Pickle Jar

It was a strange evening. But how strange could it get from any other evening? The big golden ball was floating on the far west end of the river; perhaps slightly leaking. Its molten gold blended with the deep blue of the lousy river. The bazaar was buzzing, tourists swarming the little old quaint part of the city. She drew the curtains over the first storey quarter where she was, leaving the window slightly ajar.

“Diamonds?”
Her head swung back as her eyes looked over the stove for the voice. Shaking, her quivering lips made some sound, “It’s an illness.” She reminded herself.
“There’s no one here. No one said a word. It’s an illness that I hear words every evening.” Only boiling water gave company to her noise. Yes, one could hear the electric din from outside the window. She poured some in a chipped china cup and added little spice from a jar. “It’s an illness. There’s no one here. There’s no one bringing diamonds.”

She wasn’t all alone. There were visitors. Mostly foreigners, men fair from faraway lands. Few told her stories of their places; few spoke of their stories of her place. Few did not speak to her. She spoke to none. As soon as the sun disappeared in the lazy lilting blue waters, she lit the half melted candles in the corner. Electricity has always been a trouble. This was routine and she hummed it away in songs that no guest identified. The hum though was indeed a melody, the only sound in the sleeping street given company by the clinking bangles she adored.

She’d stopped examining her visitors now. It did not matter to her. All that she examined was the direction of the wind sitting at her window. “Next summer,” he said. “Diamonds” he said.”

Days drudged by, months moved into years. The winds have changed their ways and returned. They’ve made her routine and she is disciplined. The muffled noise dies with the dying moon and the waking bazaar drowns her wails. Prayers all forgotten, confessions to a starry night guest all poured, she weeps; weeps till she falls asleep or till the sun travels his tour over the city to the river.

Once few years ago, the room used to be lit well, an old stereo played some popular songs of the time. She used to talk to passersby when she stood at her window, but she rarely shows her face now. Long ago one remembers, a muffled echo from the green tinted window as the day broke, “Now, don’t take my nights away.”

It’s a strange evening, and a tall young man from distant land has come to see her. His eyes brim with excitement and his words, endless.

“The food really did not suit me. What do they put in it? All I could manage doing that day after the fort was camping in the loo.”
Something lifted her drooping eyelids and she curved a smile for him.
“I pray and bless the lady; she poured some hot soup and gave me some bread. Pickle she said was something I would not have had tasted my entire life. What a lady she was. What do they put in that pickle?”
The winds had changed perhaps, “I would love to give you some, but the pickle jar has been empty for three summers now.”

A naked confession so easily made. The response so piercing.
“Really? Don’t worry. It’ll be summer in a month’s time. I’ll bring good pickle for you this summer.”

It was a strange evening again, as strange as it could get behind the green windows. It was a beautiful evening a tourist remarked as he clicked away the melting sun.

 

for lust loses to love...

Keenly I stepped into the jungle,

The days were early my age being little.

Startled by many a fish and a mammal;

Stung by a scorpion, I hunted my animal.

I swam by years with a fish, even flew in the air,

Aries they laughed. For the sight of unicorns my eyes froze in pair.

I still kept on, charged with gusto;

Rode and raided till I stumbled on a Leo.

Ah! That lion, I sigh. My eyes went wild.

For its luxuriant and fair coat, my cravings were all but mild.

Devastatingly debonair, smashingly handsome,

That lion of mine was aptly the king of his kingdom.

My hunter’s gun loaded, now that was all I wanted.

A hunter’s prize, the trophy on the wall to be of vaunted.

Stripping his skin, making him mine was all I wished,

But for that single sight of the lion, this hunter fished.

He roared thunderously! His gait - most elegant.

My gun though was loaded, plans now were less cogent.

As I observed its pugs day in and day out,

He stole into my routine my life, my intensions turning couth.

Delayed I my scrupulous plans, lowered I my gun.

Keeping the animal alive, watching him was much more fun.

It got accustomed of me, as I got of him,

As days flew, I praised the work of Him.

I’d enjoyed a fish dance in the lake once, long ago;

And my arrows of desperation got it in a go.

For many apart from that fish I remember, my heart beat;

And my soul lost them forever, after the hunter’s feat.

I glare at this lion today; smile, and it smiles back.

I have it not on my wall today, but I’m in its heart’s rack.

My gun lies rusted, for it enjoys its love now;

For the love of the Leo, learnt I, lust needs to go.