Akram Bakram

Warning:  

Preferable only for 18+ readers. Explicit language used; readers discretion advised. 

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Something is not right. Monsoon had already blessed Kerala, but load shedding is still on, saying the dams, which produce electricity have not enough water level. A serious case of fever, with names including dengue and malaria and rat fever is sweeping the land, killing people, already slaughtered by the price hikes in rice and fuel.

There was only one hope; Sreesanth, but he is in jail, for charges in spot fixing.

Every street, village, and city is populated by waste, dumped from factories and butcher houses. When it rains, the rainwater washes the rubbish from roadsides to the main streets and chunks of shit reach your toes, touching them, flowing away, touching them, flowing away again.

 

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In news channels, all the interesting news has given way to Narandra Modi and BJP. Some channels do make it a point that the fever issues are duly addressed. Again, the news becomes no news, but a routine, from the second day onwards. So is the case with the fever news, only the death toll changes each time. Five, ten, twenty, four hundred.  

Admission in schools get damn competitive and students balance between suicide and contentment. Once you are denied admission for your twelfth class, what else is an option other than suicide, if your family status does not support you going to a parallel college for higher education? Sounds like a fucking passive sentence in a neat paragraph of simple sentences. Not just in schools. The admission process is in full throttle in colleges too. Long lines of people, waiting hopefully for some information about their daughters’ or sons’ admission in college is a regular scene in early June.

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If they want to get back home a bit early in the evening in the Monsoon, with some hot pakodas, samoosa, ulli vada, undakkai, bonda or puffs, from the nearby thattukada, a street food stall, the busy traffic holds them on the way. By the time, the poor working class, bourgeois, the super rich and the dreamers reach their respective homes, it would be eight in the evening. Samoosa, ullivada and pakodas, all would be cold and stale, by that time.

Akram, bakram, shukram, pakram. Gili…gili…gili…gili…shooo….

I am trying a spell, to make this all damn right. What do you say?

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