It all started when I walked into the turkey being chopped. I managed to glide out without letting the emotion spill over, but when I returned, I saw birdfeet and birdnails - teeny tiny ones. Strewn on the kitchen floor - almost like my own nails - after one of my hasty encounters with the nailcutter.
I pushed it back.
But a couple of nights ago, when I was at this Winter Jazz Fest at the India Habitat Centre, listening to a Cinematic Jazz track named "Losing Control" from the movie named "Ratatouille", I kept thinking of a sickle or a kitchen knife, making sudden contact with my knuckles, my fingers, my skin. Hacking at me. Continuously. It didn't help when I dug my fingers deep into the recesses of my overcoat pockets.
Oh God I don't think I can continue this.
Posts
A month later. The voice that cuts like a knife descends on Dilli dil se. Till then, be a John Rambo and taste first blood.
ReplyDelete