tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-295169442024-03-07T11:59:56.250+05:30Word StalkWhere do they come from?
Where do they go?AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-2555643662403566372011-03-06T04:22:00.001+05:302011-03-06T04:24:31.700+05:30The Storytellers’ Secret<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The sun had moved from over our heads and was making its journey westwards, towards the forests and she still hadn’t come. I had finished all my chores and was helping mother. But my mind was somewhere else, and my mother was going tut-tut at my distracted state. Though she pretended otherwise, I knew she looked forward to Nalini’s visit as much I did, possibly more. Why were we waiting for Nalini, you ask?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nalini was one of the storytellers. She was one of them, those tellers and jesters, who traveled from place to place, village to village, telling stories, bringing news, providing a glimpse into the world outside our meager existence, offering relief. Storytellers’ tradition was such that they could tell a story to an audience of more than one, not less, ever. If you met a storyteller alone, and he or she, told you a story, it would not be a story, not a service, but something more and infinitely less. You could pay them whatever you owned, but even that would not be enough. They often held their sessions for a larger audience, where there was no chance of them breaking tradition. You could find the teller Prayag holding the villagers captive with his tales of battleships and kingdoms under the banyan tree near the temple. He was there once every week, and he would tell the same story, with the kings and places and the weapons changed, but the villagers all loved him. He was also very good-looking. And his demands in return for a story were thus proportionately extravagant. He once asked for a cow, would you believe that? Mother never liked him, and so neither did I. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But Nalini, she was different. She would come to your house, talk to you, tell you stories on a whim, ask you for your favorites and retell them, and she never asked for much in return. A few kind words, some food and on occasion if you had any clothes or other items to spare, Nalini would be more than content with that. Mother said that she did actually ask for a lot when she asked after us, when she enquired about our life and living, and you never knew if she was asking because she wanted to know, or because she was looking for a story. As the saying went, “A teller can only tell what has been taken; taken is always what is given.” One time, when I was telling Nalini about how our goat ate mother’s favorite ring, mother got very angry at me. “Would you want the people in the next village to know that a woman can afford to let her goat eat her ring and still stay in this hut? Do you want to be a joke in front of strangers?” she yelled at me. After that I kept everything that could be taken, safe and secret. Sometimes, even from mother because I knew she would not like what I was thinking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’m digressing, this is not about me. This is about Nalini. And there she was, one could hear her anklets falling in rhyme with her steps. I could hear it the moment she entered the threshold, and leave whatever I was doing and would run outside to check. And there she would be, taking off her bundle from her shoulders and resting it on the porch, shaking her head and muttering to herself, those gentle calm eyes, sweeping the surroundings as if memorizing the color of mud and the number of steps leading to our door. She would settle her eyes on me after an eternity, exclaim “Kairavima, how you’ve grown!” and rush to pat my head and validate if I had in fact grown as much as she had imagined, since her last visit. Mother frowned upon this showering of affection, but I liked it. I felt special, for I knew she greeted none of the other children in the village this way. Mother would ask us to hurry inside, get refreshed and begin, for she had many other things to take care of apart from dilly dallying with pleasantries. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nalini would come in and sit next to the only cot, on the floor, while mother would perch herself as comfortably as she could on the cot and I’ll be left to find a favorite spot between the wall and the cot. Though Nalini didn’t belong to lower, nor higher caste than ours, she would sit at a lower position, and mother, the owner of the house, above. I could sit with my mother, as I did when I was younger, on her lap or resting my head on her lap, but now that I was no longer a small child, I could sit wherever I wanted, but not too close to the storyteller. And I had to sit like a proper lady, or as proper a lady from a place like ours could. A concoction of crushed herbs and lemon juice would be kept in front of Nalini for refreshment; she would sip it from time to time, taking pause from her story. I wondered what story she would spin today. The last time she was here, she had told the story of the Prince who wanted to be married to a swan in the royal ponds, and how he took swimming lessons and I had burst into fits of laughter at odd times for days afterwards. I hoped she would tell something less funny today, for laughing without reason, or because of past reveries was also one of the things not much appreciated. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today she looked a bit tired and seemed to be as lost in thought as I had been sometime back. Mother began shaking her foot impatiently and making the cot shiver, waking Nalini from whatever daydream she was chasing. She took the hint and began. “What tale do you want to listen to today? The story of the King who wanted to learn flying from Jatayu, or about the Princess from the mountains who could stop rivers from flowing? Or do you want to hear the legend of the King trapped inside a mango seed that was eaten by fish? Or should I tell you about the girl who was born from the earth?” Nalini would often ask us these, but would tell a story of her own choosing. I suspected this was just her way to let us know what stories she had and give us a tantalizing glimpse of them and nothing more. “You know the tradition Nalini, the stories and the rules. Tell us what you please.” Mother would parrot her favorite line as the answer to this question, as she did every time. The storytellers, with all the stories and the places they visited, were trapped with many rules. And only they knew what those were, but one always heard rumor. One of the rules was that they could not stay with their families for more than a quarter of the year. They had to leave them and had to move from place to place and make their living. I don’t know why that rule was there, it seemed more like a necessity than a rule, but then as mother kept saying, there’s more that you don’t know than that which you know and don’t understand. I’m not sure if I completely understood that, but it was enough to intimidate me into silence whenever I got boastful in front of her. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well then, let me tell you the story of the Curse of Minasmara. This one has never been told before, or maybe it has. You’d never know, but this is my story.” Sometimes she would tell the story from her own point of view, as if she was there, present, not just observing but also experiencing. I often felt that these were parts of her own life, and not some story passed down from tradition, and I also felt that it wasn’t just because she chose to tell it from her point of view. I’d see how her voice would go soft and slow and her eyes would dance with emotions when she told such stories, but I kept these observations of mine hidden, like the many other observations, from mother’s omniscient gaze. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“To begin, we’ll have to go back a long long way back in time. When I was just a girl as old as you are now,” she said, looking at me. I smiled at her, mother seemed to be suppressing something, but there was no time to look into that. “My father was a fisherman and I was the only daughter. My mother, they told me, had been taken by the lake’s deep waters, as a price for my father’s profession. My father took his living from the lake, the lake took my mother’s life in return. I was only a year old then. I don’t remember much of her, but father told me that she was very beautiful, like Ganga herself. It had been twelve years since my mother’s death. One night I got a dreadful nightmare. The lake, Minasmara, spoke to me, and told me that my father still had to pay his debt. I saw a woman thrashing and trapped at the centre of the lake, her silhouette in the sinking sun, her face invisible to my eyes. I didn’t know if it was my mother or me. But I saw her struggling to escape and was rooted helplessly at the banks all night, or was it all evening? The sun sank into the waters and dragged the woman with it. There was no dark figure against the sun, only the dark of the night descending in my dream. Daylight broke into my sleep and I woke up with a thudding heart and a very restless mind. I relayed my dream to father, as soon as I could. Now, when I think of it, it was perhaps not the best thing to do. Some things are best kept secret.” She looked at me, and I felt her eyes reading what I thought I had kept secret. This, fortunately, went unnoticed by mother, who seemed to be quite engrossed with the story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A few days later that dream left from my mind, for after unburdening myself of its weight, it seems I had passed on the nightmare to my father. Though he never admitted it to me, I knew he had not slept well at night. He would be distracted and lazy through the day, miss easy catch, get lowly prices for the fish and began to look like a defeated man. I’d try to help him, but being a girl, I couldn’t go and help him catch fish, nor could I go into the market myself and conduct the dealings. I was to stay home and look after the household chores. Summer was approaching and we needed to get whatever we could from the market, before the lake shrank. One evening, father returned from the market, with a woman. By what right was she to enter our house, I asked father. Her name is Harini, and as your new mother and my new wife, she had all right to enter our house and live with us, he said. I was deeply hurt. I felt rejected, a strong sense of betrayal was rising in my heart and up my throat and I threw a big tantrum, blocking the door and not letting them inside our house. Was the memory of my mother, as beautiful as Ganga, not enough for him? Was I not a good enough daughter to take care of him? I was myself nearing the age of marriage and he went and got married himself! What was he thinking? All my anger was directed at him. I didn’t know her, nor did I care. The way I saw it, she was here to take my place. And that was also how my father saw it. ‘You will be married soon, Nalima. Who will look after this old man, once you are gone? Do you want to leave your poor father, in his sick state while you start your new life with vigor and prosperity?’ That did it. He had put the guilt of selfishness on to me and my heart. What could I say to that? What choice did I have other than welcoming this woman into our house, our life and our world as we knew it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Days went by and I became friends with Harini. I couldn’t bring myself to call her mother. But I couldn’t call her by her name either. In my mind, she was always Harini. She was quiet and had the most beautiful eyes. I always thought she was quiet because her eyes said so much more than what could be said. It was difficult not to like her. She would help me with the household chores and tell me stories about her childhood in the forests, and how she had never seen the lake or the ocean and how scared she was of the fierce flowing rivers that winded around the forests. I used to make fun of her because of this, but she would take it well. I promised to teach her how to swim once the lake was filled with water again. She was more friend, and sister than my new mother, or my father’s new wife. That was something we never talked about, and never wanted to either.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“With the arrival of the monsoons, came the time for my wedding. I was going to be married to Iravan, who was the strongest and most handsome fisherman you would ever see. Despite the stern exterior, he was as gentle and large-hearted as the ocean. How we fell in love and how he got to ask my father for my hand is a thrilling story in itself, but I will keep that for some other time.” Her eyes had that brightness which convinced me that this was no mere story being recounted for the hundredth time in front of an audience. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“We were going to be married at the temple at the centre of the lake. That was where all our weddings took place. We would be married in the temple and then there would be a big feast at the bank of the lake, which was already decorated. As per our customs, we would get married at noon, when the sun was over our head and showered us with light and blessings in its full capacity. Since the temple was not very large and it was difficult journey and also because the monsoons had made it all the more difficult, only family members and the priest were to be present for the actual ceremony. It was an overcast day and we had no idea how we’d know if noon came and went. Thus we got married under a hidden sun, and it seemed our feast would take place under a storm. But nothing could dampen my spirits, I was getting married to the man I loved, everyone I loved was around me and healthy. Harini had a glow around her face and a smile that spoke of fulfillment. I had asked her about it, but she had said that she would tell me after the wedding. In her words, she didn’t want me to go giddy with all the good news. The clouds above had started gathering force and we began our hurried departure from the temple towards the bank. We were still a good mile or two away from the bank when it started raining. And such a gale it was! The likes of it I’ve never seen since. The lake and the clouds seemed equally angry and at war. Our boat dipped and rose dangerously with the waves. Iravan held me in his arms and I clutched on to him for dear life. My heart was beating with excitement and somewhere uneasiness was creeping in, but it got swept under the raging rainstorm that surrounded us. Harini was sitting scared, across me. I wished father would hold her, the way my husband held me and protect her. I wanted to say something to that effect, but didn’t know if my in-laws would find it appropriate for a daughter to speak to her father like that. I was just going to tell Harini to hold the flank of the boat tightly, when our boat gave a mighty heave and it seemed like the heavens and oceans had switched their places. There was utter chaos for moments and nothing could be seen or heard under the thunder and lightning. With another giant lurch, our boat settled back on a wave and seemed stable. And just as it had started, the storm was fading away. The clouds were fleeing as if a giant wind was erasing them away. The sun was making its descent into the lake, it was already evening and none of us realized. Neither did anyone of us realize that Harini was missing. I couldn’t believe how I didn’t notice immediately and then the creeping fear inside my heart exploded. I looked at the helpless figure thrashing about in the middle of the lake, against the dying sun. I wanted to jump in and swim across and drag her out. I had risen up and was screaming her name, but strong arms were holding me back. I beseeched my father to go in and save her, but he looked helplessly on. I begged and pleaded with others, for someone to go and save my mother, my sister and my friend. No one wanted to displease the lake. No one would interfere; no one would save its victim. ‘Why don’t you save her, she’s your wife? It’s your duty!’ I bawled at my father again and again. ‘I could only save you’ was all he said and as I saw Harini drown and sink into that bottomless depth from where there was no rescue, no respite, another truth sank into my heart. The heavy truth of betrayal. My father hadn’t betrayed me by bringing her into our life, he had betrayed her. And she had trusted him, she had trusted me. And what did we give her for her trust and care? We gave her to the lake, as a price, as our payback for its gifts. We sold a life for a living, with treachery. My father had not just tainted his life, but mine too. For I had shared the burden of my nightmare with him, and now he would share the burden of this crime with me.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Careful Nalini, be careful. Kairavi, you too.” Mother’s voice interrupted us. I was sitting open-mouthed at the unfolding of events in Nalini’s story. I had expected this turn of events when the nightmare was mentioned, but to see it, to imagine it happening as expected was still a blow. Mother got up from the cot and went into our kitchen. Though I was almost on the verge, I didn’t dare to cry in front of the storyteller, and even worse, in my mother’s presence. The look that mother gave me when she got up promised flaying if I broke the rule. This was one of the most confusing, yet strictest tenets of the storytellers. They were not allowed to make you cry. That’s putting it too simply. They weren’t allowed to affect you too deeply. They could entertain you, inform you, even preach, but there was a line and that was not to be crossed. They could not evoke emotions that would have no way to be paid for. They can make us laugh, make us angry, keep us in awe, keep us confused and questioning, but to make your audience cry, shed a drop of tear, was the gravest crime. They had no right upon that personal and private feeling. Allowing that brought upon heavy punishment from the Keepers of Tradition of the tellers and there was gossip about storytellers who had been banished from their faction and used their storytelling skills for black magicians. I wasn’t worried about that, I was more worried about what mother would say and do, if I broke it. For it was a rule binding on both the teller and the listener. Both had to know their place and be aware of the boundaries. As mother had once tried to explain, when you let that innermost emotion be shown, be shown to a storyteller, it puts you in a bond and gives the storyteller powers over you. They would know what your innermost fears and desires are and would play with them to his or her advantage. The storyteller then could control you, your mind and your heart, for what lay inside was now for everyone to see, and exploit. I thought that rule about storytellers never seeking audience with one person was probably created to enforce this complex rule, but I wasn’t too sure. For now, I was primarily concerned with avoiding the wrath of my mother. Then to see if there was more to the story.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Mother came out and kept a plate of rice, some lemon pickle, and water in front of Nalini. She asked me if I wanted to eat, it was too early, but I didn’t want to refuse. She kept another plate of rice and pickle for me. “Eat and continue with the story, if there is anything left to it.” She went on to light lamps around the house, and after a while I heard her sitting further inside in the house, next to the pots that had been made in the morning. I didn’t know if she was going to begin working on them now, it was already dark and she could hardly see in this dim light. But I didn’t enquire, and sat and ate my meal quietly. Nalini was eating as if she had not eaten for days. The rice and pickle had disappeared even before I had finished my third morsel. I kept my eyes to her plate, not wishing to go and meet her eyes. I wanted to tell mother that maybe we should give her more, but mother seemed to have read my mind and asked me to offer her some more. I gave her some more rice and extra pickle, she seemed to like that. I also gave her some more of the lemon juice concoction. I was going to sit and begin eating again, but I had no stomach for it, so I went in and emptied the rice back into the pot and ate up all the pickle. With all the scurrying around, I figured mother would not notice. I sat down, and for a minute there was no sound other than that of Nalini eating.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I went back to what mother had warned about, it seemed Nalini would continue only when she had finished. I looked at her and didn’t think she would take advantage of me, or bind me with her powers. It was hard to believe that she would make you cry, just to get some sense of control over you and your destiny. I sometimes felt that she could look inside my heart and tell me the stories that it wanted to listen to with furious longing. Her stories had brought peace and hope to my restless mind so often, had enlivened a bleak day so easily. How could that ever be a bad thing?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Before I could answer, Nalini indicated that she had finished. I took her bowl and plate outside, where it would be washed with the other vessels and gave her some water to clean up. She returned and sat down just beyond the doorstep. She spoke softly, I don’t know if mother could hear her or see me and I inched closer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Following that incident, I could never go back to speaking with my father. People told me I should be thankful to him for saving my life. When I asked them, ‘At what price?’ they would say nothing. I was resolute and didn’t talk to him till he was on his deathbed. Weakened by age and grief, he died just months after my marriage. I sat next to him like a dutiful daughter, but could provide no calm, nor comfort, nor peace in his last moments. His last words to me were, ‘I hope I saved you’. I don’t know what he meant by that, and even if I did know somewhere in the back of my mind what it meant, I refused to go there, for it brought back the memory and guilt of betrayal. Something within me had died with Harini’s death.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It had been three years since I had been married and yet we had no child. His parents blamed me, and I too blamed myself. There were sacrifices and ceremonies made, but to no avail. Iravan’s spirits were low and it seemed as if he cared for nothing but a child. Was I of no value to him? Perhaps I wasn’t but that thought still rankled in my mind. I feared he might leave me, or get another wife. That was nothing new; one could always get another wife to bear your child. I put all my heart into prayer and visited the temple in the lake every day. I prayed for one and only thing, for a child.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“One day, Iravan came home excited and gave me the most exquisitely beautiful white lotus. He said they had found it stuck in a fish’s mouth and that it must have come from the temple. Yet it looked as if it had grown from the fish itself. He instructed me to eat the seeds of that lotus; it was bound to have magical properties. It might just help us conceive a child.” Magical lotus from a fish’s mouth? White lotus in a lake first of all? My belief that this was indeed Nalini’s story began to falter, but another part of me remained stubbornly faithful.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“I believed in prayers, but I was always wary of miracles. Though I didn’t really believe that the lotus was magical, to humor him, I did as instructed.” This time, she definitely gave me the most fleeting of glances and I was glad we were safely hidden from mother’s gaze. “The thought of this magical lotus left my mind after some days. I had immersed myself in prayer again and would spend hours sitting at the temple, sometimes just sitting on its steps and looking for answers from the lake, the lake that held all the answers to all the problems in my life. One evening, after prayers, I was sitting on the steps when I heard Harini’s voice. I first thought I was just hearing voices inside my head. Then it came again, and again, and it seemed to be coming from the lake itself. And I looked down and there she was, looking up at me, with those eyes of hers. I thought the steps would vanish from under me and I’d fall into those waters, never to breathe air again. I was feeling breathless. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, how foolish I was, how I had never realized. I wanted to hold her and cry with her. But she kept asking me to take something from her. I didn’t know what to make of it. All I wanted was for her to come back and be with me, or that I could go and be with her. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I kept walking down the steps into the lake. Before I knew it, it was cold and dark and everything seemed empty. I didn’t know if the lake had swallowed me, or if the lake was inside me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“When I woke up, I was back inside our house. Iravan was sitting next to me looking worried and excited at the same time. He told me how some fishermen had seen me and had rescued me. They had seen me floating. ‘Floating on what?’ I asked. He said they didn’t know. They just saw me floating near the temple steps and had hauled me up and brought me home. And that I had been unconscious for hours. All this while, there was a bright spark in his eyes, as if he was very happy. I felt a rush of affection for him, imagining that he was happy to see me alive. Before I could say anything to that effect, he burst out with the news that was making him so happy. ‘And you are going to be a mother Nalini. And I’m going to be a father. Everyone is so delighted. We are going to hold a ceremony soon.’ I should have been happy, I think I was very happy, but I was more worried than ever. I felt slighted by the importance given to the news of me being with child and not that that I was saved, but I decided I was being too self-indulgent. It was my child, and he or she, too had been saved along with me. I had no recollection of what had actually happened at the temple steps. I sometimes tried to recall, but I would be left blank and restless. I decided to instead be happy for my child, and for my husband.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“As the days turned into months, the memory of that evening faded. I was busy making arrangements for the child, busy getting pampered by Iravan. Monsoons arrived and the baby started kicking. Just another month the elders told me. Iravan would spend all his evenings by my side. He would rush home even before the sun had set, and would talk about his plans and dreams for his son. He was convinced it was going to be a boy. I disagreed, but didn’t express my disagreement. Any day now, the mid-wife who came to look after me told me. She was a young woman called Prakshi and she came from a far-away village. Though she wasn’t old like the other midwives were, I knew she would take good care of me. I would get horrible cramps every night. Prakshi would give me a potion of juices made from herbs every night to help the pain, but those attacks still persisted. One night, I had the same dream that I had once, a long time back. The lake wasn’t satisfied. This time it would be my husband’s debt. And I saw the woman again, thrashing and screaming against the sun. I didn’t know if it was my mother, Harini, myself or my daughter. Or was it going to be another hoodwinked stranger. I woke up with terror in my heart. Even though it was as dark as night, I knew it was nearly morning. My heart beat rapidly with fear and my body was convulsing with pains. Prakshi, who was staying with us now, came to check on me hearing my screams. Iravan was out, preparing for the day, as he did every day, before the sun rose. It was only me and Prakshi. I hoped she knew what was to be done. I had no idea what was to be done and I wondered if I could survive the night. White light was blinding my eyes and I feared I would cry myself to death. She helped me control my breathing and got everything ready. She held my hand in one hand and asked me to put all my strength and willpower in helping my child come out. After what felt like days of torment, we heard the first cry. It was a boy she said. He was to be named Divit, as decided beforehand. Iravan was right, it was a boy. It could also mean that my nightmare might never come to be true. I was happier than I could imagine. I just wanted to sleep, the ordeal was over. We all might live happily ever after. Prakshi shook me and woke me up from my drowsy state. ‘There’s another baby’ she said. I couldn’t believe it. There were two babies? I had been carrying twins and I had never realized. What was this supposed to mean? Before I could ponder upon this question, the pains returned. I was to go through that process once more. Again, I pushed and panted and a shrill cry broke out in the air.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“It was a girl, Prakshi said. I didn’t know what to call her. Though I had imagined from time to time that I might have a girl child, we had never decided upon a name. Worse, I was gripped by the fear of that curse following her. But what could I do? I asked Prakshi to help clean up the babies and set everything to order. I told Prakshi that she can put the babies to sleep and that I needed to rest a while. While she did that, I looked carefully at her. She was gentle and caring with them. I knew she would take good care of them. I pretended to be asleep. I wish I had forgiven my father. I got up before the sun was properly up. I dressed hurriedly; even though I felt weak, I knew there would be no other opportunity. I bundled up the girl, I had named her Saumyi in my head. I took her into my arms, and she was there, looking at me with those eyes and already speaking to my mind. I looked at Divit, resting peacefully, calm and confident like his father, and I knew he would be safe. The price had been paid for their lives. I left the threshold knowing I’d never return, I left the only place that could have been home. I knew Iravan would marry Prakshi after appropriate time had passed and they would live happily, for as long as it was possible. I understood that the curse was not of the Minasmara Lake, but of human heart. Who was going to pay the next price?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I never knew Nalini had a daughter. What happened of her? Or was this really her story? Why did she tell us this story, to what purpose? What was she getting at? I knew maybe, but I didn’t like the answer one bit. I had a feeling everything had changed in the house. My mother came out of the darkness, and gave Nalini a pot to take with her and walked out with her. My mother asked her something, and she replied, though I couldn’t catch any part of that exchange. I watched as Nalini left and my mother returned home, having broken the rule and broken, otherwise. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i>As I looked at those gathered around me, I suspected one of them was about to break today. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was necessary. And they never really understood the rule, their heart betrayed them much before their eyes, or their face, did. I knew there was going to be another storyteller joining us soon. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-56815928792830904072011-02-09T18:42:00.001+05:302011-02-09T18:59:17.214+05:30Petrichor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
They say rains sometimes wash away color and cloud vision. Not here. This grassy slope is as green as peace can be. This is not the green of envy, but of roiling calm. Young blades of grass tickle and tease, but never manage to cause irritation. I look out towards the gray lake. Somewhere along the horizon, it blends with the gray clouds. The gray doesn't speak of indistinct evil and good. It doesn't speak at all, it's silent with weight. It contains a million little life sources. Each droplet will create life on earth. Each drop will fall on me, wash away something, will take away more than settled stale dust and blend me with the earth. All I need to do is soak them in, and offer myself for theirs to own.<br />
<br />
There are woods behind, full of tall nameless trees. Those ageless witches covered by thick barks have taken over the lands with their dark long branches, and narrow spaces between themselves. The grass at their roots have obliterated brown. The earth there is sheltered, with grass and mighty goddesses of the forest. The rain falls softly on this cushion. It is more than water and moisture. It has taken the abandon of the clouds, the wisdom of grandmothers and freewill of the winds.<br />
<br />
The lake ahead is trying hard to contain a turmoil erupting from within its depths. Tiny waves scarring its surface betray the secrets it wants to hold. The clouds tease him. They unleash a drizzle that will touch, entice and infiltrate its barriers. The spies within will get lost within the currents and rebel against their own mother. The revolt turns into a wild dance of passion and restraint. All water, held against its will by the greater powers of sky and earth. Where would the child go? It seeks to escape with the favorite uncle, the wind. But that traitor of the gods, he will drop them the moment it hears the roaring of the thunder from Zeus.<br />
<br />
I sleep on the earth. Waiting for that stubborn, helpless son to make a choice and escape. He can rest with me, or take me along to whichever faraway land he seeks for adventure. I care not for my footprints to be left for worried search parties. All I ask is for him to leave the scent behind. </div>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-25562033907804719352011-02-06T17:59:00.001+05:302011-02-06T18:05:59.348+05:30Calling Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">She had returned to unadorned walls. The medium-sized suitcase was plundered and its contents strewn around in an orderly manner. Discarded paper and other items lay on the floor.<br />
<br />
The neem tree outside the window looked bald and deprived. It had shed its leaves. The mango tree next to it was in bloom, as if mocking its neighbor. Little did she know that no one cared for its flowers, but someone definitely missed the neem's jade green canopy.<br />
<br />
Her mirror was missing again. She didn't miss it, but she noticed its absence. That explained her barren looking walls. A lone lamenting voice coming out of a machine created disturbances in the air. The only kind she liked.<br />
<br />
She sat down, trying not to look anywhere and to hold that moment to herself. To enjoy that solitude and peace, all by herself. The sun was growing weak, ready to sink into dusk. She wished it would hold on for a moment longer and not slip in to the cloak of evening, not just yet. She liked the way it fell on her window glass, touching it, not cutting across in a rush to reach the floor. <br />
<br />
She looked at her overflowing book shelf. Part pride, part regret. There was too much white space around she felt. Birds outside were talking to each other, she wished she could know who they were. She didn't want to understand what they said, that would be an uncivil intrusion on their freedom and privacy.<br />
<br />
Her windows were left open, to let her room breathe. Her mother, had she been present, would have asked her to keep it shut, for fear of mosquitoes. But for now she wasn't there and the room could behave however its owner wanted. This room was home. There was no one here, no one's possessions encroached upon its territory. Everything inside was hers to call home. She would have wished for this to be an ever-present state, a perpetual ownership.<br />
<br />
A knock forced her to pause her reverie. "Have you paid the rent yet?", asked someone. She shook her head and went back to staring at a tiny screen. There's a price to pay for everything. But it's never too big a price if you can call the purchase home, however temporary.<br />
<br />
The lament continued with another tune, with another softer voice. Her eyes returned to the flowers that covered every branch and caressed every leaf on the mango trees. It was said that the flowers had a mild sweet scent similar to that of the lily of the valley. She didn't know whether she'll ever be able to confirm that. She didn't know if she would be around to see the fruits either. But that could wait, she didn't need to concern herself with that at the moment.<br />
<br />
For now, contentment was to be the flavor and rhyme. </div>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-55670130292258548812011-01-07T21:33:00.000+05:302011-01-07T21:33:57.379+05:30An Old Wives' Tale<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--> <m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent><!--[endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This is the perfect date, no webcam between us, he thought. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">They shared a Diet Coke and ate fries. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> “I’ll wait for your status update.” She received a text as soon as she reached home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She updated her status immediately : 2nyt ws awsm, gr8, lulzzzzzz. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The boy, heartbroken, deactivated his account.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The End.</div></m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-66004553830574158042010-12-16T17:50:00.000+05:302010-12-16T17:50:54.508+05:30Drop Your Pants!<m:smallfrac m:val="off"> <m:dispdef> <m:lmargin m:val="0"> <m:rmargin m:val="0"> <m:defjc m:val="centerGroup"> <m:wrapindent m:val="1440"> <m:intlim m:val="subSup"> <m:narylim m:val="undOvr"> </m:narylim></m:intlim> </m:wrapindent> </m:defjc></m:rmargin></m:lmargin></m:dispdef></m:smallfrac><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It was a very tense situation. I’d never done this before. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“Drop your Pants!” The security guard yelled at me. This was going to be very very embarrassing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I dropped the pair held in my hands right away. Whoever thought people would want to wear buff colored pants, let alone get caught stealing them? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-4816876978001479982010-12-14T02:38:00.002+05:302010-12-14T02:47:53.620+05:30The Muse's FarewellOnce upon a time there was a girl. She thought of too many things, dreamed of even more. She believed in a few things, hoped for even fewer. She questioned too much, but answered all by herself. She smiled too much, but never knew if she was happy.<br />
<br />
One evening, on a ceasing winter's day, she met her Hero. <br />
<br />
She never thought she would meet a Hero. He had wild dreams, and wilder ways. He cared not for things usual, but pursued things that others had no time for. He was her Hero and she cared not for what he was, because she knew only of what he would become. Her thoughts, dreams, beliefs, hopes, questions and answers, smiles were all for the Hero. <br />
<br />
He called her his Muse. And she felt special to be his Muse. Was there any greater joy than to be an inspiration? The Muse and the Hero, they marched along that dangerous path of discovery and adventure. There were many ideas to be ensnared and many to be enslaved. He would conquer, she would guide. He would wonder, she would reflect. Life began to run, but time had slowed down. What was time but a construct of science meant to keep mere mortals on their toes? Why think of time when the imagination begged to explore other passions?<br />
<br />
One afternoon, on a reluctant rainy day, she saw the first fall. <br />
<br />
It was as if she had been knocked down a long flight of stairs and had collided with a solid wind. That solid wind had turned into a sea, that carried her and sank her, then brought her floating up to be charred by the sun and then calmed by the night's tide. She could have left, but she stayed on. She didn't want to be a bad Muse. <br />
<br />
The sun rose and sank. Ships left harbors and charged into storms. Buds bloomed and leaves shed. Snow fell and fires burned. Something gave, everyone took. Seasons fled, time dipped into decay. She stayed in a corner, called when needed. But she didn't know if she was there because she was called or because she was needed. She didn't even know if she was needed at all. She didn't know if she was even wanted at all. Maybe there were others who wanted her.<br />
<br />
She saw herself falling. She watched as her Hero fell. She tried to help her Hero rise, while trying to help herself from fading away. The Muse and the Hero stumbled and picked up, fighting and faring along. Sometimes she would watch her Hero, with real people and the real world and try to ascertain where she was. She would see the sun, from under the deep ocean and know not how far from the surface she was.<br />
<br />
One morning, on a summer night's end, she began to question. <br />
<br />
Does a Muse choose her Hero and make him a Hero? Or does a Hero find a Muse and give her the status of a Muse? Does anyone care for the Muse when there is a Hero? What does a Muse ever do to leave behind for herself, apart from the shadows of the Hero's footsteps? Can a Muse's only existence be to inspire and not ask for anything more? What does the Muse do after her Hero leaves for another Muse, for another life? <br />
Was that all that was left of her being a Muse- being just a feeble spark on the dim horizon? <br />
<br />
Or does every Muse fail when she begins to dream of her Hero turning into Pygmalion? Can a Muse never dream or hope, but only support those of her Hero? Could the Muse leave on her own accord or did she have to hang around till she was forgotten? Was there any greater misery than to be just a Muse?<br />
<br />
She realized she knew all the answers, but didn't like them at all. So she kept questioning till she was exhausted of all her answers and knew there was no escaping the questions. She asked till she couldn't fight the answers, till she defeated the questions.<br />
<br />
One wintry night, past some springs and monsoons, the Muse decided to cease to be.<br />
<br />
She looked out of her window, and knew she cannot look outside anymore. She had to bid farewell to the Muse that had been for a Hero. She had to bid farewell to the caterpillar and the statue. She had to leave the depths of the ocean for the cliffs above. She had to stare at the sun straight in its face. <br />
<br />
There were dreams to be chanced upon, thoughts to be given attention to. There were beliefs to be wrestled with, hopes to be given birth to. There were questions to be chased, answers to be discovered. There were seasons to be seen, places to be experienced. There were things to be done. There was time to be reclaimed. <br />
<br />
There were swaying fields and dropped arms, cotton clouds and burdened orchard trees, fiery sunrises and unfettered souls, and other such inconsequential sights to smile for without asking why.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-41478292896521702902010-12-08T05:27:00.000+05:302010-12-08T05:27:49.437+05:30The Salesman<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(This was written on 18th April 2010. I'm finally moving it from drafts to published in the hope that seeing it online will goad me to pick it up and finally complete it.)</i> </span><br />
<br />
He lived with one mantra- Give each day your best. One day at a time. Fine, two. He woke up with one and went to bed with another. He woke up today thinking positive thoughts as prescribed to him by his spiritual quack. He suspected his quack suffered from some personality disorder or schizophrenia or some other mental mumbo jumbo for he changed ways as often as the weather changes its mind in Springfield. But he deduced that could come from what his quack called "transcending spiritual and metaphysical boundaries" or maybe he was just a big old oaf making much money selling out the inner gods. He stopped himself from thinking too much about it. He had a long day ahead of him and he really needed to get started.<br />
<br />
His first customer for the day was a Mrs. Mamona Aergias. She lived alone in a single storied small house on the street behind the supermarket and opposite the theatre. He hoped this time she would listen to him long before dozing off on the table. He rang the bell. There was no answer for a full one minute, he counted. He rang the bell again, two in a row, and was about to complete a set of three when the door opened, and a face hidden behind layers of fat poked itself through the gap.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, Madam. I hope today would be a good day. Here, have some coffee." With that he nudged the door open and entered.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Aergias eyed the coffee with distaste. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she could never refuse a free offering. She pulled her robe around herself, took the coffee and plonked herself on the couch and switched on the news. He sat himself down across her on another seat and thanked an unknown god that Mrs. Aergias was too lazy to go and get her TV repaired of the sound problem. All they heard was a low droning sound and watched as the reporter showed them a midget with a beard that reached his feet. The midget was apparently trying to set a record for growing hair that was five times his height.<br />
<br />
"So, have you thought about it?", he asked.<br />
<br />
She shook her head distractedly.<br />
<br />
"Well, let me go over it again with you Mrs.Aergias. What I have here is a thing that could solve all of your problems and make you a more complete, wholesome human being. You would do good not just for yourself, but for those around you. Dolorium1618 is the solution to all our problems. Imagine this, you wake up and have this severe pain plaguing your mind and body and soul. What would you do?<br />
<br />
"Take a pain-killer"<br />
<br />
Exactly. What if there was no pain-killer that killed it?<br />
<br />
Mrs.Aergias shot him a look filled fury and dread. Why would the man just not leave her alone?<br />
<br />
"I don't know"<br />
<br />
"See... There's no real pain killer."<br />
<br />
"Ahh.. There's no real pain then either," she chuckled at her own marvellous wit and logical deduction. <br />
<br />
"There's no real pain killer, but there's real pain. There's pain when you can't hear your favourite talk show host bitch about the latest model. There's pain when you have to stand an hour in line to buy your favorite brand of bacon. There's pain when you want to talk but there's no one around. There's pain when you have to wake up every day and wade through life's small, but plenty, futilities. <br />
<br />
"The only way to deal with it is to embrace it. Pain will make you stronger by pushing you to act. By pushing you to harness your energies and channelize them in the right direction. Hence Dolorium1618. Start with 4 pills a day, you will have to do something about the pain. It will wreak havoc inside you. You'd be forced to go out and about and seek help. At the same time, you will learn to accept it, understand it, make it your friend. How's the coffee?"<br />
<br />
"Not half as bad as I thought it would be"<br />
<br />
"Do you think you want to come on our free trial programme then?", he laid subtle emphasis on the word free, making it come out casually, as if it was part of the deal doled out to all customers.<br />
<br />
Again Mrs.Aergias seemed to struggle between two extremes of wanting, and she knew she would succumb. She was a woman who would take death if it told her there was nothing she would have to do to be dead. He almost believed that she would embrace death more enthusiastically if it came her way because there was nothing to do after that, nothing that she knew of yet. And hence, it was even more important that he converted this one before she chose the easier way out.<br />
<br />
<i>- To be continued. (hopefully soon enough) </i>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-71659993097933462712010-11-29T02:19:00.000+05:302010-11-29T02:19:00.947+05:30Effervescent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1Il9N0yxj8dno2wq1uAH7ffDjCx5BodVjPZpg70aExSHLw90rK3nGDMgQkPv-diXJEPLt98cCwVG6t5OV7tuo2AE8XAb_Amy4CbU5tjGJxEMo7Njr4AKgNrK5sX0d_XgtyLXig/s1600/Balloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1Il9N0yxj8dno2wq1uAH7ffDjCx5BodVjPZpg70aExSHLw90rK3nGDMgQkPv-diXJEPLt98cCwVG6t5OV7tuo2AE8XAb_Amy4CbU5tjGJxEMo7Njr4AKgNrK5sX0d_XgtyLXig/s200/Balloons.jpg" width="154" /></a></div>A childhood fantasy<br />
to keep one, to keep many<br />
for once and forever.<br />
But they flew away.<br />
<br />
Bubble and burst.<br />
Again and again.<br />
Yours to keep<br />
and then throw away.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-12244192462588799612010-11-20T06:46:00.000+05:302010-11-20T06:46:31.134+05:30At shut of evening flowersFlorets of sinopia and xanthous, <br />
On a bed of smaragdine.<br />
<br />
Stains of solferino and ferruginous, <br />
In a cyaneous sea. <br />
<br />
Nankeen feathers on a columbine tail,<br />
Aubergine blooms on lovat floor lie. <br />
<br />
An aeneous blaze on a waking star, <br />
Leads the son under a cerulean sky.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-42914269030250472982010-11-15T01:41:00.000+05:302010-11-15T01:41:54.795+05:30BeholdenShe doesn't know why she thinks of that day. She doesn't even remember his name. Not properly at least. She has been thinking of that day a lot lately. She tries to reconstruct the events leading up to it, she remembers most details. But not his name. <br />
<br />
It had happened when she was seven or eight, almost fifteen years back. She can't believe so many years have gone by and she recalls it only now. <br />
<br />
It was second period- History, in 3rd E2. <br />
<br />
The teacher, Mrs.Gulati was considered to be strict. She didn't hesitate before doling out punishment and called lions "loins". <br />
<br />
She was her usual talkative self, he was sitting quietly. She never bothered to ask if he ever listened, at all. She's not even sure if they talked, if they were friends, or just partners waiting to be assigned to a new companion any day. It was his birthday. But he wasn't wearing the customary new, casual dress. Every kid loved the opportunity to not dress in regular uniform. Not him though, he seemed his usual calm and composed self. There used to be some rotation, ensuring every pair got their chance to sit in the front rows. They were in the fifth or sixth row. She isn't very sure, but she remembers wherever they were sitting, it gave him enough time. <br />
<br />
"Take out your textbooks now," Mrs.Gulati calls the class to attention.<br />
<br />
She reaches into her bag and starts looking for the pink writing on the pages that had been treated as blinds, common method employed by most students to help identify books. It was taking her too long to find that book, he was already sitting straight, with his book in front of him. She abandons her search and begins to prepare herself for the ultimate humiliation. She has forgotten to pack the book back, now she will suffer. <br />
<br />
"Those who don't have the textbook, go sit on the floor." Mrs. Gulati was walking between the rows, inspecting, ready to unleash the first round of punishments. She was walking two aisles away, slowly heading their way. Three students had already made their way to the floor. <br />
<br />
He looks at her, as if studying her, his options. Silently he moves his textbook to her side. She accepts it quietly, like a mouse. Her chatter and chirping gone, mute. She doesn't even question the fairness or unfairness of it all. She just doesn't want to be sitting on that floor. <br />
<br />
He stands up just as Mrs. Gulati approaches their desk. She looks at him, realizes it's his birthday by the big pack of toffees sitting on their desk. She wishes him, takes a toffee, but no one is spared from punishment. Not even birthday boy. She walks towards the back, inspecting. He knows what's to be done. He picks up his notebook and goes and joins the other students sitting on the floor. <br />
<br />
She's still keeping quiet, still accepting his kindness with a shameful silence. She looks at him, wondering how angry or humiliated he must feel. He looks straight ahead, his spectacles perched on his nose, looking up at the board. Where she was earlier dreading being sent to the floor, now she's dreading the end of the class. She couldn't face him. She has no idea about the lesson, only remembers reading the text blindly, twisting her fingers and looking at him from time to time. <br />
<br />
But the class finally comes to an end. They are given some homework and reminders to bring the required books. She forces herself to remember for tomorrow, to avoid another today. He returns to their desk, dusts off his pants and sits. She passes the book back to him. <br />
<br />
She doesn't remember if she had thanked him or not. She doesn't remember if that bothered her then or not. She doesn't remember how rest of the day, the week, the remainder of the year had had gone. But it's been bothering her lately. She has realized only very recently how big an act of kindness it was on his part for her, at that time. He had left the school at end of that year.<br />
<br />
His name may have been Shepherd. Or Stefford. Or neither. She feels infuriated at herself, how she remembers so many other names from school, some of whom she hadn't even talked to ever, but has forgotten his name. <br />
<br />
So many people from your past now stalk you. She has tried looking for him. But she doesn't remember his name, has no idea how he may look now. She doesn't know if she will ever find him and will finally get to thank him. Maybe he would have changed by now, maybe he would seek her out to reclaim the gratitude owed. Maybe someone will read this, ask a friend who's known by this name if he remembers being the nicest guy for a talkative, annoying girl. She knows this is plain day-dreaming. <br />
<br />
But she still holds some hope. To find the birthday boy and utter a very delayed "Thank you".AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-34618048177729867042010-11-01T03:52:00.001+05:302010-11-01T03:53:51.993+05:30OblivionWhen I'd gone to sleep, one of the lights was still on. The music was still playing. There were people in the other room talking. <br />
<br />
I don't know how I woke up. It was the toffee wrappers and those shiny gift wrapping papers that crumpled and crinkled and made noises, like sharp nails clawing at your walls. Sleep still weighed heavy on my eyelids. But my ears refused to resort to selective hearing.<br />
<br />
The room seemed too well lit for my liking. There's no way to find out the time of the day by looking out of the window. The only light bulb in the room was working furiously. Even with all that light, it took me some time to realize someone else was there in the room. And he was sitting there on my bed. <br />
<br />
I thought he had left. I didn't want to tell him how happy or angry I was. I didn't know which one it was. I didn't want to look at him and I certainly didn't want to talk. All I wanted to do was return. <br />
<br />
"You have to wake up", he said. <br />
<br />
I remained silent. The smoke was making me nauseous. I didn't know where it was coming from. <br />
<br />
"You won't understand till you wake up and see. There's light now, you can see"<br />
<br />
I had no idea what he was talking about. I was up and awake, staring at him with all the hatred I could muster. <br />
<br />
"I won't let you go that easily. You have to wake up and fight." <br />
<br />
He seemed to be talking on and on. I was losing my patience. But I still didn't want to talk. I stared around the room. The walls had aged, with scars and breaks. The wine stains on the floor had gone from red to being a murky grey. People outside in the other rooms were not talking any more. They were shouting and screaming. <br />
<br />
"You shouldn't have done it. It was my fault. No, it was all your fault too."<br />
<br />
That crackling sound was beginning to irritate me. I wanted to smother all the voices. The noise increased. There were birds chirping, cars reversing with their annoying tunes and children yelling out to each other. I wished the windows were shut, the light was hurting my eyes. The burning in my eyes reached a peak. It might have appeared as if I was crying. <br />
<br />
I closed my eyes. It felt as if a cold blanket had been laid upon them. I was fully clothed and yet it felt as if I was lying naked on bitter hard ice. The cold reached my bones and made them ache in protest. <br />
<br />
The door opened and a chilling draft made its way in. And someone else came in too. This was the last thing I wanted to see. I never ever wanted to see her. No matter what. Not here, not in my own house. Everything here was mine, yet these estranged invaders refused to accept that and leave me alone. She was going to take him away. I was partly relieved, partly sad. <br />
<br />
"We have to go", she said.<br />
<br />
He nodded. He looked at me, but I had turned my face away. There was nothing to be said. At this point, it didn't matter what I wanted. I had to do what my mind commanded. To return. <br />
<br />
"Will you wait?" he asked before he got up to leave. <br />
<br />
I was bewildered at that question. What for I wondered. I wanted to ask him if he would. But before I could speak, there was a sharp jab on my arm. The frigid metal point pierced my skin,diving into my blood. Machines around me started whirring. There was a strange fear about them. I began to cry. I didn't want to return, I wanted this to stop. The pain was paralyzing me. They all fell silent around me, as if in mourning. I broke into a sweat. There was winter without and yet my nerves were on fire within. <br />
<br />
I could see everything inside my head. All those times, all those places and people. Lights and corners, chatter and talk, smoke and clouds, smells and shivers, traffic and colors, rain showers and breezes, puddles and pools, shoes and watches. There was a jumble in my head. They rushed in and out, as if in a big hurry to escape. I realized I must be in a dream. Reality can be distorted to such an extent only in dreams. <br />
<br />
But no one was waking me up from this dream. They all seemed to have left me alone, finally.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-35709363911973019722010-09-21T19:01:00.003+05:302010-09-21T19:03:27.332+05:30One Rainy Evening..The sun suffered a massive a stage fright, <br />
And excused itself from our sight. <br />
<br />
Shy fire, confused gray and a schizophrenic blue,<br />
Cotton clouds, heavy and too full of hue. <br />
<br />
Lightning threw a tantrum, thunder a fit,<br />
Torrents after torrents, obligingly followed it. <br />
<br />
Headlights blinked, traffic lights blinded,<br />
Horns, yells and screeches, went unheeded. <br />
<br />
The windows stared back, bleak and tired. <br />
And back to their blinking screens, the ants returned.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-83976926088717979562010-08-31T05:04:00.001+05:302010-08-31T05:23:47.769+05:30NeemSleep came over her with a vengeance.<br />
<br />
The Clouds couldn't hold any longer, they had to let it rain. And because the wind had not let them when they wanted to, now they were going to be merciless. They brought those two fiends, Thunder and Lightning along. And a jolly loud party they had. So there's that.<br />
<br />
But she, she just wanted to sleep. She had to. How else would she dream?<br />
<br />
The Neem outside her window began to wail. A whiny plea for relief. What had she done now? She knew she would break with the storm. But that didn't make it any easier. An insurmountable bitterness rose through her. She shook with the wind, with anger. If only she could uproot herself and lie down on the soft pliant earth and become one again.<br />
<br />
She heard the low patter of feet, a hush paddling towards her. Someone in the next room started clawing at the walls.<br />
<br />
No, that was Neem. Her branches flailed at the window. She would have entered the room, had it not been for that high-quality mosquito netting. Lightning. She glowed blue in the violet night.<br />
<br />
Someone flicked a switch on in another room. She prayed it was morning and someone had woken up. She chanced a look at the window. She could hear that clawing again. This time accompanied by sound of cracking twigs.<br />
<br />
Had Neem really freed herself from the concrete and gone on a rampage? She was not too old, and certainly strong enough. But the Clouds were still there, lashing away at her skin and bones. And then came a deafening roar. Was it her or Thunder?<br />
<br />
She clapped her hands over her ears and yawned widely. Exhaustion ran though her veins, the iron in her blood heavy and pulling her down. All she wanted was to sleep. But the noises never ceased. In her head and without. <br />
<br />
The gentle drip on her window annoyed her. That tinny tip tip tip, of drops jumping from leaves and eaves into their own hasty graves, melting into mud after the fall. Torrents or drizzles, they all fell down. Descending from the clouds, sucked up by the earth. Maybe that's what kept her calm. Wish she would keep Neem still. <br />
<br />
Neem was now sobbing uncontrollably. You could hear her heaving gasps and piercing screams. She was no longer angry, just defeated. Her breakdown seemed to have stirred them. The Clouds started showing off, wringing and emptying themselves of everything that had made them for months. <br />
<br />
She heard it then. Someone turned on a tap. Yes, someone had woken up and was going for a bath. It must be morning. Why wouldn't the sky lighten? Does it have to play accomplice to the Clouds?? But her patience was running out. She was agitated and nervous. Some people overshoot on caffeine, she had overshot on lack of sleep. She didn't care any more. She would go to sleep. <br />
<br />
And she dreamed. Of brides in red and white on green plains. Of clear summer days seen from under old ruins. Of goats and violins. And bells. Bells rang. They clanged against each other in merry abandon. They shined golden and tinkled. They came to her from a distance, from another far away Milky Way. The sounds pulsed inside her, blinding her million neurons. The muffled rings echoed, fell and rose again, reverberating with her bones.<br />
<br />
She felt breathless. Water flooded her. The alarm rang somewhere within the deep ocean in which she was floating, perhaps sinking. She didn't know how to swim. She had forgotten how to. She kicked furiously at the entangled bed covers. But she couldn't see anything beyond green. Rain and Neem were drowning her.<br />
<br />
Swiping and swinging her arms blindly, she caught hold of steel. The cold numbed her fingers, the soft breeze biting her skin. With a huge push and rush, she came up to her window. With an effort that almost crippled her, she slid the horrible grimy net away.<br />
<br />
And there she was. Neem. Lying on the cold gray street. Broken down, bruised. Stripped naked of her shame, beaten by million sharp needles, shoved and jostled by haughty currents. Her roots were still deep inside. Seemed like she had not been able to make up her mind. Was that why she had suffered this? Was she dead now? Worse, she had fallen. Between a restless sleep and uncertain awakening. <br />
<br />
There was no sign of the Clouds. They had moved on. Emptying and collecting themselves on the way.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-55365511630893302952010-05-04T02:50:00.002+05:302010-05-04T02:55:35.366+05:30Interlude<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On a wooden park bench, brown,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">they sat since the sun fell and fled.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of Euripides and Aristophanes,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">He spoke and she laughed.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Languages rolled on a heavy tongue.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Strangers from across three seas,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">strolled under a coy sky. Between</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">fallen stars and shooting leaves.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blackbirds and woodpeckers,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">cold-blooded crickets and cicadas</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Encore, one after another heard.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Music memorized, like math.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blades of grass tickled the feet,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">knuckles wrapped into a tackle.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Silences recalled, into a vacuum.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">The lonely metal lamp shivered. </span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">On a wooden park bench, brown,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">they slept till the sun rose and bled.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Moons travelled into outer space. </span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">He snored, and she sighed.</span></span>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-91366802107695230312010-03-06T04:40:00.006+05:302010-03-20T02:41:24.787+05:30Tryst/CinderHe was standing outside in the cold. She came and stood next to him, uttered an unnecessary greeting in a voice that would be the result of five ice cubes being shoved down your throat. He turned his head, gave a reluctant smile and proceeded to study the huge statue of Venus in front of him. <br />
<br />
She took out a pack of smokes from her pocket, lit the only one. After two drags, she offered it to him. He shook his head. She kept her hand extended in front of him, a dogged, shy lover standing in front of her crush to give him a red, wet, blooming rose. Tendrils of blue vapor escaped from the base of the red burning mountain, fogging his view of Aphrodite. <br />
<br />
He took it, put it on his chapped dry lips, took a puff, and blew away smoke, like an emperor would shrug off sycophantic ministers. He handed it to her, a rejection slip. She took it. Walked away and inhaled deeply. She breathed in the taste with a desperate longing. Between her lips, perched millimeters away from her small, chattering teeth, her tongue exploring surface underneath which were fibers bound together by glue, the chemical additives improving the taste and speeding up the rate at which nicotine hit her brain. <br />
<br />
Her heart was beating rapidly, as if it was making an uphill climb and was scared that once it reaches the top of the hill, it will slip and fall and roll down to a crashing death. Her hands and feet felt cold, deprived of any sunshine, any hope of warmth. She walked back to his side, her steps uncertain, with her feet finding their way on their own.Her mind played games with her heart. Reminding her of the insult, pleading her to let it go unnoticed, persuading her to hold up, inciting her to drop her inhibitions and tell him, warning her of expected disappointment, provoking her to be reckless. <br />
<br />
Exhausted, she stood there, her hands on her side, hanging limp from her shoulders, the train of ashes teetering at the edge, clouding the upended orange peak. His hand wandered next to hers, distractedly. Their fingers brushed very slightly, close. He took the cigarette from her, his thumb grazing the damp end. His reverie broken, he pulled and was pushed back into his fantasy. He let out his demons in a haze of dreams, handed it back to her and gave the most luminous smile she had seen under a starlit sky. She savored the moist smoke, imagined how he smelled when he woke up in the morning, how his breathing fell and rose, rumblings of a beast caged within. <br />
<br />
He turned back to go inside, offering a courteous expression of gratitude. She let the last breath burn her lips and crushed the smoldering stub under her feet.<br />
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<div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden" /><!--Session data--><input id="jsProxy" onclick="jsCall();" type="hidden" /><div id="refHTML"></div>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-35536209277141363232010-02-09T02:13:00.006+05:302010-02-09T02:21:56.229+05:30A Patchwork of Evening FanciesStraws glued together green,<br />
brushing against cracked soles.<br />
Slithering steps winding along<br />
jungles of ants and rats.<br />
<br />
Dried blossoms a few amongst<br />
a field of yellow daffodils.<br />
The scent spreads across excess <br />
of flesh desired, and allowed.<br />
<br />
Sixteen pale stars across a red sky,<br />
Silver fern rising from beryl earth,<br />
dancing violently on tender wrists,<br />
pausing to sleep at the neck of a ring.<br />
<br />
Lights changed colors, predictably.<br />
Relief and rush mingled and crashed.<br />
She blushed, glowed and sighed<br />
and an eight rolled down with a click.<br />
<br />
He chanced a hasty glance at the mirror,<br />
catching an elusive whiff of tobacco.<br />
Streets crossed, lanes changed by turn,<br />
the coin given away by his time.<br />
<br />
Scaling a dusty hundred and five steps,<br />
crossed the bridge of no streetlamps. <br />
A minute late and fifteen strides away, only.<br />
But the books had already gone to sleep.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-13883590652333054412010-02-07T01:31:00.001+05:302010-02-07T01:31:28.873+05:30Spill<span id="ctl00_ctl00_BodyContentPlaceHolder_ContentRight_litWritingText" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">This is just to say,<br />
that we may now do away<br />
with the trouble of niceties. <br />
Incapacity and a lessened<br />
share of fancy shall suffice.<br />
<br />
This is also to remind,<br />
that we may now do away<br />
with bothering about time.<br />
Age and a book full of faces<br />
shall let it pass unseen.<br />
<br />
This is now to conclude,<br />
that we have fully done away<br />
with reality without the eye.<br />
Hope and a few old spirits<br />
shall keep us from bellyache.</span>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-68951749835908330892010-01-18T18:44:00.000+05:302010-01-18T18:50:16.472+05:30A Thursday Night's<p>Dream? No I'd not say that. Let's say Arthur Dent was my wingman that night.</p><p>And he went, "Have you met Slartibartfast?"<br /></p><p>Recap. That would make him Slartibartfast's wingman, not mine, right? Never mind, cut to the conversation.</p><p>So there we were, me, good ol' Slartibartfast (Henceforth I'm going to call him as Slarti, Bart (Not to be confused with Homer's son), Fast and my old man) and Arthur. Slarti seemed kinda dazed and sickeningly smug about something at the same time.</p><p>So yeah, Arthur went, " Have you met Slartibartfast?"</p><p>"Why, of course she has" "Why, of course I have" We both said it together. Slarti said the first part and I said the second part, but we both said our individual lines together, at the same instant, same point of time. Ok, I get it, you get it.</p><p>"Oh, well.. fine then. I guess I'll just stand and skank about", he said. That was Arthur. Slarti would have never said anything like that.But then Slartibartfast is never like anything. I know he's older to me, and I dare not ask how old he actually is.</p><p>"So how have you been?" I asked. You have to be really really smart to make small talk around these two men.</p><p>"Don't you know already? You've seen it all. Where have you been woman?" asked Dent. If I had been really really smart, I'd have paid attention to address my question properly.</p><p>I was about to rephrase and ask again, when clanked in Marvin.</p><p>"Why do you ask? What is the point when you know that you can ask this question every second and the answer following will be swept under by the same question being asked the same instant? Why pursue this path when there is no meaning to life?"</p><p>"Hey, that's not true!" exclaimed Arthur & Bart together.</p><p>"Well, not entirely not true", added Slarti as an afterthought. "We do know the meaning or rather the answer to the original question as to what is the meaning of life, universe and everything."</p><p>"But 42 is too absolute an answer. It doesn't take all the improbability factors and it was computed by only the second best. Why, if I'd asked for the meaning of life, universe and everything<i> else</i> would the answer turn to 43?" said Arthur.</p><p>"Of course not. It's not as simple. And what do you mean by <i>everything else</i>?"</p><p>"What would you mean by meaning of life, universe and everything then?", interrupted Marvin. </p><p>"Errr..."</p><p>"Yes, I know you all erred. Now don't burden me with the obligation to accept your apologies and do something about it. I have enough to do as it is."</p><p>I never thought I'd wish for Marvin to disappear with as much intensity as the atmosphere allowed there as this time.</p><p>"So, what have you been upto Slartibartfast?. SHUT UP Marvin and Arthur"</p><p>"Same ol'. Same old. Getting ready to design the new Earth. Though I don't know if I can repeat my award-winning design of creating fjords in Norway around Africa this time around!! For Chrisssake, it would still keep Amazon and Nile running for being the longest and widest rivers on planet earth. Boy this sleepover party was loooong!!..."</p><p>Fast could talk and talk fast while he would walk and poke around and fix things all at once. I realized I had missed him. No, I had in fact forgottten all about him. Till this night. And it all came back in a sudden rush. About how delighted and amazed and awed and completely bonkers I had gone when I had first met him. I used to think of Ford and Zaphod once in a while because they were..well, funny, crazy and they were cousins. And Marvin used to keep me OD-ing on LOL with his depression, but tonight, somehow, it's all different. I can't find anything but the heart of gold to blame for all of this. And no, I have nothing to say of Arthur.</p><p>And I was glad he was still trying to make headway in an argument with Marvin about feelings. It wasn't clear how one with too much feeling and one who felt but didn't realize it often enough could argue about such a thing as that.</p><p>"But why are we making earth all over again?", asked Arthur putting on the airs of one who thinks he has asked the Utimate Question ever. (That would have kept the mice happy, if nothing else.)</p><p>"Why, to sell it, of course. That's what the mice intend I assume. After they get the Ultimate Question", said Slarti, " And this is what would make one of your earthmen write a song about the mice who sold the world in the somewhat near future. "</p><p>"But if the mice would be selling the world, there won't be any earthmen left to write the song.", pointed out Arthur.</p><p>"Do ya think they will only sell property??? It's not mere real estate. It's exchange of refugee camps, if you may have it that way!!!!You only pray that you don't listen to Vogon's reciting poetry about their throat infection while your throats are being slit!!!" Slartibartfast started shouting as he said this.</p><p>Arthur cowered behind the aircar's seat while Marvin gave another resigned-to-depression sigh and his shoulders sagged while his eyes drooped.</p><p>"Well, now am going to drop you folks off at Frankie and Benjy's office and you can decide how you plan to go on about it. I have to create fossils and scatter them around Africa. And yes, a tip- Be nice to the mice. And another tip- if you need to escape, remember, just close your eyes, concentrate really hard and get the hell out of this dimension, squeeze into another, shift back, set your time zone and land. And don't press any red buttons unless you feel you're gonna crash."</p><p>I had one last thing to say. One last question to ask. " I've missed you Slartibartfast. Have you?" I realized I won't get a good answer to this one, so I asked another last question, " So where will I see you see next?"</p><p>Slarti gave me an enigmatic smile and then said " I know you know that I know what's gonna happen in the future, but will you puh-lease not make it so obvious? Well, to answer your question, I guess I'll see ya people on Krikkit. Or maybe not. Or I don't know. As for your previous question, I don't think I can. You see me missing you would be like Puck missing Shakespeare, not that you are Shakespeare nor am I a knavish sprite in a midsummer night's dream. Though, that would be an awfully good break from this tedium. Maybe I should go catch a show some time.. But the travelling kills me..Ok let's see, another example... yes, it could be like Adam missing the bloke who wrote the Bible and we all know what that was all about.. well, let's not go there.. See, I think you get my point. Now, be a good lassie and take these men off my hands."</p><p>"Ok. I will see you soon then...?"</p><p>"All right, I will. Here's looking at you, kid." With that he was off. Gone. I didn't know why he quoted Bogart then. He must have had his reasons.</p><p>I only wish I had pressed the red button in time. The mosquitoes I killed during my crash landing would have been glad.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Disclaimer: All the characters, with perhaps the possible exception of the character I, are fictional and have been picked up from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy_%28book%29">The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</a> written by dear <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Adams">Mr. Douglas Adams</a>. I hope he doesn't turn in his grave after coming to know of this dream.</span></p>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-9949852019838955352009-12-27T00:23:00.010+05:302009-12-27T00:51:36.188+05:30Emergence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://flopmagazine.com/Magazine/VisualArt/1459.aspx" target="_blank"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NaEg-MZVXQUsU6hGLD2rxkhojlBqJD6Ssibzt_PcdB0R60P1qYCGCZEw2kMSfupLMtJgYU9-VU0JQA9oOrjatx5ZemlQ3roovQ8V5ulKGqXKTcSQP92C8hyphenhyphenqxGexAksmos3HHw/s320/1piece.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419626615255949970" border="0" /></a>I didn’t want to get out. Didn’t see no reason to. I was safe inside, warm and comfortable. It was akin to being in a suspended state of dream and sleep, that gray area of subconscious and conscious. At times, it got slightly claustrophobic. But one gets over that when one looks at the burden-less existence inside. The protection is only cherished.<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt I had everything I needed here. I had vague distant memories which seemed to have been born very recently. Before that, I don’t remember. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe, I was nothing. Now, I can feel what is happening within and around me, despite my inability to make any sense out of it.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At times, despite all my attempts, the world outside turns to affect me. Those moments are earth quakes, shaking me up, ruining the arrangement of things inside. The noises would be even louder, leaving small reverberations for a long time. Then it would take me days to settle back into the calm peace of this place and relax.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think my walls have ears. They can hear everything that I have on my mind, or rather feel it. Even I could feel it at times. When I’d be nervous or high-strung, it would seem that the walls around were constricting and thudding with a dangerous beat. And at times, I could feel a slight shiver and tingling run across them, imbuing me with that same light-headed feeling. The word for that feeling was happy. Else, the rest of the time, I felt warm, safe and comfortable; and the word for these together can only be content. That constant bubble was perturbed from time to time by the place outside, with its people and rush and excesses.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I could sense that they wanted me to leave. The feeling of claustrophobia overtook me more often, but I’d still manage to get over those. I didn’t want to leave. I saw no reason to leave.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Till it was time. Till my walls evicted me. Those hours were the most difficult hours of my short-lived life within. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t turn inside to look. I couldn’t sink back into the soft beating of my heart and slight thumping of those walls. No longer was I able to curl up into myself and fall asleep.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With a great heave and a cry, I was out. Out there, naked and gasping for air, uttering an agitated cry for being thrown out of my own place. I opened my eyes to find bright blurred lights shining from behind huge faces and heads.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was outside. I became an outsider then. There was only one thing connecting me to my way inside. Could I have gone back? After they cut the cord, I knew the answer to that was never. In my later years, I would go on to say that that was the first bruise life gave me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Photo by: <a href="http://www.flopmagazine.com/PortFolio/santosh.aspx" target="_blank">Sans.ability</a><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-7708705008048486752009-10-29T00:31:00.000+05:302009-10-29T23:13:31.187+05:30And there was a girl..The song played and some others followed. She knew they were meaningless. Real life didn't sound like that. In real life you couldn't say things that were meaningful and sounded beautiful, at the same time.<br /><br />She looked up and saw him.She could see the blue sky as it was meant to be, the green leaves as the tree wanted them to be and the flowers, red and yellow as spring made them to be. But then he was there, smiling at her, lying to himself. She saw through him and was surprised at herself. She wondered how she could allow herself to be swept and taken away. She convinced herself that this was meant to be.And she let another song creep in and feed her fancies.<br /><br />For a time that lasted months, almost melting into an year, she didn't want to think of anything else. It was a fever that burned and turned short bursts of passion into promises. She learned to flow along a wave that never settled on calm. There were ebbs of happiness and grief which only made her want more of it. It made her feel alive, or so she felt.<br /><br />Before autumn could arrive, it was over. She didn't want to cry. She didn't need to. There was nothing left to cry over. And that's why she cried. She felt weak and ashamed. She let others walk away. She cried and let the world drown, let those abandoned float away.<br /><br />Over those hours and days spent, there was an old box full of sharp, raw memories, discarded, once-exchanged belongings, a bottle of bitterness and a playlist of instances and associations. Every song had a memory to it. Every memory had a scent to it. Every scent had a sting, of a sharp dull ache that comes with missing.<br /><br />Closure was a rigmarole of justifications, of surrender, of acceptance and of fighting hopes. It was a journey of extricating a meaning out of all said and done, of chopping of associations, of relegating meaninglessness to those songs again, of erasing a canvas smeared with past wishes and false impressions of the future.<br /><br />As she looked into the mirror and saw herself, she knew she was already beginning to diminish. She could see her walls plastered with crumpling, faded posters and shelves lined with dusty relics and framed photographs. The mirror, like a murky gray ocean, was reluctant to part away with a reflection. The sun rays merely drowned, not surfacing.<br /><br />The song that came on, came out slow, hushed and garbled in a way. She knew it meant nothing and thanked the time where she would let it slip by. Life had to allow for some things to go unnoticed, for tiny fallacies to be brushed away. She moved away from the mirror and fell back on her bed. Softly, with a noise that would come close to flump. Fingers curled and pointing skywards, eyelids closed, full with sleep or tears one couldn't know. She breathed with a calm and told herself that this didn't mean anything, that memories can be thrown away like an un-welcome guest. She smiled to herself, knowing she was getting good at lying to herself.<br /><br />She tripped on denial and fell into her dreams. Again.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-52577290507394192162009-10-13T02:20:00.004+05:302009-10-13T02:28:25.821+05:30Once there was a manShe landed. Her feet cut through the air with grace. And she landed. The way time had stopped and gone back to history. She arced over the ground and froze as if in a Dali. <br /><br />Everything was colorless. Only darkness and light played. Only the whites. And the black of Bast. With pupils of light gleaming at you in sudden flight. The curtains fluttered on the stage. The wooden floor felt damp and soft as if the years had seeped into it and had come out as stains. The lights hung low and dim, bulbous and suspended from nowhere. They threatened to fall, blow, break and unleash darkness. But they hung, low and dim.<br /><br />There sat one man. His body sinking into itself with the bones coming up for breath. He sat there on his cold chair, the chair wobbling slightly. Sharp and stinging, punishing his body for every second that he rested on it. He seemed to be rocking it with dry, heavy gasps. The light above him made him sweat. You could see his glistening forehead, hair sticking to his scalp and his eyes blinded, with shame or guilt no one knew. His face, masked with beard as his armor gave nothing away. One couldn't gauge the depth of the abyss into which he was falling. Not even by the words that were churning in his mind, waiting to be spilled and tapped.<br /><br />The typewriter before him lay rusted, vestigial. The paper on which it squatted had acquired age and color. And the inkwells had begun to dry at the neck. Papers with words and lines striking each other off littered the ground beneath his table. He seemed to have written and re-written the words before letting any key hit a letter onto the paper rolled into his typewriter. The ashtray was nearing fullness, with loose strands of smoke coming from deep within. He had abandoned the habit long back. Had abandoned it like he would abandon a wanton woman.<br /><br />The old man pierced the silence with his bow and let one note creep into the hall. He sat there composed, at peace with the monochrome synchrony. It was mournful and flat on the surface. Deep within you knew the music would spring forth and engulf you with a sense of mellowness and leave you floating within. He played with a serenity found in those ready to face death. He knew nothing of the man on the stage above him. Yet you couldn't now see the man when all you could hear was that tune.<br /><br />It swallowed those little globes of burning white. You no longer saw the old man and him. The bleak disappeared and gave in to snow. The square looked deserted. The grey man pointed at somewhere in the horizon. No one paid him any heed. There was no one to do so. He trudged along, his shoes making a squelching noise. His brown long overcoat made him look like an orphaned rat. He stopped before the town hall, a construction of mortar and bricks amassing the lives and glory of his times into its arena. He watched the one lone tree still blooming and breathing, with its flowers falling in a hush. <br /><br />It broke loose from the tree, aided by a slight gust of wind. He looked into the mirror, saw it swaying and lilting with the breeze till it broke the glass boundaries. He looked at her with tenderness and fear. He feared he would lose his life to this fear, or her. He wanted to hold on to her and beg and plead. He would erase his past and forget his memories for her. He wanted to surrender. And then fear gripped him again. He turned away to look out of the window. He could hear her turning on the bed. He knew her hair had fallen over her face and how her breath brushed those strands before escaping into the sunlight. He remembered how they breathed into each other and he could hear their hearts thudding against bones and time.<br /><br />He watched as the tree shook and shed some more blossoms, like feathers gushing into air from a pillow. They fell like snow. He felt cold and wanted to go and lie down next to her. Feel her softness melt into warmth and the memory of her scent threatened to overwhelm him. He turned to the coat hanger, put on his shirt and coat and walked to the door. He pulled the door close and saw her eyes opening slightly, giving away a silent plea to stop. And the door shut upon his face, the brass knocker a shamelessly festive embellishment. It stood out against the chipped black paint.<br /><br />And then there was the sky, lit up with golden fountains. They rose and burst, into rhythmic patterns and colorful beats. Into green and red light. Into a swirl of spring flowers and summer fires. It all went too fast, all too soon. The sun rose at different times and went to sleep at its own whims. Rooms opened, beds creaked, mirrors broke and doors shut. Letters read were tossed into a heap and burnt. Everything went by in a blur.<br /><br />Time was heading into a hurricane, sweeping everything that came its way. The figures pirouetted and spun. They danced with calm and a furious wildness. He burst into the hall. And they kept spinning. And she landed. The way time had stopped and gone back to history. His loud footsteps fell into beat with the orchestra.She arced over the ground as if frozen in a Dali. He ran upto the stage and shot. She fell slowly to the ground. Blood gushed out like a spray of red poppies and time hung, suspended.The music rose to a crescendo, a woman screamed and she fell, like a doll dropped from a high tower, folded and crumpled on the stage. <br /><br />He saw the ink spill, words entangled within the trail of streams it was spreading, scarring everything it touched. As he watched it burn and bleed, he cried. He felt the walls falling over him, breaking over him. He cried and struggled at the shackles on his limbs. He shook and flailed. He begged and pled for her to come back. The old man's bow woke up his sleeping nightmares. Yet he played, unawares.<br /><br />And there sat one man. Searching for words and solace. The silence returned and the colors peeled off from the walls. Darkness returned with fledgling light. He threw back his head and filled the emptiness with his laugh. He laughed in mirth and in misery. He dug a half-smoked roll of tobacco and lit it, handcuffs notwithstanding. He inhaled deeply and let out a cloud of ghosts. He heard the windows bang against their frames and felt cold breeze against his wet cheeks. He looked up at the light and started typing out his story.<br /><br />And he sold it off for peace.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-15449878051224734152009-09-24T03:16:00.004+05:302009-10-11T11:53:37.503+05:30TapestryA crowded room,<br />an empty cup,<br />silence and its names.<br /><br />A broken nail,<br />a forgotten lock,<br />blood and its traces.<br /><br />A handful of sand,<br />a glint of sun,<br />fire and its embers.<br /><br />A garland of flowers,<br />an album of uncles,<br />memory and its voices.<br /><br />A string of silk,<br />a patch of sky,<br />rain and its scents.<br /><br />A fallen leaf,<br />an open window,<br />time and its places.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-90155965113476916832009-09-10T04:44:00.000+05:302009-09-24T03:29:18.564+05:30One Rainy Afternoon"Yes, finally they arrive."<br /><br />"Yes, indeed."<br /><br />"I love the monsoon. Though you don't seem to share the sentiment."<br /><br />"Nothing like that. I do too. Quite a lot."<br /><br />"Then why aren't you as excited?"<br /><br />"Yes, obviously I am not as excited."<br /><br />"And why so?"<br /><br />"Does any statement here merit any reason?"<br /><br />“What’s wrong with you?”<br /><br />“Nothing. Should there be?"<br /><br />"There definitely is something. What is it?"<br /><br />"Receding hairline."<br /><br />"Ha! Why old man, that shouldn't bother you. What's wrong with acquiring age?"<br /><br />"Everything, apart from- no, everything."<br /><br />"I don't care now.. I just want to enjoy these rains"<br /><br />"Go ahead."<br /><br />“I can go on about how rains make everything seem so beautiful and romantic-”<br /><br />“That’s the problem- going on about what seems to be what- too many movies and novels I say”<br /><br />“That’s not true- ”<br /><br />“Obviously not!”<br /><br />“Yes, obviously not!! People love rains!”<br /><br />“They say they do”<br /><br />“They say what they feel. Don’t you feel these things?”<br /><br />“People feel too many things. What things are you talking about?”<br /><br />“Oh rains do these things to me….I feel... Let’s go out for a drive.”<br /><br />“Why don’t we just stay in and help you out with these things instead?”<br /><br />"What's wrong with you?"<br /><br />"Nothing and everything. Now, let's see what the rains are doing to you..."AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-67315479270602608522009-08-23T00:09:00.010+05:302009-08-23T02:27:49.229+05:30Cold FusionThe cursor kept blinking back at me, insistent, like a mother asking you to tidy up the room. I looked blankly at the screen, pained by the empty white space challenging me. It's not that I had nothing to say, it's just that I had too much and these creatures in my head were waging a war against the walls of my brain. If I didn't do anything about them now, they would start making noises and oozing out of my mouth and that would be a very dangerous thing. <br /><br />I must tell you about this fear I have of said, uttered and spoken. If anything goes through these three, then the results can be overwhelming at times. What if what was said, uttered or spoken turned out to be true and ruptured that false sense of security you had wrapped around you? These creatures have very sharp claws, I must warn you and they are an unruly bunch. They won't care two hoots before cutting down your heart and hopes into pieces and proceeding to self-destruct. <br /><br />I don't know where my brain picked these creatures from, from which crazy god-forsaken corner. <br /><br />It is at such times, when I'm at the brink of a nuclear war in my head and my fingers freeze in their cold war with my brain, that I feel the need to go for a walk. A walk won't necessarily stop the churning within, but it would help me get away from the burden of controlling it. I can just let these creatures do their thing inside, while my feet trace and retrace steps in an aimless wandering about the house. This sometimes leads to more chaos. The walls start screaming and shoving another set of creatures into my head. <br /><br />And those creatures are even worse. I don't know whether they are alive or dead. If you mention, think, imagine or just even bring them up, they become the past, gone, and yet just hanging there. It is as if their lifespan runs on a clock whose each tick overlaps with the next so that a tick begins and ends together leading to the next one's immediate and simultaneous birth and death. If you had the living, the dead and the ghosts amongst us humans, then those creatures would fittingly fall within the ghosts.Those creatures would infest you and lie low and suddenly sneak up on you and unsettle everything. They can and will plague your head and rouse all these sleeping creatures into a riot of expression. <br /><br />At times I wish to purge myself of all the creatures within, these thriving and kicking ones, and those haunting and tormenting ones. But it's like the Stockholm syndrome.. the creatures have started liking my brain. They have started liking me, my self and everything about and around and they refuse to leave. They fill me up. Every time I open my eyes, breathe, smell, feel, sigh , utter, they multiply. The unborn ones are waiting for a flick of light within and they shall start their own universe within. Imagine the Big Bang occurring every living tick on your clock in your head. More the explosions in my head, the more I do things that will create more of such creatures.<br /><br />It is a vicious circle. I am them!! I have become what they are, whatever they are at any given time. I become their rag, and their pen. They can write me down on my own self and leave me to erase the marks. And each wiped out impression joins the army of those creatures, ambles off to a dark recess within, only to creep out teasingly from time to time and madden me. With the frothing madness comes a wave of intoxication that sweeps these creatures into a blur of excitement. And out they come spilling..<br /><br />The cursor's still annoying me with that blinking. The empty white spaces have shrunk and given away to inert black ants on the screen. They seem to be a handful. I don't know where my brain's picking up creatures from again, from which god-forsaken ruddy place now!!!AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29516944.post-2532873977221397542009-08-22T23:49:00.002+05:302009-08-22T23:54:10.784+05:30UndoneSongs that shall not be heard<br />for they bring a scent to mind.<br /><br />Words that shall not be said<br />for fear the silence be stormed.<br /><br />Sights that shall not be seen<br />for the memories that be piqued.<br /><br />Eyes that shall not be closed<br />for fear they would dream.<br /><br />All this, to not be reminded.<br />To face and turn things undone.<br /><br />- The Un-Written Yet.AMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07185258761339051383noreply@blogger.com0