The screen goes blank

The screen goes blank – black!

A lazy Sunday, well past noon

Wearing a smile, waving your hands.

You tell them you do great.

Ask them how they are

And as they lie back, on Skype.

The machine says enough! Gives up on you.

The screen goes blank!

The distance feels so real.

Your shouts turn hysterical.

You wail now in pain

Your prayers are in vain

For nothing, you could do

When the screen goes blank – black!

The busiest subway station

At the heart of civilization

People keep pouring in

From pubs, parks, and parlors.

A dozen trains come at once

And you’ve no clue which one.

A hundred screens flash lights

In a bid to guide you home

You follow their commands

Find your order in the chaos

And then boom they go

The power lines are now snapped

The chaos grows wild and wild

As the screens now go blank – black!

Exhausted! You get home

The day’s dealings drained you down

In the make world of gaming console

You find some respite for your soul

Choosing your car,

Picking your gun,

Your moves so stealth,

Harbinger of hell

At the top of your game,

You focus and aim.

As you go in for the kill

Your console heats and dies.

Poof! Goes your warzone.

You try to push it back on.

All your efforts for no avail,

You’d never know if you did kill.

None of it really matters

When the screen did go blank – black!

Shoving the pen and paper

The writer boots up the computer.

On the keypad, the fingers dance.

Clickety-clack, the words take form

Vague ideas, now shape stories

Though it wouldn’t last long

Thanks to the now-dead batteries

The writer sinks in their seat.

The work remains incomplete

You know why it’s so

Yeah, the

Comments

First Rejection

About four years ago, I self-published my first novel, I Want Your Life . Self-publishing was not my initial plan. Like most aspiring writers, I envisioned my book being published under the label of one of the prominent publishing houses in the country, such as Penguin or HarperCollins. However, my editor gave me a reality check and explained that large publishing houses receive several submissions daily, making it highly unlikely for a first-time writer to get noticed. More than the prestige of being published under an established banner, my excitement lay in seeing my story in the form of a book. So, I chose the self-publishing route. After months of back-and-forth with my publishing team - proofreading, editing, revisions, illustrations, book registration, and printing - my book was finally out. It was truly a dream come true. The upside of self-publishing is the sweet certainty of getting published. The downside, however, is that you are responsible for everything, including promot...

Roasted

At Chico’s home ‘Mama, you promised to take me out for lunch on Sunday if I got good grades in the exams…’ seven-year-old Chico complained to his mother, Laila, as she lay confined to the comforts of her couch on a lazy Sunday morning. ‘Ugh…’ Laila groaned as she continued to scroll through reels. 'And we will go on a Sunday!’ ‘Today is Sunday, Mama!’ Chico started pulling at his mama bear’s arms. ‘Well, another one is due in seven days…’ Laila muttered, unwilling to move, but the thought of not having to cook lunch did tempt her. ‘Okay, if I promised you, you shall have it. Tell me what you want. I'll order…’ ‘No, Mama, I want to go out and dine, and I want you to take a selfie at the restaurant and post it, and I want my friends to ask me about it in class.’ Laila pulled her eyes from the screen and looked at her son. He was growing smart indeed. ‘Okay, fine, you got it. What do you want to have, though?’ ‘Roasted Chicken!’ At Durien’s Chicken Farm ‘But why can’t we go ou...

Familial Cowswami

Last day, I had the misfortune of interacting with the husband of one of my cousins at a family event. Since we’ve already established my feelings toward him, let me clarify that he is not an evil person. It’s just that our ideologies and outlooks toward life could poetically be described as Yin-Yang—completely opposite, with no common ground. That’s fine; everyone is entitled to their vision, as long as they don’t try to claim their vision as the only correct one and attempt to shove it on others who haven’t asked for advice. After exchanging pleasantries, we got down to the “real talk.” He started by asking me why I am still sticking around here (India) and not moving abroad. To set the context, he has been working in the Middle East ever since I first met him at my cousin’s wedding, around fourteen years ago. His wife and kids, who used to live with him, recently moved to Canada, possibly to settle there once he retires. Of course, moving abroad seems to be the trend (or even the no...

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