Violet
She rose up after keeping the violet orchids on his grave. She had been bringing these flowers to her brother’s grave for 18 years now.
They were playing at their farmhouse. He was 11 years old and she was 9. Their mother had asked them not to go near the well, but they anyway did. When they reached the well, she looked at those violet orchids and exclaimed “Beautiful!” Somewhere from in between the bricks deep down in the well, an orchid plant had popped out, and there were bunch of beautiful flowers blooming on the plant.
She told her brother she wanted those flowers, ready to do anything for his little sister, he tried reaching for the flowers, but alas, they were far away from his reach, he bent a little further to get a grasp of them, he thought a little more, and he could do it.
All of a sudden, the old well’s bricks gave away, the wall broke and she saw him screaming and falling in the well.
When the fire brigade truck came, and his body was taken out, he was found to be holding violet orchids.
Green
“Starting today,” she said, bustling around the kitchen, “this household is going green. There’s no need to pollute the environment more than we already do, and there are plenty of easy ways to reduce our carbon footprint, which we really should be doing. We’re downgrading our car to something with fewer emissions, and I’m going to dig a compost pit in the yard, and hopefully we can grow some of our own vegetables. I need you to be with me on this, okay?” She finally paused for breath, exhausted, arms laden with garbage bags, rubber gloves, and flowerpots. “Sure, love,” he replied looking down at his busy hands. “Do whatever you want, as long as I can go green my way too.” Grinning, he put the freshly rolled joint to his lips, lit up, inhaled.
Blue
Stare long enough at that point where the sea meets the sky, and very soon everything else will begin to vanish. It’s not even a perceivable line, really, more like a soft blending of turquoise water into a blindingly azure sky, as if a giant hand had dragged a wet brush along the seam.
Open waters can be suffocating sometimes with the weight of their expanse, the knowledge that this resort island, well furnished as it is, is the only thing in the sea for miles around. The water then seems solid, almost, like glass frozen in a ripple, paralysing. But then you step down off the deck of your cottage-on-stilts, cleaving the ocean first with your toe, then plunging your leg in, and then pushing out away from the steps, letting the salty water buoy your whole body as you lie back and float away, wherever the blue takes you.
Orange
There is orange peel in the bin, her lips drip with juice and her fingers smell of citrus. It will perfume our nights, our bed, my head. Many days later, i will buy oranges and think of her. Eating an orange is an intimate, sensuous process. Impale the bottom of the orange with a finger, regard it, pull back the skin. Separate the fruit into its segments, and then eat, feeling the juice burst over your tongue as your teeth bite down on it. Without warning, you are reminded of the tang of her lips and the swerve of her hips, and how her fingers smelled as they fluttered around my lashes. Elizabethans made pomades of dried oranges and cloves, did you know? They hung them at their belt.
One day, she will leave, and I’ll never eat an orange again. In some faraway city, she will be walking on a citrus-scented cloud.
Indigo
“What a beautiful colour!” she exclaims, running her fingers over the sari laid out to display on her lap. “Pure silk, madam”, says the shop owner. “Indigo dye. Natural dye, very rare. Suits your skin colour, madam. Very nice.” “How much?” The inevitable back-and-forth begins, numbers shoot out into the air like bullets. The process is slower than usual; she didn't really want the sari, but was buying it anyway, he is not much bothered about this sale and just wants to get home and eat. “Done,” he says, wrapping up the garment. “Enjoy, good night, come again.” She waves cheerfully as she steps out into the night, arms loaded with shopping.
78 miles away, in a town she’s never heard of, a farmer mourns for yet another field rendered infertile by an accursed crop of indigo he’s labour-bound to grow.
Red
It’s the smallest things that trigger it. Things people say, mostly. Little statements. Things they think are funny. But they aren’t. They really, really aren’t. They jab at me and I can almost see the words hurtling towards me, slicing into my skin. Then the haze descends, red over my eyes like a mist rolling over the hills, and my head begins to ache like it will burst, and my hands move of their own accord and I know not what happens to me. I sense motion. And sound, so much screaming, I know it’s all in my head but that’s worse, I can’t shut it out.
The mist disperses, I can breathe again, the unending scream in my head is silenced, my eyes open. The floor is painted scarlet with blood, so much blood, acrid, fresh, red. None of it is mine.
Yellow
My job is not one of the easiest, but it’s can be the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. Today, I walk around the room picking up the same things I have for the past month, some crumbled up paper, a thrown away spoon. Collecting more items, I walk to the kitchen to break off a banana from a bunch that sits in its bowl, open up the fridge and pick out a luscious lemon. Hands full, I weave my way back to my seat and spread my haul out on the table before me. “Okay come on,” I say to the blank face opposite me for the 27th day in a row. “What colour is this?”
My job is frustrating, at best, harrowing and hopeless at worst,to nurse mental patients is hopeless but some days are worth the months I spend in repetition. Today, the vacant eyes suddenly sparkle, he points at the banana and finally, finally replies: Yellow.
She rose up after keeping the violet orchids on his grave. She had been bringing these flowers to her brother’s grave for 18 years now.
They were playing at their farmhouse. He was 11 years old and she was 9. Their mother had asked them not to go near the well, but they anyway did. When they reached the well, she looked at those violet orchids and exclaimed “Beautiful!” Somewhere from in between the bricks deep down in the well, an orchid plant had popped out, and there were bunch of beautiful flowers blooming on the plant.
She told her brother she wanted those flowers, ready to do anything for his little sister, he tried reaching for the flowers, but alas, they were far away from his reach, he bent a little further to get a grasp of them, he thought a little more, and he could do it.
All of a sudden, the old well’s bricks gave away, the wall broke and she saw him screaming and falling in the well.
When the fire brigade truck came, and his body was taken out, he was found to be holding violet orchids.
Green
“Starting today,” she said, bustling around the kitchen, “this household is going green. There’s no need to pollute the environment more than we already do, and there are plenty of easy ways to reduce our carbon footprint, which we really should be doing. We’re downgrading our car to something with fewer emissions, and I’m going to dig a compost pit in the yard, and hopefully we can grow some of our own vegetables. I need you to be with me on this, okay?” She finally paused for breath, exhausted, arms laden with garbage bags, rubber gloves, and flowerpots. “Sure, love,” he replied looking down at his busy hands. “Do whatever you want, as long as I can go green my way too.” Grinning, he put the freshly rolled joint to his lips, lit up, inhaled.
Blue
Stare long enough at that point where the sea meets the sky, and very soon everything else will begin to vanish. It’s not even a perceivable line, really, more like a soft blending of turquoise water into a blindingly azure sky, as if a giant hand had dragged a wet brush along the seam.
Open waters can be suffocating sometimes with the weight of their expanse, the knowledge that this resort island, well furnished as it is, is the only thing in the sea for miles around. The water then seems solid, almost, like glass frozen in a ripple, paralysing. But then you step down off the deck of your cottage-on-stilts, cleaving the ocean first with your toe, then plunging your leg in, and then pushing out away from the steps, letting the salty water buoy your whole body as you lie back and float away, wherever the blue takes you.
Orange
There is orange peel in the bin, her lips drip with juice and her fingers smell of citrus. It will perfume our nights, our bed, my head. Many days later, i will buy oranges and think of her. Eating an orange is an intimate, sensuous process. Impale the bottom of the orange with a finger, regard it, pull back the skin. Separate the fruit into its segments, and then eat, feeling the juice burst over your tongue as your teeth bite down on it. Without warning, you are reminded of the tang of her lips and the swerve of her hips, and how her fingers smelled as they fluttered around my lashes. Elizabethans made pomades of dried oranges and cloves, did you know? They hung them at their belt.
One day, she will leave, and I’ll never eat an orange again. In some faraway city, she will be walking on a citrus-scented cloud.
Indigo
“What a beautiful colour!” she exclaims, running her fingers over the sari laid out to display on her lap. “Pure silk, madam”, says the shop owner. “Indigo dye. Natural dye, very rare. Suits your skin colour, madam. Very nice.” “How much?” The inevitable back-and-forth begins, numbers shoot out into the air like bullets. The process is slower than usual; she didn't really want the sari, but was buying it anyway, he is not much bothered about this sale and just wants to get home and eat. “Done,” he says, wrapping up the garment. “Enjoy, good night, come again.” She waves cheerfully as she steps out into the night, arms loaded with shopping.
78 miles away, in a town she’s never heard of, a farmer mourns for yet another field rendered infertile by an accursed crop of indigo he’s labour-bound to grow.
Red
It’s the smallest things that trigger it. Things people say, mostly. Little statements. Things they think are funny. But they aren’t. They really, really aren’t. They jab at me and I can almost see the words hurtling towards me, slicing into my skin. Then the haze descends, red over my eyes like a mist rolling over the hills, and my head begins to ache like it will burst, and my hands move of their own accord and I know not what happens to me. I sense motion. And sound, so much screaming, I know it’s all in my head but that’s worse, I can’t shut it out.
The mist disperses, I can breathe again, the unending scream in my head is silenced, my eyes open. The floor is painted scarlet with blood, so much blood, acrid, fresh, red. None of it is mine.
Yellow
My job is not one of the easiest, but it’s can be the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. Today, I walk around the room picking up the same things I have for the past month, some crumbled up paper, a thrown away spoon. Collecting more items, I walk to the kitchen to break off a banana from a bunch that sits in its bowl, open up the fridge and pick out a luscious lemon. Hands full, I weave my way back to my seat and spread my haul out on the table before me. “Okay come on,” I say to the blank face opposite me for the 27th day in a row. “What colour is this?”
My job is frustrating, at best, harrowing and hopeless at worst,to nurse mental patients is hopeless but some days are worth the months I spend in repetition. Today, the vacant eyes suddenly sparkle, he points at the banana and finally, finally replies: Yellow.
1 comment:
I am not good at adjectives.. :) but this post is beautiful.. very.
I have not read something so simple, yet so deep.. in a long time.
Great work!
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