Northumberland. What place is that. Where the smoke from the garbage dump makes clouds on its peaks.
Peaks and sheep, sheep on it’s peaks, waiting for the evening when they shall return.
But the Eagle glides straight down, the horizontal kind of straight, like a straight beep-; beeps, lots of them,
like hyphens, blue hyphens cutting through the sky.
Then she pushes her wings down, down the mountains. Eagles in this part of the world.
Eagles doing what they do, on every part of this state.
The hills down the hills, where good charas costs rs 600 per tola. No not weed, not the chemicals you buy from behind the Gurudwara. Nah, this one isn’t an addiction, isn’t really an aberration that dulls your mind.
This is a rare recreation, only smoked while here. Not an excuse to slave away the day to the dull throbbing smoke devoid of my sweet sweat.
Ruppes, maybe you’d like to name each of these birds with a currency name. How I force you to name each creature you see.
Like that buffer country that belongs to no one? Or maybe I just confused the word buffer.
The smaller ones join the flight of the eagles. The big bird…
How I’d like a topic for this essay. SA- South America, South Africa, South Arunachal.
South Anorexic, anal, amalgamated, analogous ant.
Everything is a hill to an ant, Ant. Cheeti, cheeta.
Too many people, but no noise, even the most verbose stops to breath in the hills. The cold wafting from the clouds pauses his verbosity.
BootyBangs A pack of fifty. Thirty five of them are left, Rolling paper, creamy white with perforations at its sides.
Holes for holes, circles for circles. air through these small windows. Or no windows,
like back home, must not get used to such large windows of no windows.
Cigarettes with no tobacco, cigarettes filled with coughs and filter, rupees 8 a piece.
We often name the ones in conversations, the one’s we do not see any more. That song on the guitar is no more played for that girl.
The machine needs to be oiled in order to live longer.
But squiggly lines fly with the eagles, through my spectacles, on paper and inside the microscope.
Recognizable images, thuds and beats. Chords no more entangled, paced to match your pace, per word, per letter, per second. millisecond, micro millis. Influenced and influened.
That, is not a word!
That air of the tobacco, the sweet hard water of the hills. The sounds of the strings, six in total stop to remember. Remember you?
I would put some of these sparrows in my bag and force them to proliferate. In my city, in my home.
Verbosity is like that, in response I provide a very wry smile.
Silence is asked for, willed upon and accepted. No, no humans, the ones that fight, the drunk man calling his wife ‘Randi’
There are never enough people to kill these voices.
These mountains do not posses perfect contours, perfect colours of you grotesque picture postcards. Do you buy postcards any more? This is not a painting , picturesque is a hollow word, so horrid that after you’ve taken a picture, you stop admiring her.
I do not sit near the aerial view of the mountains, I cannot block the homes of the locals or Killi-(enemy’s friend) walking up the stairs. Through the curtain, the saffron turban peaks. The eyes peeking ; peek, peek, cheeky man, why not open the curtains and say hello!
Say hello to the great wall of snow, of blue fog of blue smoke. Rolled up paper, burnt paper, all left on these wet rocks,
rocks leading up to the waterfall. Slipping past.
Slipping past you.