Wandering Writing

(Brief introduction: Far in the future, a sole plastic straw occupies a display case at a museum. It is the last straw, the only plastic one that remains after the people have successfully stopped manufacturing and using them. The straw remembers the good old days but rues how the man claimed that the straws were bad whereas the actual fact was that the problem was caused by the man himself, who didn't dispose of the straws properly.)  Clink Clink!  There was a time when my kind ruled the world,  We were everywhere, in both straight and curled.  When the eco-friend arrived, our dominion unfurled.  Mountains of allegations began to rain down on us,  On to our backs the shrewd man shifted his onus.  He lauded his 'eco-consciousness' with a huge bonus.  When in public, he denounced us completely in a manner so vehement,  But when they brought up his private trashcan, he said, "No comment".  When the media besmirched him, he began to trash t...

Little tufts of steam rose from the platters of food lined up on the tabletop but, to little Eka, it looked like the sort of humongous smoke that billows upward from a rampant wildfire. Her eager eyes were illuminated by wonder as they followed the trail of steam intently. She traced its path as it wafted away from the food and eventually dissipated into nothing.  Eka was too engrossed in searching for the steam that had become invisible and did not notice that the waiters had begun to serve the food until one of them accidentally splashed some of the hot dal onto her hand. She screamed and vigorously shook her hand, resulting in everyone at the table being adorned by yellow droplets of dal.  Her mother scowled at her from across the table. Her uncle, brother and cousin gave her dirty looks as they scrambled to grab tissues to clean the dal off of them. Her aunt, who was sitting next to her, helped Eka clean her hand and a few drops that had gotten on her face while she scolde...

A pink sunset, offset by the orange city lights, The blue fading away to inky darkness, Like a paintbrush blending black in, Sprinkling sparkling silver stars. Ploughing in between muddy brown fields, A long winding gravelly bitumen road. By the border of the ersatz path, Sand, tar and stones collude. Brooks converge and flow down the hill, Some crystal clear, some sludgy too, One standing out from all the rest: Fast flowing and tinged crimson. The confluent stream flows by a village. It carries with it silt from the land, Then flows by the little town, Picking up its pace a tad. It passes over spilt vermilion kumkum, A broken bottle seeping red alta dye, Tracing striking henna patterns  For the blushing borough bride. The stream waits not for the ceremony. It picks up its pace, reaches the city, Its babble dwindles as it approaches,  Then cuts right through the middle. Like a television rat fleeing from a cat, The water gushes down the city,  From where the merlot flows ...