Ruins of the Metropolis
By Aditi Dhabe
And it’s quiet,
a thumping of sorts.
A man stands outside a shop window and I bang open my apartment.
Keys in bowl, shoes on rack:
I am waiting for a tide, no more the dreadful trickling.
It seeps in at 6:32 PM on the dusty main road sidewalk,
Right through the pores and scalp with the leaden humidity,
And through the soaking footprints- feet amongst innumerable feet,
Left to be mopped by the mucky drudge of another. My pitch is,
To let me be the padding against the incisions.
Of the vacuum, of the public bus blare,
of the moaning and ringing from temples, a jarring reminder
to the neighbour on a stray path.
Let me be the worshipper, grantor of the munificent sacrifice to the
neighbour in his godlike coldness.
Because here’s the spelling out of it all.
I want to be a necessity,
The Friday night dessert.
Squeaking furniture, but what I mean is relief.
A man stands, hands splayed on glass, grimy nails and all, foggy breath locking him out
And I want to cajole open the answers-what of your brother’s broken heel?
Of your mother’s dying wish?
Of your swelling heart and rigid fingers.
I’ll mean, really, let me bite into your mourning and
pass you a slice of mine. Till our bellies
the hyperbolic silences
burst at the seams.
Let’s be the Thursday Special: a story about a hand in hand in hand,
with the musty dining room full of yellow laughter, keeping secret the drowning,
-I am tired of drowning the tunes in this septic sea-
and no, don’t look out, don’t listen hard.
Let’s forget it, ignore the thumping that windows us out into ashen isolation.
Painting: India Art Zone
Aditi Dhabe is currently a law student based in Pune, India, and maintains a penchant for words on the side. Her writing projects range from fantasy, literary fiction and poetry, to academic articles and research papers.
For more stories, read Café Dissensus Everyday, the blog of Café Dissensus Magazine.