Drooping Mondays

There was a time when I used to love Mondays. For me, it would mean the beginning of a new week. A fresh slate, where yesterday’s mistakes are wiped away, a chance to redefine who I am and create a world closer to my idea of perfection. Of late, I am beginning to hate Mondays. I wake up listlessly, drag my feet, my soul droops, there’s something wrong and I don’t know how to fix it.


Why one should not live forever

Today I bought flowers. Beautiful stocks of long happiness, tipped by tightly closed buds. I put them in a clear glass vase, their green stems creating crisscrosses that refractions didn’t distort. In an hour, one of the flowers begin to open up, slightly, a white flower slowing opening its eyes to a new world – my hall. I hope it liked what it saw, and soon the room was filled with a scent, faint, almost like a déjà vu you can’t remember.

My clearest thought then was I hate plastic flowers. I admit instead of being happy about this beautiful gift, I was thinking of what I despise. Just blame the current mood.  Awful evil plastic flowers, forever dyed in gaudy colours, lying in dusty vases, their fakeness preserved forever., Some twisted mind must have wondered at some time how he could preserve the loveliness of a blossom. Not only did he find a solution, the world also discovered millions of half-alive souls who bought into it.

His idea was to create monsters. Their textures vary, silk, velvet, cloth, though their stocks are always plastic. It must be a reflection of the times we live in. Instead of taking transient beauty into our homes, we grant them the immortality of ugliness.

1 rose – Rs. 4 – Less than a Classic Milds Cigarette

1 carnation = Rs. 10 – As much as a packet of Lays Chips

1 chrysanthemum – Rs. 8 – Less than a black ballpoint pen

1 aster= Rs. 2.50 – Half the price of a vada pav

1 sunshiny happy weed growing on the way – Costs nothing unlike a free lunch


Of late, there is a buzz in my head singing songs of regret. It has this annoying tune that keeps chanting the decisions I took in rhyming verse. The background score is a laugh, low yet mocking and when I think I don’t hear it, is when it crawls up loudly under my skin. I try to ignore it and drown myself in work, whiskey and words. It doesn’t help. This thing crawls, niggles, wiggles and nags through every single distraction. Sometimes I have a feeling it lives in my ear. Maybe that’s why Van Gogh cut one off.