The New Clothes

It no more bothers,neither does it surprise me anymore; almost everyone is double-faced. Who is going to question whom, while every king wears something transparent! I really don’t feel ashamed to wear nothing after seeing such unabashed nudity.

Till date, I heard everyone say with suppressed smile and utter disgust, “What a jerk.” Really, I don’t feel shame standing either in front of or at the backdrop of the opaque mirror, where my city metamorphosed and my soul is hinged somewhere over the corner of the broad streets. 

I really fall short of reaction when the chimpanzee of Alipore Zoo smirks at me. Where do I go or live with this name—shame, yet shameless? Carefree now turned teniciously and slightly intelligent.

The pollen grains pop up and love spreads its wings so helplessly to live in or die with love, and skeletal branches are brinked with glee. Love is never a shame. The Stewart stalwart— and the four walls laughed out loud, yet the cracks cried out the pain of being the only witness of the most notorious game, although nothing new in this sacred vicinity.

Chaya loved that sexist Chekhov, who hardly knew any manners, yet died unapologetically without any resistance. Chaya wore a new cloth, so transparent while clinging to a rope from the terrace and put aside the burden— something she had borne for so long, where education, opulence, and ethics remained caged in a wicked, territorial page. They told him an asshole and she wrote “fuck you” on her forehead in the golden hour.