Letter to Google

Okay, Google has the top jobs. What’s more… they even advertised on craigslist. What’s more… I applied! And guess what, the next week they published the very same ad, in the very same section, yet again.
A couple more futile attempts and three weeks later, the ad is still there – grinning in all it’s shameless glory. So, this time around, I decide to send a cover letter that shouldn’t miss their eye. Here’s their letter (without the resume, weblinks et frills, of course):

Hi!
Drops splutter in the ocean and disappear unheard.
Waves crash, shriek and yet, melt into moments of oblivion.
Holding the earth afloat with palms cupped together
The ocean breathes silently this moonless night.
Breathing in with every splutter of a drop and out with every wave.
And in all this grandeur and zen of the Goddamn ocean
Drops still splutter and waves still crash, for without them…
It’s zen would be no more.

I’m good. Please call me : )
Another drop, waiting to crash on the shores,
Sneha Kochak

If this doesn’t work then apparently I’m destined to do greater things than work at Google! He hee! At least I’d like to think so!

Abundance

I stumble over a jagged beige slipper
Sunken in a shallow pool of muck – tiny kaleidoscopes
Of reflections of the lights gleaming above them.
Red lights, yellow, white and some blue.

It’s a colorful and fervor laden night in October –
In a narrow middle class bazaar lined with hawkers offering
Meagerly ‘huge discounts’, on little joys for the festive season.
It is the kind of ruckus that would assume Shiva to be a cheesy
pelf-thirsty entertainer or a cheap imitation out for a smoke. 

Just floating, feeling the commotion bruise me by,
I drown in this resonance of bargains, this matrix of saffrons and turquoises,
Of orchids and chrysanthemums, terracotta and melamine:
Temptations disguised as necessities dancing to drones of Bhangra meets R&B.
A dozen for fifty, two for seventy-five shriek the nasal chords
Of the guy who sells bangles – the only voice to make the
Blaring Bollywood bawls from the pirated music store seem like whispers.

Hummingbirds fight the tug o’war, and wrangle faster than their wings can beat.
The prize lurching to and fro as numbers fall and tempers fly.
The hawker looks to his left and then to his right…And whispers to the woman,
150 – Take it or leave it! Followed by moments of trumpets and hesitant silence
Moments as transient as the sandals she just bought – Genuine Italian leather.

My nose sedated by a zillion colognes suddenly makes me realize
Why celibacy might be a good idea. Skulls and zodiac signs blazed across my sight.
Do you have one with the two fishes?
Demands a woman flipping through the key chains.
She settles on a tacky mood ring – It’s just purrrrfect for Mr. Xiao!
I wish I hadn’t used that last moment
To watch her gild her feline friend.