Open letter from a date rape drug to women

Dear foolish lady,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am so easily available, just like your consent is - or isn’t. You can buy me anywhere at the nearest chemist's store. And for a little extra money, the bill will also magically disappear. I am peddled around at parties like hors d'oeuvres. If people have their way, I’ll find my way into more than one woman’s drink, on the nights I make my special appearances. I leave no side-effects. Unless of course you count rape as a side-effect. Anyway that’s what rape is viewed as - a side-effect of YOUR actions.

When I am feeling lucky, a lot of women aren’t.

And that, my friend, is where you come in. I remember you so clearly from the other night. You were standing there, all happy and excited about the night that lay ahead of you. Little did you know that that one drink will change your perception of socialising forever.

It’s funny that you even thought you had the right to go out and have fun. Shame on you for ever thinking that you can step out.

I mean, what is the matter with you?

Who are you to assume that you can just lose all abandon and act normal? Do the words ‘be normal’ even exist for you? Look at yourself. You are an object to be scrutinised and used at anyone’s whim and fancy - have you learnt nothing at all?

Sure, you can go out with ‘the girls’ - I mean your perception of safety is laughable and questionable. The ‘girls’ are protecting YOU? Your common sense has dissolved. Just like I have, in the drink you left unsupervised during the five seconds you took to retrieve your wallet from the floor.

What happened to you after that is your fault, obviously. In the event of all the rapes that have occurred just in the past two months, one would have thought that being cautious is the only way to live. You had to act fearless and up the ante on the risk factor. You’re going to a party with strange men around - it’s like you’re asking disaster to RSVP at you.

The horror of having a strange man lay claim to your body, to do with your body as he pleases, to drug you into submission and leave you helpless - it’s the price you pay for thinking that it’s completely okay TO BE YOU. You don’t go out girl, that’s more like it.

Well, there’s only so much anyone can say I guess. Perhaps the next time you do decide to venture out, try keeping your hands to yourself. You know, not wrapped around a glass, for instance. Then maybe, just maybe, you won’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed, absolutely no pun intended.

Menacingly Yours,

A date rape drug.

A Letter to Pedestrians from an Open Manhole

Fact: Five people in India die daily by falling into open pits/manholes.

*Source: NCRB

Dear Pedestrians,

Remember me, that open manhole you walked past by, only a few days ago? Let me jog your memory.

Remember you were walking along and almost fell into me?

Remember you cursed me under your breath, and then just walked away?

Remember you threw an empty packet of chips into me and looked around to see if anyone caught you doing that? Well, I did, but I guess you didn't notice me.

Remember when it rained and I overflowed on to the streets? People didn't know that my lid was open and they fell into me.

Remember when you were walking again by my street, oblivious to my existence and suddenly found yourself falling into me, a world of filth that existed beneath the pavement?

Remember the crowd that gathered around me? Around you? Remember how embarrassed you were? How guilty was I. Remember how you had to be pulled out, a stench surrounding you that reeked more of helplessness than of anything else?

How you all flung expletives at me. How you all shook your heads in disbelief and blamed the system for yet another accident.

And how you all walked away. And yet you are here again, walking on my street, being cautious of your step. Reminiscing about how nothing ever changes around here. If only you had walked on another street. If only someone had covered me. If only someone had seen me.

If only someone had done something.

Yours failingly,

An Open Manhole.

Open Letter from a Barren Farm

Dear India,

In songs of beauty, of abundance, of prosperity, I was once the main hero. You used to sing about my lush green pastures as you watered the soil, where rice, maize and corn grew. Cattle grazed, I was full of life. A symbol of prosperity to animals, birds, crops and people.

Now, it's a different story. I am infertile. I'm no longer of use to you. The songs are all a thing of the past. I am abandoned and I'm lonely.

No one writes songs about those that they wronged. I am the field that you wronged by diverting water to the cities.

No one writes songs about those who they malnourished. I am the field that you used too much pesticide on.

No one writes songs about the ones that hold them back. I am the field that got in the way of your 'city dreams'.

No one writes songs about the one that they abuse. I am the field that was used to grow your cash crops.

You think I've forgotten how it used to be before, when fields were lush, green and fertile - that I've forgotten how I used to be? You think I want to be this infertile field, now that you are begging me to grow something… anything! You think I want to be the desolate piece of land of your funeral pyre? Remember you abandoned me. I waited and hoped.

Today you look at me with fallen eyes as the ones who toil upon me are about to take their own lives. You call out to the nation, to the masses, to the media. No one seems to care."No one is coming to save our crops, to rescue our lives, and our lands."

Only when we're down to the last crop in the country, down to the last surviving farmer, perhaps only then the country will finally wake up. Only when it's a little too late, will we all will decide to finally awake.

Yours barren and infertile,
The Farmland.

Open Letter From A High Voltage Wire

Dear Human,

Ever felt like you've hung around somewhere for so long that you begin slipping into the woodworks? I've been feeling that way for a while now.

You only notice me during the monsoons. If I suddenly have some amount of voltage, it's of a major concern. I get that me, being a wire, and a live one at that... cannot be exposed to water. But it's not like I am not functional during the rest of the year - you get what I'm saying?

I have been here for years - and it's beginning to feel pretty cramped up here. You would think that after all these decades of hanging around, I would get a neat makeover - but noooo. If being shoved carelessly around poles hasn't been boring enough, you've gone ahead and added a few more wires and now, you've just turned me into a nest of wires.

And should one of your own careless kind cross my path, you have to write these shocking headlines about me in your tabloids, blaming my ugliness and every detail about me.

Do not even get me started on all the various carts of food, clothes and what-not you display at abandon below me. Some of you have the audacity to use me as a clothesline, for crying out loud. I mean, DO YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO?

Just, look at me. Think about me, have some consideration for the times that I haven't electrocuted you. And while you take the time to do that, I'll take your advice and just, hang in there...

Dangerously Yours,
High Voltage Wires.

Open Letter from a Crumbling Flyover to the City

Dear Commuters,

You have been flying high with me, everyday and every night. When I first came into being, you were dumbstruck with awe. Then you soared with me, crossing over to the most inaccessible parts of the city with ease.

Many decades have passed. I am tired of bearing your weight. Your vehicles are getting bigger by the day, growing both in size and in number. I have borne many accidents here. Many deaths. You zoomed over me, overcome by the thrill of speed.

But that was all in the past. Today I am in the last stage of my life. Years of accommodating you has taken its toll on me.

And now you have turned a blind eye towards me. I'm in complete disarray and I need repair. Numerous articles are written on me. I am now said to be a dangerous, crumbling flyover. We may not even have to wait for an earthquake, a blizzard or a cyclone and I will come crashing down on you and your neighbourhood establishments.

I guess then we'll have a real jam, won't we now?

Barely Standing,
The Crumbling Flyover.

An open letter from a dumpyard

Dear civilians,

Here's the deal. I know I am a garbage dump, but COME ON. You honestly need to stop dumping EVERYTHING into me, even when, clearly, I cannot take any more. It's like you see, but you choose to not acknowledge the fact that I.have.no.space.anymore.

And then, you don't even segregate your stuff - doesn't that help your environment or something? Why would you not sort me out by separating your garbage - it's not rocket science.

And here I am, just lying in filth, letting out a stench that reeks of hell. I don't even know where I begin and end anymore. I thought I was the only unfortunate one - but I was so mistaken. There are more like me, some so far beyond help that I don't even recognise them anymore. They are becoming like mini landfills within the city.

To add to this, some of us are even broken... literally broken! We are supposed to be the place that holds your waste, so it doesn't really help you when WE are broken. I mean, where are you going to throw us, into another garbage can?

Give us a break, man. There's only so much responsibility you can dump on us now, isn't there?

Sickeningly Yours,
The dumpyard

An Open Letter to Children from a battered Playground

Dear kids,

They say that some lessons can be only learnt on a playground.

I will be the first one to agree - I mean look at all the lessons I am teaching the kids.

So kids, here goes nothing:

You will learn to adjust. You need to understand that I'm not always ready to be used the way you'd like. Sometimes I will have pebbles. Sometimes I will host non-sporting functions. Sometimes I will be unavailable. We'll work around it. We always do.

Be versatile like me - I am used for every sport.

Don't sweat the small stuff - I will not be the same size you need me to be.

Always remember the bigger picture - remember that the sport is bigger than the playground.

These valuable lessons will come in handy when you are competing at a national level. Or at a global level. Like the Olympics.

Some of us may not be very receptive, but you know what they also say: "Any publicity is good publicity."

And then you can all point fingers at us. But how does it matter?! We have taught you the hard lesson by then.

Go ahead learn these lessons kids, while I settle some scores.

Yours Sincerely,

The Battered Playground.

Open Letter from a Broken Street Light

Dear Pedestrians,

From where I stand, I have seen a lot. Accidents, people stumbling and falling in the dark, women being stalked, molested and raped - you name it. Yessir, many a disaster has occurred right below me. Had there been a CCTV mounted on me, you would have the evidence as well.

It's pretty traumatic being me. I have shed light on so many incidents... but hidden in the dark are so many more. Once, an old man was mugged. My wiring was in dire need of repair, so no one saw what happened. Perhaps if I were in a better condition, they wouldn't have had the guts to attack and rob you.

You may have passed by me many times. Some of my own kind are well lit even during the day, but aren't turned on during the night. Some of us, including me, have existed for so long that people have forgotten that they could use me, and I just stand there, unused, uncared for.

I remember the other day, when a car rammed into the street lamp down the road. It's ironic, actually. The car couldn't see the other lamp because, well, I wasn't functioning. And it had to go and ram itself in, of all things, a lamp. It's like we're trying so hard to make a point, but no one's really listening, or seeing for that matter.

So while I try and make myself more visible, here's a fun question for you to answer: "How many humans does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

Yours no longer functional,
A broken Street Light