Homecoming

I wish they would not burst loud crackers so early in the day. The whole night is laid out for them to light up and blow up. Fireworks and flares.

Its hard to sleep over such noise. And both of them were at it again, adding to the din.
I thought the bangs and shots would drown out their raging voices, and I would in turn use my pillow as a cushioned earplug.

I could still hear them.
"You find faults with everything. It was a mistake. Would you let it go..??", she said or rather screamed.
"Yes, all mistakes. These mistakes will kill me. Yes, kill me. Spare me such mistakes", he roared back.

The bedlam of bursting crackers was beginning to affect me, badly. I was readying myself for an outburst from that talkative woman admonishing him for saying such negative things on an auspicious day as this, Diwali. But the shot that rang through sounded too close for comfort. And it echoed, almost silencing the incessant explosions outside.

One would never think she was the kind of woman who would have done something like this.
I never knew if my mother replied back before shooting my father dead.


It was a quiet Diwali.

Bald Frog with a Wig- How Different!

Blogger Random Question- 

The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

I answered, without keeping brevity in mind,

The frog, in his excitement, went bald instead of turning into a handsome prince when kissed by the woman of his dreams. And being bald didn't help him look any different and he hated being commonplace. So he decided to wear a wig made of horse hair and hazel in color, and this wig impeded his attempts to jump about in the pond. The others banished him from the pond because he refused to reveal from where he got this wig- from the buffalos who came to cool in the pond or from the beaver who sat on the banks. He moved way and had to find prey from amongst flies hovering over rotten bodies of birds in a far away oasis. His exiled living was difficult and was brought to an end by a kid with a broken tooth and bulging eyes, who took fancy to the frog. He found it so different and extra-ordinary, he put him in a jar and covered it with muslin and charged the neighborhood kids a nickel and a dime to come and watch it. The frog felt proud, he wasn't commonplace anymore. And people paid to watch him.

Do I also need to add a "Moral of the Story" ?

Dangling Conversations

Quiet and empty terms
left hanging in mid-air.
The moment lingers, each
trying hard to prolong,
a second that calls for
an utterance from either.

The silence is awkward.
Like that of strangers'
first tryst, on chance.

And, those estranged ones
reuniting, their exchanges
heavy with past refrains.

Voices being cleared audibly,
a flurry of hand movements,
some coffee from the cup spilled,
or a metal fork drops,clanging.
Distractions notwithstanding,
the stillness still stays.

Glances and false starts,
some nervous little laugh,
on a pity of an old joke.

A discoure on the weather
and whether it will change,
jaded matter at the outset.

Each in their own thoughts,
trying too hard, too much
to ignore or to be involved.
Will deal with those demons
later in solitude, now dispense
with the tidings on hand.

The conversation haltingly begins,
faltering at places and pauses.
Sighs and relieved smiles on the side.

Episodes of small disomfiture
encroach slowly. Caught unawares,
the voices fall to a humming, tuneless.

The dialogue dips further down,
words refuse any refuge,
cunning allies of this quiet.

You flail and flounder oft
and yet fail at your attempts.
The conversation dangles yet,
you stay on, seeking sanctuary...


P.S : For Chetan, who didn't know, what to do..

I am..

Every time those lips
touch and inhale,
They die a bit,and I, a bit.
I glow and blaze, in glory
enter them and play havoc
Inside, and then leave.

They derive pleasure,
I allow them that
all the while, shortening
my length, their lives.

So I burn once and fade away
into smoke and then fall
smoldering, like ash.
Then I lie, scattered.
And disintegrated-
And yet I continue.

And so I continue.
As they need more,
And again I am born.
My life depends on
them, their addiction.
Theirs on my end.
Permanent, if they allow.

By me and Hogwash

Puppy Love

Looking into her eyes, he laid out his heart bare, with all that was said and unsaid.
She looked into his and knew, he will always be there for her.

They were inseparable, even off-screen. The directors were surprised and glad that they hit it off so well.

The music began :You and I..

Keats’ Lie.

The face that stared back at her was beautiful. Her hazel eyes were kohl-lined and heavy. They could make you fall into dreams or wake you out of it, if you stared long enough. Her lips were painted red. Like those of a geisha, except that they smiled quite often. Her fair skin was unscarred, unblemished. Loose, deliberate strands of hair hung around her face, slightly wind-blown. Rapt men and irked women were testimony to this picture of beauty.

As she looked into the mirror, she hated the face that stared back at her. Whoever said: A thing of beauty is joy forever, objectified the holder of that beauty, its only contention being giving others some uncertain joy. She opened the door and entered her tiny mansion of solitary confinement. There were many mirrors, like ugly reminders.

She went straight to the largest mirror in that room. It was just one room. One big room, filled with mirrors and clutter- they call it a Studio Apartment. She sat down in front of the mirror and began the daily ritual. The unmasking. She opened her vanity case and took out her weapons of mass detoxification. Removing the layers of chemicals and colors and the dust of appraising glances and now exasperating compliments was a tedious task. At times she thought of abandoning the process from inception and throwing away that vanity case. She wasn’t a model or an actress or any such personality who would be required to put so much make-up. She was a mere accountant, euphemistically called number-cruncher.

She remembered her first job interview. No one cared whether you topped in your local slums or in the country. Your love of numbers wasn’t their concern to nurture and appreciate. She looked at those eyes, heavy with shame and lies. She took off those hazel lenses and her mind went back to the second job interview. He could not take her eyes off her. He loved numbers too, he claimed.

The kohl and liner were wiped off with slight force. The cotton was black. She smiled faintly at the stark difference between her life and the cotton. Next were her lips, the chic red had to be gotten rid of. She recalled the day she got her first promotion. Her boss had said he loved her smile. As the veneer came off, she thought of all those promotions and bonuses and the climb up the ladder. Success has a price- that of buying the entire Bodyshop collection and fitting it into one small vanity case. She blamed herself for her own restriction. But the complacency wasn’t as easy to take off, and it was anything but tedious.

She stood naked before the shower and looked at her reflection in yet another large mirror. The face that stared back looked young and tired. The flawless complexion was just a by-product derived from the long drawn course of removing scars of past abuses. The bland eyes were heavy, still, with shame and grief now. She knew she wasn’t ugly. But she wasn’t as beautiful either. With that realization she let the cold needles of water sting her. The pain was welcome. It made her feel alive. Like the last time someone had seen her without those layers and had loved her like that and she had begun to love herself too, then. It had kept her alive and undone for a long while. But naked souls keep you exposed. Love can get violent at times, and having vulnerable souls didn’t help. She untangled those long tresses in the water. Shunted images of those tresses being pulled and her screaming from pain silently burst from some recess of her mind. But she quickly put them back in their hidden place. She was a fast learner. Reminding yourself of past miseries wasn’t the best way to pretend being someone else in the present.

She stepped out of the bath and began readying herself for another day at work. The numbers came to her naturally. Work involved a lot of smiling and allowing yourself to be looked at and assessed. She wondered at the vanity of women. Make-up was multipurpose. It could be used to hide the shameful scars as also to highlight some other etchings. She would know- she had mastered it long time back. And she showed her skill now, as she stood before the mirror, gloriously done. She evaluated herself carefully, like an artist scrutinizing, sifting for errors. She caught the faintest of lines beginning to form. She dismissed it as one of the inevitable signs, of a proof of having survived. Make-up may spoil your skin, but it protects you, within, she told herself lamely and gave a rueful smile to the mirror.

Work beckoned- that 10-hour workday, in which this thing of beauty drudges through the paces.

Hostage-II

It’s peeping out. Slowly escaping.
Like a small bird flying out from behind the branches. Flight in slow-motion.
Is it the Stockholm Syndrome?- It seems to be running for cover, towards its own captors.
They can’t decide. Neither can. A weak struggle.
The mildly golden moon and the faint wisps of clouds draw.

Hostage-I

Its rather un-beautiful.

A small, intense moon and floating ribbons of dark covering it. Like looming ghosts, gliding over the sky. Taking over.
The moon wasn’t seeking refuge. It was being shrouded.
Now it’s completely swallowed.
It seems to be struggling to come to fore.
The clouds without any silver lining win.

Best Deals! Hurry!!

The need was urgent. Not many good options available.

The one on the left was overfilled, with old junk.
The one on the right seemed small, and pale.

The one at the back looked perfect, throbbing in the jar. Possibly 12 years old.

They say those are the best brains to buy.
Shopping done.

----------------------------------------


My first attempt at 55-words-fiction.

Windows.

“Its strange to look down from here. All these people, scurrying about, running their own prime time shows. Such pests. Leeches”, she said and looked down at her feet. There was a wide cut on the sole. Shards of broken glass were lying around her.

She was sitting on the ledge outside the topmost window of a nine story building. Drops of blood fell down to the streets below. She seemed fascinated and disgusted at the same time, at the view below her.

“Leeches?”, he asked.
“ Yes, them creatures. We live off others’ happiness and miseries. We are dependent on others for survival, as also for death.” She swung her legs to see if the blood had stopped. It was making her quite nauseous. She looked up at the inky night, not wanting to look down. The stars were yet to come out.

“Dependent on others for death?”
“ We wait for it to come to us. We watch others bring it to us on a platter. With many options to choose from- incurable illness, murder, fatal accident, melancholia, isolation.. Death brings its own devices. Why don’t you do a neat job of it on your own?”
The faint moonlight highlighted her soft expression, that of mild inquisitiveness.

“Probably because suicide is cowardice? And a legal offence if you don’t succeed.”
“What is cowardly about committing suicide? You need courage to kill yourself. To know that this easy life you have been leading will come to an end. And you will be thrown into this unseen, unknown world, all alone probably. And it stops your parasitic existence. You don’t have to wait for anyone. You do it your way.”, she muttered,in a very matter of fact tone.

She got up with easy grace and stood on tiptoe and spread her arms. They were blue, because of the cold and bruised. There was no breeze what so ever. But it seemed like a gust of wind will come and drag her away and she was readying herself.

The door opened and a woman’s head popped in for a brief moment.
“ Its time. If you are done, you may come join us.”
He didn’t bother answering.

She turned around smiling, and whispered, “And what makes you think I won’t succeed?”
He smiled, finished drawing the lines of a window broken as if a stone was thrown at it and went down to dinner.