by austere seeker
"Ring a ring a roses", I say, fumbling for words when you say your confessional bit, wishing I could fade away, or that the earth would slash open like it did for The Pure Sita and enfold me likewise in its anonymous depths, although no chance - too many crosses, too many slip-ups, ifs and buts; but why are you telling me all this? What is this all about, pray tell, who blinks first; or which of these petite handmaidens does the Emperor pick for the pleasure of his company, "this beggar maid shall be my Queen?" You know, satin sheets, a bubbling goblet of wine or two, lyrics wafting from a lute� "Oh is that so," I instead say, sounding like a pipsqueak; and "what is it that you intend to do?" I ask; feigning concern, (oh dear!), but take care, will you. So this is what the storm was all about, fidelity on the whimsy, deceit and tinny "me first!" games; not so much the northeaster that pounded the coast. Patterns shake-dissolve into a mystic blur, pictures rip across several frames of reference, all a "well, depends," and images kaleidoscope-like stab to instant clarity.
austere seeker, author of Spider's Web, lives, works, and writes in Mumbai.