Last week, at around six in the evening I went out for a walk to the valley. Stared at the clouds for a while, came back. I was about to start writing when someone knocked the door. And, when someone disrupts you while you are writing, it is really annoying. So I asked him to come in. He sat down high-fiving me. I pulled out a pair of scissors and stabbed him. He was gasping for breath, but then my hands crept on his neck and started choking him.
“You know how it feels when you stick to me like a disease? When you knock the door at the wrong time? My cerebrum then stops functioning inside. The neurons have to go all the way to the end of the brain and open the door for you to come. The inside then can’t come back to itself because you are sitting there. Like a pain in the eardrums. And then you gradually become the Sivamani of my eardrums. Every time you hit the cymbal, my ear bleeds. The cogwheels of the brain die. Then, every time I have to take a cotton thread, dip it in oil and run it across my ears. Oiling is so crucial for the brain. How would you know? You curd. Yes, you are curd! Because nothing is more disgusting than curd. That white gooey liquid with lactobacillus bacteria swimming across showcasing different strokes.”
He sat their bleeding and pleading. A lesson learnt. Ah! forty-nine-and-a-halfth scissors. What an achievement! That one half got stuck in the liver. I tried pulling it out though, but no success. And one was back in 14th July, 1978 when I was born. I was a caesarian baby. My life began with an incision. I have to end lives with one. Half centuries always allude me. I was about to sit down writing about this man who was bleeding so profusely, because he disrupted my flow of thought. He knocked the door at the wrong time. I almost sat down to write when someone else knocked the door. I got up infuriated and pulled out a new pair of scissors..