Prose

These Red, Blue Jeeps Are The Same Or Are They Not?

Absurd Prose
In Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh, India.
Image by Aditya Thakur

The Red Jeep said to the Blue Jeep that it was late. What is the point of hurrying if you don’t know where you are going, replied the Blue Jeep.

*  

Sure the circle is round and the track is wide, beautiful vistas stretched within and beyond me, prints are taken, but the journey is not free. 

What is the price you ask? It is different for everybody. Though ultimately all agree to pay, and thus the journey begins. 

But someone must know where I have reached. This guy in blue safety helmet might reveal. 

Hey! Hey! Hey-hey! The man replied not, real the man was not, it was all plastic, just an image. It bounced off voices and that was enough for many. Still is.  

*

The Red Jeep asked the Blue Jeep that if it followed the echoes or not. What is the point of following an echo when you can’t hear your own voice, replied the Blue Jeep.  


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Opposite the Nadir

Short Lyrical Prose
White cloudy raga plays… and I am still walking.
[Source – Pixabay]

The igneous surface I am walking on has a tremendous sound stored in it, but in a dense state so that the land appears dead.

The colour is thick black; it stains me anew with every step that I take, entering breath by breath within.

Smog-heavy mood, like heavy chains, has made me hunchbacked. Hollow quietude stays along, walking next to my faint shadow.

I utter nothing, nothing at all – all noise is of the wind; the wind ruffles around greasily, overwhelming me with dullness.

The mind is whimsical, I tell myself after some days’ journey; I continue ahead.

Where to, I ask, am I going?


That was the last I heard from myself.

But I am still walking, walking towards what lies opposite the nadir.


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