clownscape

A Few, Famous Weeks For Forgetting 16807. He had tied his index finger to her memories with a thread. Whenever he’d raise his fingers at her, she knew he’s talking about her past. 2401. She wanted him to be precise. But for the moments that went unnoticed, he often rounded-off her memories. 343. When she walked out of his heart, she forgot to tell him where she kept the key to their cupboard. They had designed their cupboard to be airtight. To keep their memories safe from the fungus and bacteria. It was an alternative to their own hearts. She had taken his alternative away, forever - he thought. This morning, she had steppe

I have a frozen rain in a glass jar. A regiment of raindrops. Carefully synchronized. The droplets are always in the state of falling. So that the rain goes on forever. I often step into the glass. I look for you, dear girl. Behind one of those raindrops. I walk carefully through the rough, uneven passage between two raindrops or three. Sometimes, it’s too dense. I take extra care to keep myself dry. You’d need my warmth when I’d find you in the rain. Too wet. Drenched. Do you remember how you had hidden yourself behind a tear once? Said you can’t waste more fountains than this. “Weeping is sacrilege,” you had

She had a golden tear. It had grown on the left side of her cheek. Its root went further. Right through her skin. Onto the back side of her tongue. She wept when she was hungry.

On the day he turned eight, his grandma gifted him a book. It was called “The Intersection of Eight”. He couldn’t understand the title. And therefore, it became all the more elusive to him. And although warned against being too curious it took him in like the eternal magic charm. He turned the book and read the description on the back cover. It said – “The adventures of a comic hero who can’t remember what his missions are. An almost epical life story of a man who voyages through many a town and rescues many a princess from the evil hands of many a villain but can’t remember any of it.” He loved that de

He says he had watched the earth on a casual afternoon. Intermittent with the darkness. He says the earth had climbed into his eyes. Splashed. He says he carries his childhood in his palm. He says someone had thrown a night at him. It had made a hole on the right side of his forehead and gone right in. The night had dissolved in his blood. He says he had watched the earth on a casual afternoon. It seems dark to him. The shape of a pebble resembling the night that hit his forehead. Earth is a night, he reiterates, life illumines us with the selfsame darkness that death buries us in.

The twilight broke his window pane. Along with all other glasses in his home. Shards of glass dusts scattered all over the floor. Illumined by a forgotten light of the day bygone. The illumination reflected onto his eyes. Some of it, however, struck on his eyebrows. It lingered. When he went walking down the street that evening, people on the street thought his eyebrows were made of twilight. Even when he smiled, his eyebrows outshone his eyes. And for that reason alone, people stopped looking into his eyes. His dancing eyebrows were quite a spectacle, they thought. Slowly, he came to realize that he had started forgetting the faces of all

They had invented a game in which each asked questions to the other and no one answered. They only giggled with the questions. And rolled in the mist of questions they had created. The game became synonymous to their existence. And they thought of it to be eternal. Then, one day he asked her - "Who's going to ask the next question?"

He lost his temper that afternoon. It wasn’t an easy find. He searched everywhere – beneath the cushion, between his many clothes, inside her ears. But he was unsuccessful (as he always is). But for every failure he faced in finding his temper, he lost a little bit more of it. He decided he’d bring the house down. Dismantle it. To be better equipped to search his lost temper. He’d dismantle the house before the dusk. Before she woke up. One by one the logs fell. All around her bed. Without disturbing her sleep. And even after this was complete he was unable to locate his lost temper. He lost more of his temper. He sat on

His birth coincided with one of his father's hiccups. The man had been drunk as usual. But for that fragment of the second, living inside a hiccup, he had to lose all his senses. He didn't see the baby been ripped out, even though he was standing right in front. So, he never believed that the child was born at all. He accepted his son as a hallucination. "You're my hangover", he'd say "But I love my imaginary characters." "But I'm real", his son would revolt "Oh! Don'cha worry about that. I'm imaginary myself. My birth coincided with one of my father's hiccup. You'd learn one day, that the hiccup negates reality. And with every hiccup we b