Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Do I also need to add a "Moral of the Story" ?
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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.
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..
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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 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
Sunday, May 18, 2008
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..
Thursday, May 15, 2008
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.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
My first attempt at 55-words-fiction.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
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.