From The First Ray Of A Mocking Sun Till I Went Back To Sleep

Artwork by Akshay Jose

Woke up with the sun falling straight on my face
I forgot to adjust the curtains last night
I was drowsy
Spilled a lot of sugar while trying to make a dessert out of spices
Ants crowded the sugar beans today
I had a dream while half asleep
Can’t remember the dream
Half baked cake? Some wild animal? or not? A blackbuck?
A plaid shirt? chocolate biscuits?
nose hair?
definitely a girl running around naked
or did she have a flower crown?
Akhlaq getting lynched at FTII.
A bigot in prison?

Still contemplating whether getting out of bed is necessary
Craving the touch of your hairless back
I slid the tip of my fingers through it
while touching your hairy butt cheeks and sniffing your left ear,
running the awkwardly positioned left hand through your greasy, oily hair
Where is the smell now?
I hesitantly turn the other way
the sun is rough today
It making me restless
Is there milk in the fridge?
Is there some leftover from last night’s dessert?
My mother says, “stop, or you’d hurt yourself”
I want to stop, mother.

Are they bringing NRC nationwide?
It can’t be that bad, would it?
People are dying in deathly camps
People often die
In isolation,
Is God trying to kill us? Is it really hurting?

Or Am I still dreaming of the naked girl with flower crown.
“Pick yourself up”
“Let the day release you.”
Let the day release me?
At this point I’m suspicious.
Don’t trust someone who says they would let the day release me.
Do I trust someone who says let the day release me?
“Let the day release you”
I’m still dreaming?

The sun is gone. It’s cloudy.
I hear footsteps.
Did I buy milk last night?
Did I floss?
I remember now; I dreamt of Kelly Clarkson
She wasn’t the naked girl with flower crown
nor was she running
What was she doing again?
It’s just the medicine.
“Let them not get the better of you.”
“Let the day release you.”
I repeat.
Do not trust someone who says, “let the day release you.”
It’s for young people.
Or for old people.
We’re neither young nor old.

Mother says, “don’t sleep too much.”
Am I sleeping right now?
My body is stiff.
I can feel my erection through the pubes.
I need to trim my pubic hair.
I need to go and pee.
Need to find something to hold on to for more than a minute.

The sun is back. It seems harsher.
My plants are staring at me.
I have to water them.
Else the naked flower girl wouldn’t know where to go
how would she run, otherwise?
you said, “human relationships are…”
I wanted you to stop
anything that starts with “human relationships” need not be said out loud.
You were wearing a blue plaid shirt.
I slyly took pictures while you were asleep.
I felt a bit guilty.
But you look like a dream.
And I’m not showing it anyone
Kelly Clarkson would make a joke out of this
… bouncing and cracking up
The naked flower girl probably was Kelly Clarkson
I would never know

I need to fold my bed sheet
they smell of you.
Should I get them washed?

Mother says, “when you don’t want to live anymore, eat.”
I’ll see if there’s milk
Or sugar
Or chocolate biscuits
I stopped buying those specific ones since you left
not because they remind me of you
I never really liked them
Eating is such a task
Is there any tobacco left?
Do I get to smoke some more?
Or was I smoking all this while?
Smoking causes erectile dysfunction?

People are still dying?
I heard them say, “wait a little more until you die.”
“Hang in there.”
Or you’d never know how is it to feel pain
or misery
or the privilege of being neither young nor old
Or your mother saying, “Eat.”
So what if you have a dictator
a vicious ringmaster
in his pale orange circus.

I now remember a circus
It was no fun
I hate clowns too
they remind me of McDonalds
Never really liked McDonalds.
Why am I thinking of food, again?
Am I still smoking?

Need to clean the sugar particles.
The ants must not die.
I’d release them somewhere safely?
Or should I say, “let the day release me?”

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Aritra Sarkar is a queer artist/filmmaker who has dedicated himself to explore the essence of the queer, through fiction and non fiction.
Aritra Sarkar

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