It sometimes seems that it is all over . You are all set to call for the curtains to fall over . The shadows in backstage have been calling you for so long . The damp essence of the finality that registers in your nasal chambers . But to the onlookers , the show must go on . You are to them the food , that they have been long kept away from . There's no denying the wolfish gleam in their eyes that you might luckily catch hold of .

And they make you swoon when you see your fairy tales drown in a puddle of blood and screams . The rod has again made its mark , coughing up blood more than your monthly appointment. People will call you soiled no matter the line up of events that pushed you over into this abyss . The sides to your story of existing , so steep and yet such depths of bonfire , set to burn you on the stake of phallus . You have been the witch these days . The priests only needed your revealing clothings to mark you as the culprit to be purified with their eyes , fingers and twisted physicality . There was no one to catch the hint of rotten fruity odor emanating from them . The smoke rises unbeknownst to all but you , the acrid taste of its presence previously used to open up all the clouds in your eyes . And now ? You are infatuated to that malignant petrichor of its wake .

The skies might seem bankrupt , no clouds in a mile's radius . No candy floss tuft of whitish sense of doubt and consolations . Only a white pool of stickiness . All stigma adherent to it . To your bloodied skin . The air has grown to smell like the vanilla ice cream - tasteless, insensitive, cold , billowing up and sending chills into your spine . You, who used to love the late night parties , have settled down like the dust after the storm that had been raving in this desert of concrete pavements. No rains , no shade of palm trees to soothe your scars . You are the one now to shudder even at the thought of changing seasons .There are no fallen leaves to mimic the long lost rustling of fairy didi's saree . The betel nut trees stare at you as ugly stumps in between a grove of broken old monk bottles and  torn rags . The beggar scurries around like rat amidst all these .

It's been two years since the medicines have lost themselves into the meandering of side effects . The prescription basks in some recess of your study _ soaking up the gothic vibes of your altered forme .The slight throb in your temples before your head would seem to burst . You fall down on your knees , the world has stopped spinning and you regain your balance . The light uneasiness of the vomitus travelling all the way up the tunnels of gut . Your belly has been of late prospering amicably for the last few weeks . You have survived that childhood trauma only to lease life to another childhood , yet to be lost into the hungry depths of traditions , prejudices and all .