Sometimes i wish i were an illustrator.
One image to capture the clutter of words,
the waterfall of emotions
that cascade with a gesture or an accent
or the sight of a person.
I’m hunting in my head for the right set of words,
that shade of feeling
not blue, not purple
but the bluish-green-purple of a word to express
what I want to paint in the canvas of my mind.
The man in front of me
evokes the grey-purple of revulsion
as he talks on his cell,
rolling his luggage trolley over my feet.
I pull back in pain
but there is no pretense of apology,
insulated that he is in his universe
of conversation and maneuverability
of self-space.
He is big, his belly pendulous
and from his mouth rolls
Punjabi accented Delhi Hindi,
starkly different from Mumbaiya Hindi;
amusing, wondrous and delicious at the same time.
When he turns, i note
that his head is disproportionately smaller
than his body.
The family next to me are eating namkeem
straight out of a packet;
the male has a papercup of coffee that steams.
Coffee is sunshine bright
Blood coursing down my veins.
And
just like that,
it’s coffee that I ache for.
There are two kids
and i look at their long curling eyelashes
and listen to their chatter as they munch and talk.
I would choose sunrise orange, babyblue and applegreen for them.
And there’s that cleanshaven boyish looking man of 40s.
His head is slick with oil. (Yes its oil not gel).
He has the start of a belly as well as a double chin
his short upper lip shows square teeth.
I know what he’ll exude even without going close.
It’ll be eucalyptus and mustard oil.
And the colour will be muddy yellow.
#napowrimoxnidhscraps day 3 @harnidhk
(c) Vinitha
