The Enigmatic AmazonBasics Shears

I write this with a mixture of volatile angst, bewilderment and more anger. I have purchased the marvellous AmazonBasics Multifunction Detachable Kitchen Shears, not once, not twice, but three times so far. The first time was a “just like that” purchase. The come-apart scissors turned out to be so good, I cut up things that didn’t need any cutting. I left town for a couple of weeks, and learnt, to my utter dismay, that my beloved new possession was crowning the landfills. Askance, upon a thorough enquiry into the matter, I came into the grappling knowledge that the scissors had “broken” and hence were thrown away. At this point, I was vexed to the point of amusement. I explained to the perpetrator, at length, mind you, that these are “DETACHABLE”- meaning that they detach and attach, and detach and attach, and so on and so forth.

With a very nostalgic, heavy heart, I again bought these marvellous pair of scissors. The beguiling pair of contraption sat proudly on the kitchen window sill, basking in the morning sun, quietly creeping into the cold moonlight as the black, well-padded thumb-holes slipped into mystical nocturne. Oh how they cut! Like a lover’s bantering; without the knowledge of the medium that was being torn apart in one quick squish. The marvellous scissors knew no limits, they cut paper and rock, flowers and bones and anything that needed a good old shear. Pity though, for all things that were cut, cursed a glooming spell on the scissors and they “detached” one fine day, without my knowledge. The apathetic domestic help decided it was time to put the “detached” corpse to rest and thus, the second pair of shears ended up in the trash.

Overwrought with, what can only be termed as annoyance mixed with graphic grittiness, I bought the “comes-apart” pair of scissors for the third time from the friendly, neighbourhood Amazon. Origami and salads, stalks and rose bushes, everything looked like they’d visited Supercuts. Sometimes, I would just stare out the window, cutting newspapers, immersing myself in a full-swing catharsis over the loss of the previous two pairs. This was mildly therapeutic, however, the bits of paper whirling on the floor called for a massive clean-up afterwards. Needless to say, this Hannibal-esque behaviour prompted some sacrilegious thoughts, which, woefully, if not thankfully, remained just mere fragments of imaginations. In an overzealous attempt to guard my knight in shining armour (how ironic!), I mindlessly left these out of the nest and as its wont, destiny made them disappear the next day. Et tu, Karma?

The cryptic universe was sending out a very incomprehensible memorandum to me vis-à-vis, “Stop spending money like you actually have money” I learnt my lesson, not once, not twice, but three bugging times and I am delighted to announce that I have tossed the proverbial towel on those gleaming pair of shears.


Slumped shoulders

A blue horn touted loud,

A scarlet fish floated round,
A yellow stream gushed,
Spiralling down a rabbit hole. 
In a murky maze,
Lobotomized eyes seeked
The help of frozen limbs,
Only to be blinded by the bright. 
Music and musings,
Intertwined with spirit,
Hazy dreams of yesterday
Shimmering on the red water.
A walk in the morning rain,
Broken, and taped with twine,
An unmistakable, impending dive,
Into the arms of dystopia,
Death masquerading as hope. 
The ghoulish laughter of the folks
The besmirched mark on the cheek,
The venom running in the veins,
Bid adieu to the tarnished soul. 

Your Lowness

A short lived Your Highness,

Widespread, wordlessness.

Falling through the cracks,

Out of undue distress,

Into the lap of blindness.

Flowers and rainbow,

Rain on your window,

Splat goes an insect,

Oblivion in horizon.

Marquess and the farmer,

Quibbled in the corner,

Ale and an aperitif

Flowing like a river.

Where did the tide go?

Where did the ebb flow?

How did the moon shine?

Without any trace divine.

Fleeting is the birdsong,

Harp not, hear the gong.

Rise up, says the rooster,

Dock into the water,

Set sail, in the unknown.

The bulkwark will hold ye

If ye gone and done, some folly.

The Story of Y

Last evening, Y flipped. Stuck somewhere between elated and morose, Y didn’t know what to do. Y did what she did best, popped a couple of pills and washed them down with a bottle of wine. After that, not much was remembered, except that there was toast with a chocolate spread. Miraculously, Y woke up without a headache, only in need of lot of fluids. A walk through the early morning fog helped immensely, and the proverbial mist was lifted. A friend had uttered, very casually, a few reassuring words, which made Y smile, albeit pensively. Those simple words fortified her faith in herself, made her look around and smell the coffee. Y thanked the friend.

Now Y was left wondering. Why? The rocking chair basking in the mid-morning sun seemed to hold all the answers. Y was afraid of the chair. Y was unusually preoccupied with something that had left her occupation a long time ago; a pair of eyes watching her. But did they, ever? The human psyche is a strange self, thought Y. Hallucinations and inventions, all spring from the psyche. Nothing big had emerged from Y’s psyche, except spurts of creativity, that were splattered across the canvass, so far apart, it was hard for anyone to piece it together. Getting back to the big question, Y’s preoccupied mind now wandered into the realms of the other-world, that defined by Area 51 and ghosts and telepathy. Suddenly, the shrill cry of the phone woke Y up from her reverie. There lay all the answers; all she had to do was talk on the phone. But did she? She decided not to. You see, Y had decided, against all odds, it was better to leave the psyche wondering rather than facing the truth. Y was not scared of the truth, she simply did not want to know anymore. Knowing never did anyone any good. Endless cups of coffee coupled with an endless stream of Muzak, gave Y the assurance that each day would be brighter than the previous, especially now that spring was slowly setting in. Y’s sense of humour returned back to the bones, as the drugs started to wear off.

Y looked at the time, sensed her cold limbs and decided to nip, tuck and move on with the day. Let bygones be bygones, Y said. Unabashedly, Y closed her eyes, lay her tired head back and waited for the “sweet sleep” to take over. Wallowing was an addiction, and Y was all but consumed. Y thought of all the moments that had made her smile and slept with a smile on her face.