IN DIRE NEED by Devayani Anvekar

Image | Cottonbro Studios

IN DIRE NEED 

To have some fruitful talks. Often seated here

in this unpolished, grey, granite stone garden

bench. No giant foams of snow from heaven’s

sky comes down and covers it in December. 

 

Tanned crisp leaves in October. Soft violet-blue

flowers during May June monsoon. Strewn on

it by branches of jarul trees that house it in their

cool hut of calm shade. Crushed minced under

often shifted weight of your bottom. 

 

As your fingers graze the screen of your

smartphone glow like a wizard’s crystal ball,

foretell things, the wizard commands it to. 

 

You akin to a brown sparrow land on dirt and

speck the surface for worms and seeds. Now

and then raising its little head and looking

hither thither.

 

You wait to meet and talk with others. Clear

your mind. Listen to others.

 

Know if others mind too, similarly confused.

 

Others too, like you, trying to understand and

know their innermost blurred part and retrieve,

embrace. Their innate munificent nature. Like

a white riot lotus, out of black opaque waters.

 

That baffling resilient silent soul. In all.

 

You engage others in conversations, talks, that

aren't always fruitful: talks that further existing

confusions, create additional misgivings, and

dire conclusions, nasty misunderstandings.

 

Touchy egos hurt, bruised. Look like slashed

trees.

 

Painful to watch.

 

You relentlessly belittled. You relentlessly

belittle others.

 

You pretty much aware conversations, talks,

don’t generally turn out to be pleasant. Except,

when it is to joke, make fun, or plot against a

person both despise.

 

Yet, you go to meet and you meet and talk and talk

and talk and talk. Never get to the point. Afraid

it might turn hostile. You might get further misheard

or worse. You may again further mishear and

misunderstand others. Start another acrimonious

argument. Witness more peeved minds and wounded

egos ROAR.

 

Suffer more.

 

Severe headaches. Brain more tender, sore. Head

throb, trill more.

 

Thrashed. Armed with more pain, regrets. 

 

Why do you open your mouth and air your views,

doubts? You wonder. Go to meet. Discuss serious

things seriously. Why don’t you just joke, gossip?

Discuss lipsticks, mascaras, face scrubs, you like.

Shampoos you love.

 

Be of amicable nature and spot your place. Joyfully

given to you. By benevolent mother nature. As well

by fellow human beings difficult as tangled threads

to untangle. Free. Behold each heart revived. Revel.

© Devayani Anvekar

Devayani Anvekar

Devayani Anvekar is illustrator, caricaturist, of social and domestic issues. She lives in Goa, India. She writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose when drawing fails to help her grasp human struggle. Her written work has appeared in 50-Words Stories, The Metaworker, and is forthcoming in The Genre Society, Witcraft. 

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