CASTAWAYS

 A motionless monster of steel perched on multiple legs straddling the sea. Its unofficial fanbase is a flock of seagulls that trace an irregular flightpath around it, constantly. More than once in a day, the roar of chopper blades deafen your ears as a steel bird sits down gracefully to deliver a few more humans onto this metal monstrosity. Giant cranes groan as they swivel at their wide hips shifting containers on to the deck. A dozen squinting eyes look up from behind darkened safety glasses and red overalls to watch this slow dance of cables and pneumatics.

A supply vessel rubs its shoulder against the steel piles coaxed by waves. The mixed stench of rotting organic waste, oil and the smell of the sea permeates the air. Halogens burn even at this time. During the day, the hot air becomes alive as it hits you with its humid hand reprimanding you because you dared to go outside. It is a hundred degrees at noon and the metal begins to sing.

And caught in this labyrinth of steel, is a pair of doves. Feeding on the unending supply of food that is produced onboard, they have braved the heat and the solitude in each other’s company all this while. There is no way that they could have flown here across a hundred miles. They must have reached here onboard a supply vessel from mainland. Someone said that they have been here for over 2 years or more.

The wind loses a bit of its heat as the day cools down. When night falls on the sea, the horizon retreats, and fades into the gloom. The sea comes alive under the glare of a thousand lights. A school of barracuda surface under the bright lights.

As the men in overalls change shifts, the doves settle near a round steel window and survey the sea. They are not leaving this place anytime soon. Perhaps never. Perhaps they can’t.

Over the hum of machines, you can hear them coo in unison. They are the happiest onboard this place. You would know that too, if you were here.

FLUX

 The other day.

The air is either too cold or too warm that melts furniture. The faint chorus of tapping keyboards sound like the irregular heartbeat of an undead work place. Walls adorned with sanitizer dispensers like a short hunter's trophy wall. Giant posters that silently scream of productivity and parlance. People in the corridor exchanging pleasantries while rarely making eye contact. Plastic ornamental plants wearing silky dust robes. Derelict grey carpet tiles aging under brown coffee stains and despair. There are too many minutes in between eight cups of tea. Day perfumes turn stale. Six O’clock seems too far.

Yesterday.

Emails ferrying stats and phony deference. Another telephone transforms itself into a harbinger of bad news. Laptop screens look like pale blue vampires short of blood. The sun outside fails to get through the glass cladding. The secretary picks her nose out of habit. Forgotten magazines on a coffee table flips its own pages under a draft. Chairs pushed back into the aisle. Lunch queue moving slowly.

Friday.

Parking spots emptying out. Street lamps on parade. Hands impatiently drumming on steering wheels. A lone white cloud waiting to join its red siblings on the west side. Laughing doves inspect the arch of traffic lights. Tea shops welcome their regular patrons. Rush, scamper. Texting at signals. Love and longing. Grocery lists. Did you forget something? Are there stops on the way? What did you leave behind?

Not every day is 24 hours.