The paint’s turpentine and a walled-in afternoon

Kindly, fade into this world.

A vertical year had passed, digitally. With his conflicts—balanced out, purposes—irrelevant, and the audience taken away he was but a brooding mold contained in the mugginess of a nook. Addicts of the right angle were interpreting circles, on the telly; while the room, his abode, smelt of turpentine: new paint.  The walls, glossy and cheap, were dripping a rude new red. Restless beams of yellow crept past hidden gaps, delivering the afternoon heat on the fresh paint—vaporizing, unlocking fumes. 

Straightness melted; solid reds softened to a mist; eccentrically parked windows flexed, curved in, so did the floor—it caved in, just a bit, like the flaccid sofa; mosaic tiles loosened up like brittle earth, willingly. Everything seemed to defocus.

I love mosaics

They explain everything

King of patterns: a language, I think.

The units—words:

Bits of whole spices in a Biryani—tell a story when left alone—

Sting when singled out,

Whorl out—assertively: flourishes of a drunk painter,

Come winter—they turn into silk weaver’s palmar patterns,

Ovoid silences: the minute after a Tillana,

Smell like my paddy fields—the day before harvest.

The worthy parts assemble, but too hurriedly.

Contrapuntal complexities—compulsions—disobeyed.

Alas! A flawed whole:

Polygonal flatness; angle-less mediocrity

“A freakin’ Vanilla ice cream”

A vigorously shaking black marble paper weight cuts into the soggy visuals of a melting ice-cream. The sound of a fast-approaching train fills the room, physically, shaking his living space and its pointlessness; after a moment, we dissolve back into his subconscious slurry.

Trains: boring linear assemblies

I hate ‘em and train stations.

Sun’s cooked ‘em all up

The Railways, they’re no more 

The shiny tracks, the brown carriages—

 Blebbed-out mercury vesicles, molten lava


 The sound of train was suddenly interrupted by a cracking sound, jolting him back to a sense of sanity. The Cheval mirror by the green sofa, he noticed, had shatter lines snaking out radially from a center. Glass pieces were strewn all over, some heavy ones stuck to their mother: the mirror, now a vivid pie chart. The sun that had knifed in, reflecting off the richly injured, imposed itself as rude, pointy triangles of light and shade. A looming shadow’s triangularity merged and matched into a congruous, angry shard.

Shards, Shards! 

I am them—reduced, multiplied.

I am in them. 

Parts of me, yeah!

Reddened, moving parts of me,

My units, 

Disgruntled incongruities

Spilt all over, floored.

“Enough with that pathetic pomposity!” 

An extreme close up of a shard cuts to a bird’s eye view of the room, sans its ceiling. His arrogant facets lay scattered in the broken glass pieces, squealing in myriad tongues: dissonant parts of a photo autopsied brittleness. Blackness begun to vignette in.

I am, now, my elements

Basic, spare—flat notes

“Am I a mosaic?”

I’ll sleep, now, I love its nothingness

The heat worsened; the paint’s fumes flooded his senses. Numbness.

Fade unto white. Whiteness.

Kannan Baskar