notes on a society — part i

Photo by Israel Sundseth on Unsplash

the sun is no longer out but my city is shrouded in a darkness from within. the lamp posts cast a dewy glow but do nothing to alleviate the black heaviness. the noise is deafening but deep within i am running. running out of real things to say. move from poetry into pragmatism, she advises. i wake from my slumber and look around.

1. the man stares vacantly into space as his brethren raise their hands and clap, their mouths half open — a stupor unknown to me — calling out to the venerable deities that reside in small shrines splattered across my city’s skin. he attends these sessions dutifully. his bottle of faith, uncorked and unfilled ever since his wife died. cancer. stage 1. stage 2. like steps up to the place of worship. stage 3. the doors swing open. stage 4. there’s nothing inside this huge building. it’s barren — the gods have all left. and along with his wife. or was it the other way around?
2. now, there are half-naked men beating drums and singing joyfully. what is the line between cult and religion? faith and fear? can those gods still hear me if i think these thoughts in my head? will i ever know what it is to talk to god with the same ease with which these men sing? suddenly i am pushed ahead and i am expected to pray. i feel foreign, an immigrant in unknown lands. those whohave come ashore as refugees envy my citizenship. how do i tell them i don’t belong? this is a language i am unable to speak. the words are stuck at my throat and disintegrate into sounds.
3. there is a framed picture of an object in rainbow colors. the LBTQ+ colors shine at me, twinkling benignly. i wonder if they know what it stands for. i wonder if they will stand for it if they know.
4. one day, she asked him how many times he had voted. once, he replied after a pause. he was nearly sixty. later, he got into the car and complained, as he drove, about the garbage dumped on the side of the road and how none of those responsible for it paid their taxes. he added that it is to them that they lost control of the direction the country moved in. she did not reply. instead, she thought about how no one told her superheroes have an expiry date.
5. the woman wrapped in silk, claps her cymbals fervently. she sings without missing a beat, earnestly, neck stretched forward. it is both comical and endearing. what she cannot say, she says in prayer. yet, none of it reaches anybody of consequence. when she returns home, she will find there the man waiting to whip her and tell her he will leave her over and over. he fulfills only one of those two promises. her body is now forever bent in subservience. her meekness angers others. she retreats within even further and her singing gets louder…
6. there is a man who shifts in his seat slightly so he can continue to watch me — no watch my breasts to be exact. his middle-aged belly flopping to one side. his hair streaked with grey. an aberration atop his head since his face has not let go of puberty yet. chubby. wide-eyed lechery that is mistaken for idiocy. he stares ahead unabashed. you know what follows.
7. she bumped into the same old woman. the one she has to remind herself not to punch in the face from a few years ago. she had waddled up to her after she had sheared all her hair in an effort to forget the love of a certain man. the woman had squeezed her hand painfully. you can’t have such short hair during your wedding, ok? grow it out soon. she cackled. her skin wrinkled. her face oblivious of their previous encounter. like everything she had learned from those around her, she nodded and let it go.

the night ends. the sun comes up but i still feel cold. i say good morning. and i turn away from the light and leave - to go and put all my troubles to sleep.