Pro : A Reflection Through Realism

This is fiction. Pro ~ protagonist. Yes, the picture is just pretty and of no relation whatsoever.

For four years, Pro was witness to household conflict. They heard one too many loud arguments. So like any young adult, Pro made it all about themselves.

Pro resorted to the typical vices and distractions but maintained a full proof
façade of contentment and emotional numbness. At times, they felt free but such moments were short-lived.

Pro eventually grew up and grew out of self-centered approaches. You would assume that after four years, they would have become used to the discord . Yet, Pro was partially unhappy on the sunniest of days.

Pro eventually reached a conjunction in their life. They achieved their first modicum of success – they achieved their dream. However, financial obstacles thwarted this opportunity. In short, Pro won the race but did not receive their trophy. They got into the college they deserved but couldn’t afford.

Many factors contributed to this monetary mix up and Pro was well acquainted with the excuses.  The sensex sucked, the market crashed, this that and more. But deep down, Pro knew that disharmony between loved ones and within oneself was the root of all problems.

Pro accepted their fate and moved on. They eventually went to a university not too far away. They made friends and got incredibly intoxicated on weekends. A few years later, Pro tied the knot and changed jobs. Many of Pro’s friends made comments about what a sacrifice it was, but Pro honestly did not mind leaving behind their old job; their past.

Three years into Pro’s marriage, they felt the pressure of having kids. This resulted
in heated arguments. Eventually, Pro gave in and had two children. It was the perfect
Cereal Packet family.

As one could imagine, Pro entered a mid-life crisis. They blamed their partner for all their failures. Pro never loved the university they attended, Pro never loved any of their jobs, Pro never loved their partner and now, Pro was running out of love for their kids.

A divorce shortly ensued.

The years passed and Pro would watch the clock snail from hour to hour. Over time, Sundays were spent with grandchildren and Thursday afternoons were dedicated to Rummy. Pro died of natural causes at the age of 88 years. It was an everyday tragedy. You see, Pro’s life was far from special. It was utterly predictable but it would be controversial to begin contemplating its value.

If there is anything we learn, it’s that its hard to be the protagonist of our stories; something that Pro blindly experienced and failed to confront. Accepting that we may not live up to our plots is a difficult lesson. There is so much more that we can be but at the same time, there is so much we aren’t already. To recognise that and learn from it, is wisdom.

© 2016 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved


What’s The Time

I fumble for my phone in the ocean of cushions on this sofa. Thin pins of fibre hold my eyeball in place; I blink and I feel them tighten and loosen in squeezes. A flood begins in my mouth as I close my eyes, imagining the intricate anatomy of my eyes as though it were spaghetti with the texture of meatball sauce. Ah, maroon blindness soothes. Optical curtains slowly rise and light from the bulb creeps into sight.

I look at Ved on the floor a few feet away.

“Eh,” I say and blink longer than usual. He looks beat yet gleeful in this struggle to stay awake.

“Ved,” I whisper loudly. He rolls his head over. “What’s the time?”

Ved lifts his brows but continues to be silent; hopefully my words have registered. The guy looks pensive and odd; deliberating the corporate money behind every politician; that’s why our roads are narrow and pavements are so bloody wide; can’t you taste the uprising filling the saffron streets; nobody is walking with those hooligans. As the son of a Minister of the Opposition he sure has a lot of opinions he’d rather divulge to me after a weekend of sorts.

Ved whips his head around. He inches his neck in the direction of the window like a turtle emerging from its shell. In a blink, his face is a finger length away from mine. Eyes serious, crazy and large, jaw tense. Something is plaguing his mind, I can see it in the wrinkles that appear on his forehead. I wonder if he smelt some toast.

And that’s when his cheeks begin to twitch and his mouth trembles. He’s suffocating his words. But no, he’s about to, about to speak. Adam’s apple bobs, lips part and he reveals,

“It’s dark out”

I slump back into cushions. Moron.


© 2015 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved


Dinga-linga-ding. People pour into the room so quick but I don’t notice.

Phase 1
An auntie, wearing all the gold she owns, waddles like a penguin toward me. By now, I’ve heard one too many exasperations about how tall I’ve grown but I endure just another. She asks me ‘what I want to do’, to which I itched to reply ‘leave but I can’t. This is my house and my Ma has painted me like a perfect picture to display to all of you so I can’t leave but for what it’s worth, I’d sure like to’. She slaps my wrist and tells me to stop day dreaming. I tell her ‘writing’ is ‘what I want to do’. Her eyebrows. Enough said. Continue reading

[Excerpt] where do we go from here?

A small excerpt from a play I’m working on. Trying to experiment with struggles and perceptions of who needs who more, who’s weaker or stronger, who’s actually weaker or stronger, who can deal, who needs help yada yada.


Uma: [a sarcastic laugh and pours herself a drink] It’s like peeling off dry skin with you. [stirs with one finger]. Uma!

Maya: [Observes the world outside the window. She is clearly detached but gives off the impression that it’s an act. Unlike Uma’s drink, Maya is hard to stir up]  I feel ill.

Uma: No don’t you dare. [Walks briskly toward the chair, using her eyes to push Maya back down].
You have to stop this dramatic display of utmost shock. Haven’t you had enough? Don’t you want to scream? Cry? Punch a dry wall? Something?

Maya: [quietly] No.

Uma: [sarcastic] Oh! Stellar!

Maya: You know I get migraines. I need to lie down.

Uma: No no no, not this time goddammnit! This time you will sit down. This time you’re going to listen to what I have to say whether you like it or not.  Continue reading

Two Chairs Fit Very Well

The end of a pen is clicked, once, twice, thrice. A tap of a shoe, a buzz of a fly. Two chairs fit well in this room. They fit very well.

“I see a dark tunnel for you. Unless you change your act, I’m afraid you’ll never see the light at the end of the tunnel. Don’t you want to be a better person? I know you do,” she says.

He looks through this transparent glass of a woman. A perfectly polished surface constantly reflecting rehearsed responses at him. He hears her but doesn’t listen and continues to let his eyes wander up the walls of the stuffy room.
She waits for him to return but is aware that he wastes this time purposefully. Aging skin, dried pores and crinkles at the edge of her eyes. It’s just another day at the office and just another object to add to her grocery list of achievements… if she can achieve this.
Lead-heavy eyes finally settle on her and he sees her just the same. An obiect. A poor, ragged porcelain doll, was she; kept at the back of the splintered cupboard and only given to the bad children.

“Are you here with me?” an attempt to tug him from silent derailment.

He scrunches up his cheeks, compressing disgust into every facial crevice and finally lifts his chin, adjusts his posture and inches forward. “That’s the wrong metaphor,” a hoarse steady voice emerges.


“I’m sorry?”

“It’s the wrong bloody metaphor,” a pause after each word.

“You know the policy with language here,” an empty threat but she recognizes an odd tone to his voice.

“Then you’d better get yours intact.”

“I will not tolerate-“

He sits back, shaking his head, murmuring. “You’ll never see the light. Jeez”

“I’m here to help you. I’m not the enemy,” she assures. She needs to get ahead with this subject. This subject.

“Since when is ‘bloody’ a curse word? In yesterday’s session I swore like motherfu-“

“PLEASE!” she insists. She knows she must keep calm. An overt reaction on her account is a threat to professionalism and her budding reputation. But this one was a goddamn piranha and she’s on her last nerve.

“What’s the problem, illiterate? Can’t comprehend?”

A vague utterance falls from her cheap lipstick as she tries to reply.

“C-om-pri-endah,” he sniggers.

“We have been at this for over a year. Don’t you want to go back to school? Get that English major some day? See you friends again?” she asks. He doesn’t speak now and breaks eye contact. “You need my okay to get out of here so the least you could do is cooperate,” she adds, trying to good-cop-back-cop him. “Let me help you.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t you dare hurl some superficial shit!”

“Now calm down”

He gets up on his feet. “I’ve been stuck in this room forever! I don’t want to be here! Don’t you get it? I DON’T NEED YOU, ” he towers over her, his eyes dark and fuming and neck swollen with red angst.

Fear washes over her. “This is my job. I am here to help because I want to,”


“NO YOU’RE NOT! I DON’T CARE ANYMORE. CALL THE GUARDS CALL THEM!” he’s up in a flash and pacing to the door now.

“You have to control this. This is what I’ve been trying to teach you. I’m not going to call them! Now stop!” she screams… finally. She puts down her notes. This is not a session for notes.

He’s about to break the door but closes his eyes. He waits there for a second, sweat dripping from tightly held fists.

“There’s still time left, we can talk,” she reassures, now up on her feet, hoping he’ll turn to his seat. “You need to control the anger.”

He opens his eyes and turns back. His body is on fire. An exhale and a swallow. Holding his fists he walks back to the chair, sits. Elbows meet the knees and she simultaneously slowly sinks to her chair.

“I’m talking to my social worker. I want out.,” he says. Calm this time. “But I’m saying one last thing and leaving.”

He interrupts her before she can speak.

“We’re not enemies, you’re right about that. But I’ve been in this chair and you’ve been in that one for far too long. I think I know you and you think you know me. I’m just sad sod to fix and I give you a run for it.. just cause. There’s a moment, sometimes when I hope you will. But I know you won’t. I’m the druggie, the juvenile delinquent, the troublesome foster kid, the girl half-paralyzed from jumping off a roof. What had to go wrong in your life that made you a mechanic for human tragedies? I feed your moral satisfaction, your sigh of relief for ‘doing your bit’ for society.

Maybe if you didn’t compartmentalize me. Maybe if you realized that some people aren’t meant to be parents and some kids aren’t meant to be brought into this world but when that happens happens, it just happens. The root is the branch and you’re just a deluded temporary near-miss correction of a sick cycle.

So do me a favour when another me walks through that door tomorrow. Get out some Monopoly, a pack of cards, some beers. Don’t tell him it’s alright. Give him a smack and say “suck it up punk, you’re part of a larger problem”. One day that kid’s going to have another kid who’s going to see another you. So don’t give her some heartfelt bullshit by manipulating her into thinking she solved her own problems with her ‘feelings’. Look at him as a person, make her day a little more enjoyable, maybe petition for a ‘Parent Qualifications Act’. See us. ‘Cause after I walk outta here -you and me -we’re just tools again. I’m the problem, you’re the solution blah blah. Once again, We’re just two chairs that fit very well.”

She doesn’t glance at her watch. “I believe that’s all the time we have”.

© 2015 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved

Dear Appa

A boy writes a letter to his father.

dear appa

© 2015 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved