No Body Kicks a Dead Dog
Have you ever noticed those pin-head beings
hovering over the garbage with their wings
tiny as dewdrops making the sun look like a rainbow
on the window sill? No one wishes to know
their names because their sting doesn’t double you
with pain, or bursts your blood cells like tiny inkpots,
or leaves you twitching under destiny. They are the stars
of the night sky, their lifespan the wisp of time
between how a shooting star appears and disappears.
Someone amongst them must be the soul of the girl
from high school—whose father nibbled her flesh
till three ice picks dissolved the bulk of her breasts.
Till one day, when she vanished suddenly, we knew
nothing about her— she neither topped the class,
or had expensive pairs of shoes to flaunt, or any bruise
that could earn our sympathy. We don’t clutter our brains
with lives rented in one-room homes, dented cars.
We want to know who is bigger, broader, larger than us.
And, we spend whole of our lives dreaming of wings larger
than anyone in the world to span seamlessly across the sky
uninhabited by the flock of human race.
How I Craved to Touch Boys?
While I am travelling, the boys with tanned faces, trimmed beard pull me with the gravity of a Black Hole. Sometimes, it is their arrow-head noses, thick eyebrows, bamboo-long fingers and at times there is nothing, but they attract me how a toothless toddler’s smile attracts his mother. When my elbow grazes past theirs, I can feel the rapidity of a mouse in my stomach. At times, I fake sleeping tilted towards them, and with a jerk, fall to find their shoulders turn into pillows to rest my carcinomatous desires. But, they push it away like a hovering housefly.
I always wanted my best friend to hold my hand, cross fingers with mine to make webs of light, walk miles together on these rugged paths. He always thought it to be a gay-ish thing. I meet a young poet every time he visits Delhi. We sit in a café silently searching something in the cave of eyes. I want to hug him so tightly that its scorch could burn the coldness cross-legged inside me, but it never goes beyond a fidgety hand-shake.
Life has made me a musk deer— who in search of a particular fragrance sniffs each bush helplessly but couldn’t find it. And, one day, frustrated, he jumps off the cliff.
Love in the Emergency Ward
(The Intern at the Casualty)
Between the patients heaving for life— a lady poisoned by her husband for an infertile uterus and an old man crushed like a fennel seed beneath a car at breakneck speed of life, I meet him at the casualty ward of our hospital. He keeps my hands above his in the CPR to teach me how chest should sink one-third of the circumference for heart to start beating again.
He tells me about the loops of his dreams— how he wishes to own a penthouse, buy Lamborghini, and spend life amidst the ochre of expensive wines. He says I am searching for the spiral of life where happiness lies at the eye.
I feel something for the first time, similar to the warmth a baby feels pressed to his mother’s breasts. I touch my fingers as if they have a memory of his slender fingers. Something twitches in my gut like the worms that wriggle dreadfully before dying.
But, when I try to knot this feeling of being loved like a secret in my heart, a question confronts me. What if he doesn’t love you.
The sting of not finding love back poisons my teenage desires.
Its splinters prick my flesh every time my heart wants to love someone.
Kinshuk Gupta is a medical student and an emerging poet. He uses the scalpel of his pen to write about his experiences as an undergraduate medical student. His work can be read or forthcoming in Joao Roque Literary Journal, Mad in Asia Pacific, Human/Kind Journal, Failed Haiku, Cattails, Eunoia Review among others.