The Visit -1

This cough is going to take the life of me I think to myself. The auto buzzes along nonchalantly up the road to drop me of at the  emergency entrance. After the usual probing by the doctors at the causality, I usher myself to radiology to get an X-ray done. I approach the counter, but the receptionist is busy managing calls and pointing the attendants to various ward transfers which need to be done. I cough. A tiny speck of blood lands on the counter. I apologise immediately, all the while searching my pockets for the handkerchief I had hurriedly stuffed in when I was sitting in the auto. She looks at me in utter disgust, I apologise again and inform her I've come for an X-ray. She signals to the radiographer to take me into the X-ray room. My shirt comes off, my hands folded in a cold embrace with the stand and like a priest at a matrimonial I'm asked to take a deep breath and hold it in. I'll try I say to the man, but he retires behind a shield and leaves me to follow the instruction should I wish to. I inhale. My lungs haven't been very faithful, but then again neither have I. I still remember the first cigarette offered to me in high school. The complicated procedure to do it like the Marlboro man.  Another cough comes, the former speck has now become a splat. I should be worried, but the radiographer screams at me to hold it in. I'm zapped by the beam, and I return to the doctor. It's grim I'm afraid the news I'm about to receive. He looks confused as to what needs to be said to me. Why don't you get a CT done? I utter something about not having the money and I return home, all the while looking at the X-ray. A black and white portrait of me, as I really am. And with me, is a parasite feeding of me. A big white circle of death. This cough is going to get the best of me.              
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Harangue - Part I

Wake up to the same damn song on the phone,  I haven't bothered to change it in months (screw me).
The barking dogs and the siphoning mosquitoes who make the most of the all their all night buffet meal, namely me (screw them).
Feed on a book whilst straining to poo. 
Brush Ayurvedic toothpaste onto my creamy whites, more like oil of Olay gone desecrate.
The bucket fills, cold at first and then hot. I play the role of a hand pump doing away with the cold into a separate bucket but tres desole at the end as I return the H2O to its warm self.
Like a zombie, I eat the meal placed before me, while surfing the net, always raring for something new to see. I'm baked, though I've not had anything in a while. I'm totally baked. But not in a good sort of way. More like been in the oven for too long cos I'm trying to catch whats on TV baked.

Mix and match, though not for me. Cos I suffer from obesity.
What went on my lips, refuses to budge from my hips, or breasts or back or legs.
I've often felt I looked like the meat placed at a shawarma shop. Or on certain days an ice cream cone. with the cherry being the small head of mine. popped on the gigantic spread of my body.
No I'm not happy. GQ tells me what and who to wear, but they don't make it for me. 
Neither am I chauffeured in an expensive car, stepping out in sheepskin Oxfords and having the people around me smell the l'eau d'Issey, I've carefully applied on pressure points or nerve end points or just randomly in the hope I'm being smelt. Everything in Feng Shui.

No that's not me, I say. Head held low, not to be mean or haughty. The wind resurrects far too much dust and the sun is far too unkind. It shines on my skin and then I get stared at. What puzzles me is what's so special to look at in me? 

All they see is fair skin untouched. But beneath runs cracks and sores, which itch and burn and swell. Or to summarise  in Latin, tumor, rubor, calor and dolor...

* Inspired by Kalki Koechlin's powerful monologue, you can watch it here...
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