The Whipping Boy

The cascading drops of innocence from my obliterated face,
I die every time you look at me, and every time you look away
The sharp edge of the razor-like, lashes at my trembling bared heart
I stand at the door with outstretched hands, fingers clawing and clutching,
You make sure not to catch my eye in this midst of this pogrom,
My long fingers mean nothing to you.
The windows have long been bolted, the door stands in violent mockery
of all that has been lost, slipping away.
I cringe, quake. There is no sign of that higher power to stop all these
Throbbing on my colourless face, this branding of an idiot.
I remember the “woman suit” of that James Gumb,
The ecstasy in the hiding of a whipped, withered soul,
My feet slip. But I cannot fall to that other side.
My drooping eyelids can take the merciless whipping of the 21st year.
My fall - will it register, even as the poignant, vacuous fizz of the
Fall of lit ash on water?
My heart pleads for disaster.
But my soul stirs as the birds fly up to the damned sky through bare brown trees.
So clear, so blue.



P.S.- James Gumb alias "Buffalo Bill",was the psychopathic serial killer in the 1991 Oscar-winning movie "The Silence of the Lambs", who killed and skinned women to tailor a"woman's suit" for himself to make himself into a woman.

GHOSTS IN THE CORRIDOR

For some peculiar reason, ghosts have been a part and parcel of hostel lore since the beginning of time. Stories abound about the quintessential ‘woman in white’ doing the rounds in secluded parts of the building. Rumours fly about the suicide that was committed behind any locked room in the corridor. In the dead of the night, many a hostel-dweller have lain awake to the sound of footsteps in the corridor, tapping noises at the window or even dogs howling ominously in the near vicinity. Whereas these might be the incidents from a particularly ghostly residential hall, most, if not all, are fraught with tensions in the minds of their worldly residents as to the presence of otherworldly occupants.

Those of my friends blessed with supernatural hostel-mates tell of their various experiences with particular relish. One of them talks about the in-house ghost of her hostel, picture perfect in the shape of an old lady complete in the white sari and a black shawl, knitting equipment in hand, whose occasional appearances on the second floor were enough to drive any unfortunate girl happening to chance upon her, to go into paroxysms of terror.

Another friend of mine inhabiting an engineering hostel has a peculiar problem in this regard. His occasional nocturnal visits to the loo in his wing to answer nature’s call had to be ceased abruptly. The reason was that every time he crossed a certain balcony on the way, which overlooked a garden with a coconut tree, he was greeted with the noise of the ceremonious falling of a single coconut from that tree. This, coupled with the eerie silence of a desolate corridor, was enough to chill his blood, emergency unexcepted.

Hundreds of these interesting anecdotes flourish in the silence of the night, as heated midnightly discussions on spooky presences gracing familiar corridors, make the hairs of the wide-eyed participants stand on their ends. A steely gaze from an unfamiliar face inside a door slightly ajar, a voice calling one’s name in a desolate corridor………
All these are the various thrills provided by our very own ‘haunted corridors’, the merging of the known with the unknown, that gives hostel life that dash of spice, and will continue to do so, for a long time to come.