Atlas and Alice, Issue 19
Subhravanu Das
In a Kitchen Ants came dribbling out of the tap. They licked the skillet clean. They cartwheeled over bubbles. They carouseled along the dinner plates. They took the steel glass out of Bulbul’s hands and tore it into tiny straws. They presented Bulbul with a ruby drinking horn as recompense. They enacted scenes from Bulbul’s life. They made a family. They sipped seawater. They crossed swords. They adopted. They played Monopoly. Ants came jumping out of the bin. They planted herbs along the windowsill. They distilled perfume from the damp walls. They spritzed Bulbul with the colors of a nail bar. They colored the edges of every kitchen tile. They rearranged the tiles to form all the smiling faces with whom Bulbul had ever shared candy. Ants came spinning out of the juicer. They stitched a long scarf and soaked it in honey. They wrapped the gooey scarf around Bulbul’s neck. They didn’t let go of the scarf-ends, however, and pulled with all their might. So as not to get choked, Bulbul threw the scarf to the floor. Before Bulbul could reach for the pump abutting the tap, ants drained out all its soap. Ants came whistling out of the stove. They dove straight into the vials of oil. Mustard, groundnut, coconut. They lit molotov cocktails. They launched the molotov cocktails into Bulbul’s neighboring compound. The neighbor had usurped Bulbul’s parking space. The neighbor had stockpiled mile-long tweezers with which to pinch Bulbul, any time, any day. Bulbul had never raised an objection. Ants showered off after their swim and hugged one another as they watched the neighbor’s house go up in flames. Ants came popping out of the oven. They pinned the solar system onto a chopping board. They won a prize for their efforts. They plucked out the sun and rolled it through the 46
