Treasure Island

Nikhil Parekh

(27/08/1977 / Dehradun, India)


When i molded long strands of my hair into slender
fastening them with strings of sticky elastic rubber,
with infinite fibers of black cascading down like a
my manly exteriors transited to those of a daintily
adorned teenage girl.

when i submerged the wild mass of my hair in an exact
liter of coriander
they slept in tranquil contentment on glistening
regions of my scalp,
refraining to budge an inch in stormy sheets of
inclement weather,
dying a disdainful death without savoring the true
taste of life.

when i sheared bulky loads of my hair with a pair of
pocket jacknife,
rustic pathces of my scalp potrayed an alien look,
the humming bees sung merrily on the barren islands,
my head now resembled polished briquette's of
coal; sprawled with white

when i camouflaged my scalp with beads of pure silver,
adhering sedately to rudimentary bits of yellow gold,
it appeared as if possesed a dungeon of riches,
with parasitic individuals of the society pilfering
through my house of bare

when i tonsured my skull completely of hair,
gently plucking the last bits of floss with my knotted
my scalp got scorched in acerbic rays of the sun,
sparkling a pure ivory white in resplendent beams of
the moon,
i was a grotesque sight to stare; as people offended me
with pools of ludicrous

when i parted my hair in exact equal halves,
sprinkling the central rift with pinches of crimson
vermilon powder,
riveting braids of scented flower with scrupulous
i looked strikingly similar to the traditionally
living indian women.

and when i finally combed my hair with casual strokes
of the serrated brush,
splashing jagged stubs of my beard with revitalising
kneading my hair vigorously with piquant extracts of
blue whale fish,
i could be sighted unanimously by one and all; as a
truly authentic volatile

Submitted: Monday, August 18, 2014

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