Three Minute Book

I’m made of rubber
You’re made of glue
Everything you say will bounce off me
And stick to you

In an old record studio, a little known artist records her first solo in a single take. The song is called Epiphany Blues. Three chords, one guitar, one raspy contralto. One alcoholic producer. Three minutes. The alcoholic producer leaps out of his chair and throws off his headphones in a single inspired moment of lucidity. He points two podgy index fingers at her. All chakras aligned. She’s the one.

An old ground in the South of Bangalore. One spinner successfully cracks the stumps, bowls out the bespectacled hero of the day. One ball. One wicket. Eleven shrieks of animated appeal to a fictitious umpire. Or is that empire. One bespectacled bat drags dust on its way to the stone bench. Three minutes to the end of the lunch bell. No commercial breaks. No sponsored jerseys, no brand ambassadors. One boy who managed enough practise to turn the ball. Scrawny bowler pumps his fists in the air. Points one fist to the drunken clouds. He’s the one.

For thine is the Kingdom
The power
The glory

Uncertain stubble looks soulfully into the black crevices between the toes of a goddess. Tick-tick-one. The deity in question looks at the clock, looks at the door, looks at the clock, and glowers at her curdling coffee. Tick-tick-two. The stubble twitches uncomfortably in the familiar surroundings of ground that has recently opened up below him. Tick-tick-three. Light leaves the eyes of the stubble as it fills those of the goddess. The master of puppets has entered. One nonchalant puppeteer and one oblivious goddess lock in a fate-sealing embrace. The stubble holds back an expletive as two waiters condescend on abandoned breadsticks. Three minutes late. Two sweaty palms exchanging fluids. One stubble clutches at an insatiable itch.

I waltzed around you seven times
Only to become
A melody you never sang
I’m not the one
(- Collective Soul, Dosage)