Word Stalk

The Storytellers’ Secret

2011-03-06T04:22:00.001+05:30

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.

“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?

“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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

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?

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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?”

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.

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.

Petrichor

2011-02-09T18:42:00.001+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

Calling Home

2011-02-06T17:59:00.001+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For now, contentment was to be the flavor and rhyme.

An Old Wives' Tale

2011-01-07T21:33:00.000+05:30

This is the perfect date, no webcam between us, he thought.
They shared a Diet Coke and ate fries.

“I’ll wait for your status update.” She received a text as soon as she reached home.
She updated her status immediately : 2nyt ws awsm, gr8, lulzzzzzz.

The boy, heartbroken, deactivated his account.

The End.

Drop Your Pants!

2010-12-16T17:50:00.000+05:30

It was a very tense situation. I’d never done this before.

“Drop your Pants!” The security guard yelled at me. This was going to be very very embarrassing.

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?

The Muse's Farewell

2010-12-14T02:38:00.002+05:30

Once 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.

One evening, on a ceasing winter's day, she met her Hero.

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.

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?

One afternoon, on a reluctant rainy day, she saw the first fall.

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.

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.

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.

One morning, on a summer night's end, she began to question.

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?
Was that all that was left of her being a Muse- being just a feeble spark on the dim horizon?

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?

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.

One wintry night, past some springs and monsoons, the Muse decided to cease to be.

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.

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.

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.

The Salesman

2010-12-08T05:27:00.000+05:30

(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.)

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.

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.

"Good morning, Madam. I hope today would be a good day. Here, have some coffee." With that he nudged the door open and entered.

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.

"So, have you thought about it?", he asked.

She shook her head distractedly.

"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?

"Take a pain-killer"

Exactly. What if there was no pain-killer that killed it?

Mrs.Aergias shot him a look filled fury and dread. Why would the man just not leave her alone?

"I don't know"

"See... There's no real pain killer."

"Ahh.. There's no real pain then either," she chuckled at her own marvellous wit and logical deduction.

"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.

"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?"

"Not half as bad as I thought it would be"

"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.

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.

- To be continued. (hopefully soon enough)

Effervescent

2010-11-29T02:19:00.000+05:30

A childhood fantasy
to keep one, to keep many
for once and forever.
But they flew away.

Bubble and burst.
Again and again.
Yours to keep
and then throw away.

At shut of evening flowers

2010-11-20T06:46:00.000+05:30

Florets of sinopia and xanthous,
On a bed of smaragdine.

Stains of solferino and ferruginous,
In a cyaneous sea.

Nankeen feathers on a columbine tail,
Aubergine blooms on lovat floor lie.

An aeneous blaze on a waking star,
Leads the son under a cerulean sky.

Beholden

2010-11-15T01:41:00.000+05:30

She 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.

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.

It was second period- History, in 3rd E2.

The teacher, Mrs.Gulati was considered to be strict. She didn't hesitate before doling out punishment and called lions "loins".

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.

"Take out your textbooks now," Mrs.Gulati calls the class to attention.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But she still holds some hope. To find the birthday boy and utter a very delayed "Thank you".

Oblivion

2010-11-01T03:52:00.001+05:30

When 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.

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.

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.

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.

"You have to wake up", he said.

I remained silent. The smoke was making me nauseous. I didn't know where it was coming from.

"You won't understand till you wake up and see. There's light now, you can see"

I had no idea what he was talking about. I was up and awake, staring at him with all the hatred I could muster.

"I won't let you go that easily. You have to wake up and fight."

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.

"You shouldn't have done it. It was my fault. No, it was all your fault too."

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.

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.

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.

"We have to go", she said.

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.

"Will you wait?" he asked before he got up to leave.

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.

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.

But no one was waking me up from this dream. They all seemed to have left me alone, finally.

One Rainy Evening..

2010-09-21T19:01:00.003+05:30

The sun suffered a massive a stage fright,
And excused itself from our sight.

Shy fire, confused gray and a schizophrenic blue,
Cotton clouds, heavy and too full of hue.

Lightning threw a tantrum, thunder a fit,
Torrents after torrents, obligingly followed it.

Headlights blinked, traffic lights blinded,
Horns, yells and screeches, went unheeded.

The windows stared back, bleak and tired.
And back to their blinking screens, the ants returned.

Neem

2010-08-31T05:04:00.001+05:30

Sleep came over her with a vengeance.

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.

But she, she just wanted to sleep. She had to. How else would she dream?

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.

She heard the low patter of feet, a hush paddling towards her. Someone in the next room started clawing at the walls.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There was no sign of the Clouds. They had moved on. Emptying and collecting themselves on the way.

Interlude

2010-05-04T02:50:00.002+05:30

On a wooden park bench, brown,
they sat since the sun fell and fled.
Of Euripides and Aristophanes,
He spoke and she laughed.

Languages rolled on a heavy tongue.
Strangers from across three seas,
strolled under a coy sky. Between
fallen stars and shooting leaves.

Blackbirds and woodpeckers,
cold-blooded crickets and cicadas
Encore, one after another heard.
Music memorized, like math.

Blades of grass tickled the feet,
knuckles wrapped into a tackle.
Silences recalled, into a vacuum.
The lonely metal lamp shivered.

On a wooden park bench, brown,
they slept till the sun rose and bled.
Moons travelled into outer space.
He snored, and she sighed.

Tryst/Cinder

2010-03-06T04:40:00.006+05:30

He 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Patchwork of Evening Fancies

2010-02-09T02:13:00.006+05:30

Straws glued together green,
brushing against cracked soles.
Slithering steps winding along
jungles of ants and rats.

Dried blossoms a few amongst
a field of yellow daffodils.
The scent spreads across excess
of flesh desired, and allowed.

Sixteen pale stars across a red sky,
Silver fern rising from beryl earth,
dancing violently on tender wrists,
pausing to sleep at the neck of a ring.

Lights changed colors, predictably.
Relief and rush mingled and crashed.
She blushed, glowed and sighed
and an eight rolled down with a click.

He chanced a hasty glance at the mirror,
catching an elusive whiff of tobacco.
Streets crossed, lanes changed by turn,
the coin given away by his time.

Scaling a dusty hundred and five steps,
crossed the bridge of no streetlamps.
A minute late and fifteen strides away, only.
But the books had already gone to sleep.

Spill

2010-02-07T01:31:00.001+05:30

This is just to say,
that we may now do away
with the trouble of niceties.
Incapacity and a lessened
share of fancy shall suffice.

This is also to remind,
that we may now do away
with bothering about time.
Age and a book full of faces
shall let it pass unseen.

This is now to conclude,
that we have fully done away
with reality without the eye.
Hope and a few old spirits
shall keep us from bellyache.

A Thursday Night's

2010-01-18T18:44:00.000+05:30

Dream? No I'd not say that. Let's say Arthur Dent was my wingman that night.

And he went, "Have you met Slartibartfast?"

Recap. That would make him Slartibartfast's wingman, not mine, right? Never mind, cut to the conversation.

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.

So yeah, Arthur went, " Have you met Slartibartfast?"

"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.

"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.

"So how have you been?" I asked. You have to be really really smart to make small talk around these two men.

"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.

I was about to rephrase and ask again, when clanked in Marvin.

"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?"

"Hey, that's not true!" exclaimed Arthur & Bart together.

"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."

"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 else would the answer turn to 43?" said Arthur.

"Of course not. It's not as simple. And what do you mean by everything else?"

"What would you mean by meaning of life, universe and everything then?", interrupted Marvin.

"Errr..."

"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."

I never thought I'd wish for Marvin to disappear with as much intensity as the atmosphere allowed there as this time.

"So, what have you been upto Slartibartfast?. SHUT UP Marvin and Arthur"

"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!!..."

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.

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.

"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.)

"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. "

"But if the mice would be selling the world, there won't be any earthmen left to write the song.", pointed out Arthur.

"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.

Arthur cowered behind the aircar's seat while Marvin gave another resigned-to-depression sigh and his shoulders sagged while his eyes drooped.

"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."

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?"

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."

"Ok. I will see you soon then...?"

"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.

I only wish I had pressed the red button in time. The mosquitoes I killed during my crash landing would have been glad.

Disclaimer: All the characters, with perhaps the possible exception of the character I, are fictional and have been picked up from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy written by dear Mr. Douglas Adams. I hope he doesn't turn in his grave after coming to know of this dream.

Emergence

2009-12-27T00:23:00.010+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Photo by: Sans.ability

And there was a girl..

2009-10-29T00:31:00.000+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She tripped on denial and fell into her dreams. Again.

Once there was a man

2009-10-13T02:20:00.004+05:30

She 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And he sold it off for peace.

Tapestry

2009-09-24T03:16:00.004+05:30

A crowded room,
an empty cup,
silence and its names.

A broken nail,
a forgotten lock,
blood and its traces.

A handful of sand,
a glint of sun,
fire and its embers.

A garland of flowers,
an album of uncles,
memory and its voices.

A string of silk,
a patch of sky,
rain and its scents.

A fallen leaf,
an open window,
time and its places.

One Rainy Afternoon

2009-09-10T04:44:00.000+05:30

"Yes, finally they arrive."

"Yes, indeed."

"I love the monsoon. Though you don't seem to share the sentiment."

"Nothing like that. I do too. Quite a lot."

"Then why aren't you as excited?"

"Yes, obviously I am not as excited."

"And why so?"

"Does any statement here merit any reason?"

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Should there be?"

"There definitely is something. What is it?"

"Receding hairline."

"Ha! Why old man, that shouldn't bother you. What's wrong with acquiring age?"

"Everything, apart from- no, everything."

"I don't care now.. I just want to enjoy these rains"

"Go ahead."

“I can go on about how rains make everything seem so beautiful and romantic-”

“That’s the problem- going on about what seems to be what- too many movies and novels I say”

“That’s not true- ”

“Obviously not!”

“Yes, obviously not!! People love rains!”

“They say they do”

“They say what they feel. Don’t you feel these things?”

“People feel too many things. What things are you talking about?”

“Oh rains do these things to me….I feel... Let’s go out for a drive.”

“Why don’t we just stay in and help you out with these things instead?”

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing and everything. Now, let's see what the rains are doing to you..."

Cold Fusion

2009-08-23T00:09:00.010+05:30

The 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.

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.

I don't know where my brain picked these creatures from, from which crazy god-forsaken corner.

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.

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.

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.

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..

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!!!

Undone

2009-08-22T23:49:00.002+05:30

Songs that shall not be heard
for they bring a scent to mind.

Words that shall not be said
for fear the silence be stormed.

Sights that shall not be seen
for the memories that be piqued.

Eyes that shall not be closed
for fear they would dream.

All this, to not be reminded.
To face and turn things undone.

- The Un-Written Yet.

Innominate

2009-08-08T12:21:00.001+05:30

A name, a shroud of past
Only a word but, like ice
Sharp and stinging,
A name that reminds.

That which hid many lies,
And which lied many times,
Whose refuge you sought
While mine was refused.

A word that you wouldn’t spell,
But would still be on your lips,
That which wasn’t uttered ever,
For how long would it be veiled?

An entitlement did matter most,
And that which was left almost,
Yet an agnomen you’d take up
And attach and cling on to.

A truth that tastes bitter,
And smells of pity and envy,
Its sight makes me faint,
It is but a hard pill to swallow.

You, born with a name and
The bearings of a man,
Are but just that, springing
From a nameless father.

Chasing from name to bed,
Seeking comfort and chaos,
You ran and ran over an
Unnamed unborn result.

From baptizing you run away,
The aversion to define and call
But hang on to the straws, till
the name deserts you to drown.

Argentum Abbadon's Wall

2009-08-03T16:09:00.000+05:30

Argentum Abbadon thought the world of photography and the art. He knew no joy other than having his own little universe of framed lives. People were his favorite subjects, so charming and delightful. He knew he liked the idea of people more than the actual entity of people. He also knew that they were best in that moment when light and chemicals froze them on paper. He travelled frequently, meeting people and getting to know them till they agreed to pose for his camera. Today he was in the countryside, waiting for his customers.

They arrived. Your urban happy family of five (that included the dog) visiting the countryside to have themselves shot against the scenic backdrop. The man stood with the baby cradled in one hand and the other wrapped around his wife’s shoulder. The six year old girl was on her knees with the giant of a dog, his fur gleaming golden in the soft light. The scene was perfect.

He said the c-word. The man, wife and girl said the c-word, the baby yawned and the dog twitched his nose. Cheese. Click.

Out came the photograph. The baby started whimpering and the dog was barking loudly. The man came forward but couldn’t walk beyond an invisible barrier. His expression turned into worry and anger and disbelief. He knew these reactions. Most people behaved this way in the beginning. They got used to it in time. They have no other option, and besides, they have so much for company.

He took the photo and hung it on its assigned space on the wall. He needed a happy family next to the sorrowful young woman. The old couple could also do with some company. This was his treasure, his collection of people, their smiles, their laughs, their expressions and their lies. He didn’t capture mere memories, he captured their lives. The wall full of portraits and people, smiling, staring vacantly, sitting glum, weeping, laughing deliriously.. so charming and delightful.

In an ignored column on the seventh page of The Times, one found the news of a family of four and their dog gone missing since Sunday afternoon.

An ordinary life

2009-08-03T12:58:00.000+05:30

The heat was unbearable. The flame licked around and the blow was hard. And all their attempts to strengthen me by tempering and annealing only added to the agony. If my birth was such an ordeal, I wondered how difficult my life would be.

I’ve been here for some years now. Being the centre of attention for thirteen seconds in someone’s life isn’t that big an achievement, but I get by. There are times when some would be generous enough to spare me an entire minute from their life. Those come by, and come by few.

Today seems to be an inauspicious day. I can feel it within. There are too many people around, too many casual glances thrown at me. I never fancy such attention, callous and capricious. You know they don’t really want to be looking at you. You just happen to be in their line of vision.

One of them seemed to be different. He spoke to the mistress, said he found something intriguing about me. My mistress easily let him take me away. I didn’t feel particularly hurt, but a hint of sadness inevitably marked me. I had after all spent some years under her watchful eyes.

Once he got me, he didn’t seem to care much. He’d leave me in a corner, where no one came, no one in whose line of vision you could fall for mere acknowledgment of your existence. Dust had begun to settle on me like a shroud. The darkness was blinding.

Then one day he came back in drunken rage and fought with the wife. He picked me up with vehement force and threw me down. And that was my sudden, forgettable and absurd demise. The wife stepped on broken pieces of me and let out a scream. I’d made her bleed.

He forgot all about his rage. He rushed to her and went about tending to her. No one cared for the intriguing beauty that was now on the floor, broken. Most of me ground to dust. The maid was asked to sweep away the broken shards, the remains of my featureless form.

They thought about putting me together, but gave up on second thoughts. I was anyways in no shape for attention and effort. No point crying over shattered glass. The baby in the other room had started crying by then, too late for any repair now.

The Apple You Kept Away

2009-07-19T17:15:00.004+05:30

It's like what happens to a cut apple, you know. When it's cut or part-eaten and just left out in the open and it goes all dark and spoilt. It shrivels and seems to die, as if it was alive while feeding you. Strange, innit? You leave it unattended for a while, and when you're back it's almost wounded, of no use but to be thrown out. Why would one do that,do you know?

Someone Else's Head

2009-07-07T00:14:00.006+05:30

It’s like stepping into someone else's head. Or maybe your own head. Or at least imagining that you’re doing so. At that stage, you block reality out. Dim the noises around, blur the sights in front of your eyes. And you find your flow. There, then. You can proceed to write your story, perform your song, take a walk down memory lane and travel to the future. And then suddenly, you are pushed back to reality. By a boy walking bare feet, selling shiny things from a twisted hanger slung across his frail shoulders. You slowly regain your senses, smell your surroundings, see the huts from the grilled windows, and hear the noises the train makes against the tracks and you sway slightly, in rhythm with the train’s motion. You feel the jerk when it comes to halt at a station. You can see people file past you, occupy the vacant seats around, jostling, talking, yelling and slowly settling down as the train begins to move. You start swaying again, the train racing with vehement force and your handwriting begins to go haywire on the page. You get distracted by some voices, and shamelessly overhear their conversations. After a while you lose interest in their lives and lies, and give in to the voices inside your head. And so it begins, stepping into someone’s head.

Perspective

2009-07-05T22:21:00.003+05:30

And it went on, the breathing fell and rose. She gasped, in bursts--shrieking out dryly. If she could have she would have rather drowned in ice waters instead of bearing the pain that wrecked her. He watched, helpless, slightly indifferent, yet hurting. He tried to find a place for that feeling, for the person in front of him.

It rained heavily around them, she was growing pale and the woods looked a dark slithery green. Like velvet moss. The sky above was like the ocean, white clouds foaming and churning. The picture was silent, heavy with dry ache. There was a storm halfway, the needles swaying to the right. There was golden light around them. The frame was intricate, heavy with gold and wood.

The door opened and she peeped in. A hesitant smile on her face, enquiring. He looked back, eyes laden with exhaustion. As if he had stared at the sun for hours from under the sea. Something was getting in his way and he was going blind. She closed the door behind, gave one last look, waiting for a nod, or a blink, but none came and after a while he could only see her back from the corner of his eye.

He got up with sudden rage, and threw whatever he had been holding at the wall. He ripped the sheets out and tore them. He peeled off the posters stuck to the wall. As he reached the windows, he pulled the curtains down and shook the grilles. He seemed to be trying to bend the bars and go after something. Something flying, just outside. He screamed threateningly at the sky outside. The music that blared from within the room sounded like a war cry heralding the arrival of the bravest armies. The music rose higher, and he recoiled, as if stung by hot light. He was retreating, and rays seemed to be feasting on him, fraying him.

He was falling, lightly, as if through space, with a small cry just hanging over his face. His eyes seemed to roll back into his head. He was disappearing into the golden light and silence fell, like dust on furniture.

The gilded frame kept the light trapped on its borders. The sky was violent, like a woman in labor. It poured on, making the canvas look as if someone had splashed water on it in delirious anger. The tall trees seemed to be blurring at the edges. That blur seen enveloping ghosts.

She lay there on his knees, her legs spread at an odd angle on the ground. Her face was a mirror reflecting some horrible poison's flow through her. His head was bent, an indecipherable expression on his face marked by the creases on his forehead. His hand held her neck delicately while his other hand is on her face. Her hands were clutching on to his brown shirt. They were locked in that hush of time.

There was noise outside, a wave of voices crashing at the golden sand. People moved from one frame to the next. Whispering loudly amongst themselves, telling the other what the painting meant.

"It is as if I'm looking out of a window into some other world, it's so real", said the old man.

Jane looked at him with exasperation that comes from hearing such things eighty times a day. If it was another world, it wouldn't be a reality she thought.

"Well, paintings do have a life of their own." With that she shoved her tour group on to the next work of art.

This time it was a bride dressed in red with a goat playing a violin floating in blue.

Into the Bin.

2009-06-05T23:23:00.004+05:30

It was on the table, under the keyboard. I took the keyboard on to my lap and saw it fall.
There it lies on the ground. An old piece of luck, of memory, of things returned.
It will be swept away tomorrow. And everything with it too. Into the bin.

Homecoming

2008-11-15T12:59:00.005+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

It was a quiet Diwali.

Bald Frog with a Wig- How Different!

2008-10-16T20:19:00.005+05:30

Blogger Random Question-

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

I answered, without keeping brevity in mind,

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

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

Dangling Conversations

2008-07-22T11:22:00.002+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am..

2008-06-18T12:03:00.004+05:30

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

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

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

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

By me and Hogwash

Puppy Love

2008-05-18T22:22:00.000+05:30

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

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

The music began :You and I..

Keats’ Lie.

2008-05-15T22:20:00.000+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hostage-II

2008-05-11T22:19:00.000+05:30

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

Hostage-I

2008-05-11T22:15:00.000+05:30

Its rather un-beautiful.

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

Best Deals! Hurry!!

2008-03-14T00:59:00.002+05:30

The need was urgent. Not many good options available.

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

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

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

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

My first attempt at 55-words-fiction.

Windows.

2008-03-08T04:37:00.005+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touche

2007-12-31T00:43:00.003+05:30

Touche, you say
lest they know the secret
and cast their evil charms.
Your eyes shine bright
with the desire burning
and yet you deny.

You long not for riches
and fame and glory,
and neither wait for the
frog prince and a fairy tale.
This mundane world cannot
provide what you are looking for.

All you seek is freedom,
locked within a framework
of skin and bones and reality,
Out there lies wild abandon,
hanging uncertain in the air-
yours to escape away into..

A secret dream to run away
into that mysterious world
of dreams and illusions-
probabilities and impossibilities
explode and implode within,
all yours to explore. Touche.

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

i have no idea how i ended up at this..
i wont insult poetry by calling this a poem,

:( ... im losing it.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2586014590072785138&na=4

Mannat

2007-12-14T00:21:00.001+05:30

She saw him being dragged away
by the roots of his hairs,
They held him bound in chains
and whipped and lashed.

She cried herself hoarse
seeking her lover's escape,
begged mercy from the pirates
who had ravaged many a shores.

They took him beyond lands
unknown and a hundred seas.
Locked in sand filled dungeons
on an island nowhere on map.

She went searching for her man
from nether to high lands.
On unruly waves and wilderness
she carried her grief in her heart.

Parched by the desert sun,
weathered by the mighty winds,
drowned by the pouring rain,
Yet she marched forth in her quest.

And last found a tavern
to which none paid any heed.
The moonless dark sky
compelled her to take refuge.

There she found her man
clasped in another woman's arms.
Tears betrayed the hurt
she felt in her happiness.

Her heart broke into a thousand pieces
and nothing could mend it now,
for forces of nature may bleed your skin
but love scorned burns the heart.

Then she walked into the sea
and let the sea caress her wounds.
Further she went into it
and slumbered in the deep.

Her spirit lies lonely and seeking,
the sea waves wildly lament her sorrow.
Whenever the moon begins a new phase,
she dies another death of perfidy.

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

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2571719893087160562&start=1

I found this one in one of my old diaries...
and I have no idea why it had been titled Mannat then. Since I can't find any better title, I'd just stick to this one.

To Bluntschli,

2007-10-19T22:05:00.000+05:30

To Bluntschli, my chocolate-cream soldier

Our eyes may meet and
you may not see my mind
hidden behind it.

You may hear my voice yet
not identify the stirrings
of my soul within.

You could hold my hands
but never the warmth
exuding from them.

If you were in love with
me- would you then?

Many careless afternoons
spent in your arms,
recalled with tender care.

Walked that path home,
everyday, at twilight,
hand in hand,at times.

Said so much to each other,
with our eyes and signs,
and sometimes, without them.

If you aren't in love with
me- then why do feel the same?

With each other, everyday,
all our lives almost,
spent and cherished.

We kept looking, everywhere
for our better halves,
never heeding the present.

All that while, every time
we forgot to notice,
who we were, who we are.

If we are in love-
why are we so silent yet?

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2561488707609954546

Lingering love..

2007-10-19T22:02:00.000+05:30

Love that lingers,
waits awhile for you..

Scents trail behind-
whiffs of memories

The touch that never
left the feeling on skin

Meanings locked in eyes,
lost somewhere deeper

Smiles that said much
and hid many secrets within

Tears, with nowhere to go
filled with infinite joy

Heart beats slowed down
to an eternity's space..

Spent in frozen time,
our own universe

Love that lingers,
stays awhile with you..

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2561488967455475954&na=4

Miracle

2007-08-12T04:42:00.000+05:30

A miracle in hold,
struggling to free,
from slippery hands
and a sceptic mind.

Is it in wait
of a better time?
Or a softer spirit
yielding to it?

Would you release
it for a joy you fear
you don’t dare dream?
Or rather smother
it to save unforeseen
desires from dying?

Let the miracle unfold
and change your life,
for better or worse,
than linger on chance
and watch wishes and hopes
wilt away before your eyes.

Free the puerile butterfly
into the unknown blues,
lest its lengthy confine
bring its untimely close.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2548739326972528882

Blank

2007-07-01T23:55:00.000+05:30

this one's after really long...

Blank--

I'll become a blank page,
if I continue to lose
those unwritten tales
from an endless maze-
a palce I never went to.

Is there any way in???
Directions from a guide,
reluctant to let slip
that long sought gift-
a key to my mind.

Those unknown,unseen,
probably long lost.
Saw much of a distant dream,
locked in some discrete realm,
now mere memories and dust.

Just floating around-
voices and sights there
not ready to settle down,
not destiny-bound,
illusory and real in pair.

Stained by blood,a bit,
they refuse to fade away.
But harder to get rid
are the tears left behind.
overwhelming,they stay.

Memories,too many of them,
an uncomfortable sojourn.
tumultuous they remain-
a torrent you cant stem,
a half grief you cant mourn.

I'll remain a blank life
if this turmoil continues to linger.
Can I end this hollow strife?
Can I just aimlessly write,
and put this madness to paper?

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=31598904&tid=2541094892923521266

Hope, perhaps?

2007-04-26T18:59:00.000+05:30

---I was moving around injured..
Tiny cracks within me,
I was afraid and scared
of letting those wounds deepen..

Then along came that ailment-
love, in overpowering strong torrents.
I try to hold on, not to relent,
but I succumb, madly to that madness.

A new world opened up before me,
there before my jaundiced eyes..
violets seemed bluer than the sea,
clouds bloomed like lilies in the skies..

Would you believe I was in love?
A sudden burst of sunlight,
flutterings of a chained dove..
fighting restraint with all might..

I give in, I simply surrender
to this wonderful sense of bliss.
As lucky as I have felt ever
the fates have ordained, as it is.

I'm getting used to this
languorous labor of pleasure,
letting countless days and nights
catch me up to measure..

On a sudden wintry cold day,
this dream comes to an abrupt end.
My life's swiftly stolen away
leaving many broken pieces to mend.

I am swept away by the grief,
I fear my heart breaking apart.
I doubt my love's truth, my belief,
and agonize over that perfect past..

A joy lost before I could even hold,
take my memories to imprint.
Reminiscences of yesterday and old
bring smiles with a teary glint.

As I seek to repair that broken piece
with iron shackles, fetters and a latch,
to myself I make a difficult promise
to never let ardent love to attach.

Trudging along with such a misery
under the burden of such a vow,
I seethe at my misfortune in fury
unable to allow insecurities to go..

I do not know against whom I wage wars-
Against my own uncertain emotions or destiny?
Was it written by those faint distant stars?
Or by someone stronger-a greater divinty?

Spring creeps in on tiptoe,
buds open up to a tender sun-ray,
the frostiness would soon flow,
the chill eventually go away...

The heart has learnt to accept
and tries to move on with life..
I take courage from the floret
that flowers despite winter strife...

March has brought the colors to fore,
Meadow greens, roses red and golden entice..
I have never seen such beauty before-
Was I too busy in mourning to once notice?

I owe my heart to life's such glory-
I'm sure love, as it knows, would understand.
How long can one wallow in melancholy?
How long does one, for grieving sake, lead life so bland?

I tread on tentative steps- not yet
ready to hurl myself head over heels.
I find love but play hard to get,
there's still that promise to deal..

Try as I may, I fail nevertheless.
Love overpowers me yet again,
And I submit easily, helpless
to fight and deny myself a haven..

Bright summer sunbeams seem to melt
my frigid metal bearings.
And again, yet again, I just assent
to flow with springtime tidings..

Yesterday's bitter wounds still pain,
And there's a lot to worry about tomorrow-
But not loving today would go in vain..
Hope is the best, perhaps the only answer to my sorrow..

Hope's been crushed and lost much in past,
and it is but unborn in the time to come-
the only time it promises to last
is today, now- while waiting for the dawn.

I write this extra long poem after finishing James Patterson's- Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas which is "for everyone who's loved and lost and learned to love again".

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2528808952142235890&na=4

Poetry is dead...

2007-03-13T23:50:00.000+05:30

poetry has died a lonely death
overshadowed by mundane musings.
of words and rhythm there- a dearth
created by a dreary view of things.

sonnets do pale in comparison,
as lyrics fall in their stature.
ballads now lie forgotten
in the wake of poetry's departure.

a letter not written to love,
a song not sung from the heart,
all the romance that you could have
its now gone and forever lost.

Milton has died and Keats too.
Frost lies frozen in some corner.
wordsworth an anonymous forgotten hero
Emily and Plath were remembered never.

poetry's death i sit and lament
the magic's gone it seems, forever
if only literary fate would relent
and bring verse back on paper.

we've run out of words now

resorting to banal platitude.

time has finally taken a toll

poetry has failed our fortitude.

all our attempts are futile,
we just dont measure up ~
the passion is missing.a title
for dead poets society's come up.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2520683644964833522&na=4

LISTEN TO ME....

2007-02-12T23:06:00.000+05:30

i am standing all alone,
at home, at school,
all screaming at me insolently,
my silent tears unproven.

i am waiting for my turn,
for an offence uncommitted,
defenceless and powerless,
i'm beaten till i burn.

i am looking at my reflection
on the shiny marble floor,
cleaned and scrubbed for hours,
my only means for compensation.

i am weaving the fabric,
sequins and stones shining,
with every flash of colour,
a bleak future i pick.

i am gazing at the stars dim,
fireworks lighting up the sky.
with every cracker that you burst,
gunpowder scorches my skin.

i am getting dressed,
ready to be paraded around
and sold to some savage,
of my dignity i'm stripped.

i am lying on my bed,
trying to numb the pain,
the creeping familiar scent
fills my mind with dread and hatred.

i am playing in the park,
a stranger comes and lures me away,
amongst the flowers my innocence snatched,
i'm left with memories dark.

i am the child you all have known,
have seen and ignored always.
i am the child abused,neglected and battered.
i am just a child, have you forgotten????

STOP CHILD ABUSE.

written for 12th Feb'07- Youth Activism Day. Our cause- Stop Child Abuse.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2515297766713067762&na=4

I love Dan.

2007-01-11T10:06:00.001+05:30

My first memory of him is a scattering of images, smells and sounds. He had long shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes with specks of gold dust in them. The smell of smoke and sweat mixed with cologne hung over him like a cloud. He would keep humming tunelessly some song or be ranting on passionately about something and someone. I used to be awestruck whenever I saw him playing his guitar while Mom sang. If there was anything Mom was passionate in her life, it was music. She lived, breathed music. I was just an accident of this passion as I came to know at a later point in my life.

Mom and Daniel had met up during one of the rallies of the hippie movement. Their passion for music and zest for life had drawn them together. I was barely three when I saw Daniel for the first time. Being with my Mom for three years, I wasn’t much shocked with the appearance of this man one fine afternoon at our doorstep. And I didn’t mind much when he stayed beyond the Sunday afternoon and moved in with us. For one thing, he cared for me more than my Mom ever did.

I used to call him Dan and he used to call me El, Princess Ellie, Lizzie, Liz, Betty, and Queen Beth, anything he felt like at that moment. Mom had named me Elizabeth just because the nurse had suggested it. But Dan would tell me that I was named after Queen Elizabeth and would regale me with stories he made up about the “Exploits of Queen Ellie”. Dan’s always there with El; Dan-I-El, he’d say in a sing song voice. I do not remember when I started calling Dan Dad. It was just natural. I had found a father figure, a guide, a friend in him. All this while, Mom kept growing apart from us. The musical evenings turned silent and cold. I was six, when one morning I woke up to find Mom had gone. She had left us and run off to make a career in the west.

I was an abandoned orphan. Dan could leave me and go away any day. I wasn’t his responsibility. I felt scared, lonely and miserable. I took out the only photo I had of me and Mom together, hid under the dining table and cried and cried. After what seemed an eternity, furiously rubbing my eyes, I looked up to find those liquid brown eyes, gold dust splayed in them, piercing into my bloodshot red eyes.
“You want some breakfast?” he asked as he did everyday.
I didn’t know what to reply. Did he not realize that Mom’s gone, for ever maybe? But I was hungry. I just nodded mutely.
“Or rather you could do with some brunch. Its nearly lunch time.” He said pulling me from under the table and putting me on the tabletop while he made himself busy cooking up something.
“Dad… I mean Dan….” I mumbled haltingly knowing not what to say.
“Listen li’l Elli. I’m your dad and you’d better do as I tell you to do. So sit tight and keep quiet while I cook with all my might. God, I’m going downhill..” he said making a face.
I smiled feebly and controlled my urge to sob in his arms till the afternoon sun died and the burning pain in my heart was doused. He had agreed to take care of me. Maybe he was just being generous and did it out of pity for me. But I accepted his charity greedily. It was then and there that I knew, I just knew that I loved this man and would spend the rest of my life with him. I loved my Dan.

The years passed in a blur of countryside trips, musical evenings and help on school
work. Dan was the perfect father, friend and guide. There was never a dull moment with him around. I excelled in everything that Dan could teach me and that was almost everything- from music, academics to sports- Dan had made me the alpha girl. Till high school I was resolutely oblivious to boys, puppy love and backseat necking. In grad school I thought I could get over my infatuation with Dan. I dated guys and made out with my boyfriend of one week. I even thought I had finally fallen in love with this classmate of mine with whom I had been going out for two years. But after all that time, I came to realize that the only thing I loved about him was his name – Daniel Gordon. I always looked for something of Dan in all of them. The guys who asked me out and with whom I went out could never match up to Dan. After a string of such ‘failures’, I lost interest in the whole dating scene and concentrated on getting my Phi Beta Kappa in History and Literature. It was my graduation gift for Dan.

I had realized by then that I loved Dan in every which way known to the human heart. I was going to be with Dan for the rest of my life, I didn’t have time for flings. I still called him Dad, but in my own private world he was always Dan. He wasn’t my biological father- he was Dan, my foster father. It didn’t matter to me that he was a good 23 years older than me. I thought it perfectly normal to love him as a woman could love any man. All these years I had never seen Dan with any woman other than Mom. Maybe he truly loved her and I felt so jealous that I’d keep wishing wherever she was, she never came back. I would take out her old snaps and pore over them for hours wondering if I resembled her strongly enough and whether Dan would ever love me as he loved her.

My graduation day came. Dan looked handsome in his Sunday best. I was the class valedictorian. He couldn’t have been more proud of me. We went for celebratory dinner that night. Dan was in such good mood he took me to the most expensive nightclub in town. Dan kept ordering drinks and we kept downing them. I could see Dan was getting drunk. I was beginning to feel dizzy.
I grabbed him by his collar and said, “Dan.. yes Dan.. you’re not my father. I love you. I love you and want to be with you forever, not as your daughter but as a woman stays with a man.” With that, I don’t know what took me, but I just kissed him. It was like that one moment spent in a thousand days and a thousand days of joys collapsed in that one moment. I felt like I was born to be with this man.
Dan seemed to be coming to his senses and pushed me away lightly. A photograph fell from his pocket. I picked it up. It was very old.
What I saw made my head spin even more. It was a picture of him and a woman with a heart shaped face, honey colored hair curling at her shoulders, and eyes bluer than mine, holding a baby, in bundles, both of them smiling at me. I looked at Dan seeking any meaning, any explanation to this illusion in front of me.
“That’s you there, when you were just a day old. Yes El, you are my daughter. I am your Dad. And this woman here, your Mom, is the only woman I have ever loved. She had left me once. And she left me again. She left us all that day. Her car crashed. The second time I was lucky she left you behind for me. I see her in you everyday, every living moment….”
I do not remember what he was saying. I had begun to feel claustrophobic all of a sudden. I stormed out. I could hear Dan running after me. I was crossing the street, running away from this man who was my father. I heard a horn being blown loudly, brakes screeching against the gravel behind me.

My last memory of him is lying on the road, smiling, clutching my hand and the photograph, saying, “I love you Ellie… more than anyone in the world…I love you.”
I could see myself; I could see my Mom in those liquid brown eyes, and my tears drowning the gold dust in them. I could hear wailing sirens, the sound coming from some other world. I could feel people pulling me apart from the only person who loved me and whom only I loved, ever, truly ever.

“You look like a real Princess.” Daniel said.
Its been eight years since he’s been gone. I’m standing on the steps of a centuries old church, in the most beautiful white gown with Daniel, a white rose on his lapel. Father O’Donnell has come to see us off.
He kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “You really look like a princess, Mrs. Gordon”

Just days before the ceremony, I had found this box while rummaging through Dad’s (yes my Dad.) things. In there was a white wedding gown with a yellowing card that read- Sara’s, then scrawled in black loopy writing- For my Princess Ellie when I’d give her away to her Prince Charming. I knew it then as I had known it always- I’ll love Dan, forever. And that he loved me, as no one could. Maybe he had come back for my Mom. But he had stayed back for me - Because he was my Dad. Because he loved me, I was his daughter, his Princess Ellie. Dan’s always there with El.

wish you were here..

2007-01-10T10:35:00.000+05:30

i wish you were here
to hold my hands tight,
when my palms get sweaty,
wipe them on your shirt.

i wish you were here
to play with my hair,
when they are wind-blown
to entangle your fingers in them.

i wish you were here
to smile at me sheepishly,
when i look suspicious
to give me your toothy grin.

i wish you were here
to share this cola with me,
when you get more than me,
fight,but let me have the last sip.

i wish you were here
to give me your bear hug,
when i'm cold and shivering
hold me warm and still.

i wish you were here
to sing me to sleep,
and when i wake up
to kiss my sleepy eyes.

i wish you were here,
to be my side on the bed,
when i wake up from my dreams,
please step out into my reality.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2509077552409348338&na=4

Lethe.

2006-12-31T13:33:00.000+05:30

I need to forget.
I need to forgo
seeking that went
many aeons ago.

Skeletons in my closet
creating a babel.
If only i would let,
many stories they would tell.

Memories that haunt
my every present.
They insult and taunt
my reasoning spent.

An elixir to erase
acts and thoughts elapsed,
of moments and days
in a blur they sped.

Welcome me to Hades,
let me drown in Lethe,
wont fight against the tides,
let it swallow me complete.

Let it wipe away my past,
let it make way for future,
he waters are moving so fast,
can i hold on to bits of true?

Years come to end,
I go looking for Lethe.
Mistakes many to mend
but i drink to forget.....

one last offering,this year.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2507244649345976562&na=4

have you ever..?

2006-12-21T12:20:00.000+05:30

have been feeling
lonely,miserable,
lost and defeated.
just felt like reading
this one,a cynic's tale,
one more time....
```````````````````````````````
Have you ever
felt so lonely,
you wish you could
pour out your heart
to any passing stranger?

Have you ever
felt so different,
you wish you could
be like butterflies
indistinguishable
from others?

Have you ever
felt so strange,
you wish you could
lose yourself
among nameless faces?

Have you ever
felt so isolated,
you wish you could
be like music notes
blending into
any symphony?

Have you ever
felt so ugly,
you wish you could
go under the knife
but for your heart?

Have you ever
felt so misled,
you wish you could
take an alternate
to destiny's plan?

Have you ever
felt so empty,
you wish you could
fill up yourself
even with intense sorrow?

Have you ever
felt so confined,
you wish you could
break the glass
walls of your life?

Have you ever
felt so hopeless,
you wish you could
jump from a cliff
without any wings?

Have you ever felt so breathless, you wish you could drown in deep blue sea never gasping for the air above?
Have you ever?
Have you ever?
because at times,
I have, I have...

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2491827587211593970&na=4

Iris

2006-12-09T13:42:00.000+05:30

Iris

And I'd give up forever to touch you'

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

And I don't want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment

And all I can breathe is your life'

Cause sooner or later it's over

I just don't want to miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming

Or the moment of truth in your lies

When everything feels like the movies

And you bleed just to know you're alive

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

(break and solo)

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
------------------------------------Goo Goo Dolls---

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

nothing is falling into place,

the words are just out there

hanging in still air

out of my reach...

im in conflict with myself,

in two minds,

tormenting emotions ferment,

rising up for sudden release...

so,just the song that,

for a long time now,

has left me spell bound,enchanted,

marvelling at the passion it holds

within its recurring words...

I dont want to miss a thing.

2006-12-03T23:55:00.000+05:30

I could stay awake just to hear you breathing
Watch you smile while you are sleeping
While you're far away dreaming
I could spend my life in this sweet surrender
I could stay lost in this moment forever
Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing

Lying close to you feeling your heart beating
And I'm wondering what you're dreaming
Wondering if it's me you're seeing
Then I kiss your eyes
And thank God we're together
I just want to stay with you in this moment forever
Forever and ever

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing

I don't want to miss one smile
I don't want to miss one kiss
I just want to be with you
Right here with you, just like this
I just want to hold you close
Feel your heart so close to mine
And just stay here in this moment
For all the rest of time

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
I don't want to miss a thing

--------Aerosmith-------------------------

2006-10-31T15:56:00.000+05:30

little suns adorn the wet moss
creepin up the stiff cliffs
shroudig the rocky mass
along with the little violets
hanging on to the earth
delicate and wily.

2006-10-30T16:03:00.000+05:30

hours and seconds
pass by alike..
years and days
seem equally long..

i know i know
not yet not yet
its still so incomplete
grant some time.

where are you....?

2006-10-30T15:38:00.000+05:30

i seek your words
in every letter received.

i find your face
in every passing stranger.

i feel your touch
in every caress of the breeze.

i search for some signs
in every clashing glance.

i hear your voice
in every whisper of the wind.

i sense your scent
in every fragrance my way.

i listen to your heart
in every beat within me.

there is more time
than life they say.

but for now, my life
is just hanging on time.
http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2495757076413024498&na=4

Last Conversation

2006-10-30T15:24:00.000+05:30

would i be missed
if i just go away one day?
would you miss me?
yes you would be missed
like the effervescent moon.

would tears be shed
in my grief?
would you cry?
yes i would, tears would flow
like the river torrential.

would the heavens cry
for my loss?
would they?
yes they would,angels would sing
like the mouring dove.

would the sun drown
upon my death?
would you drown?
yes i would drown in the pain,
like a hapless bird fallen.

would it be night
as darkness engulfs me?
would you be lost?
yes i'd lose myself in the dark,
like a candle smothered.

would the stars dim
with my sublime soul?
would you fade away?
yes i'd lose my substance,
like a frail fragrance.

would the birdsong cease
as i lose my voice?
would you stop singing?
yes i'd stop singing
like the joyful lark.

would the winds blow
in fury at my mistakes?
would you be angry?
yes i'd be furious at the titans of death,
like a wrathful Zeus..

would the earth shiver
as i do with fear?
would you be scared too?
yes i'd be so scared to lose you,
like the sun would fear losing its light.

would you but live for me
as i lived for you and i loved you?
say you would.promise you would.
yes i would live for you.
Like you would have,because i love you.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2495756146552604914

Why would you...?

2006-10-29T15:22:00.000+05:30

why would you
walk away from me,
when i'm still waiting?

why would you
decieve me so,
when i've been so faithful?

why would you
never look into my eyes,
when they are filled with tears?

why would you
suddenly let go of my hands,
when they are so tightly clasped?

why would you
hurt me so,
when i'm already wounded?

why would you
never listen to my cries,
when my heart is screaming?

why would you
create this gaping void,
when i'm so close to you?

why would you
turn yourself away,
when my body seeks your embrace?

why would you
betray my trust,
when i trust you with my life?

why would you
not let me in your secret,
when i've bared my soul for you?

why would you
hide away your grief,
when i'm feeling your pain?

why would you
never disclose your fears,
when i'm pretending to be brave for you?

why would you
mask your weakness,
when i've shown you my weak heart?

why would you
slip away unbeknownst,
when i'm surrounded by strangers?

why would you
leave me alone,
when i crave your presence?

why would you
go away like that,
when you've never heard
how much i've always loved you?
how much i'll always love you?

why would you
go away like that,
when you've never told me
how much you love me?
how much you've always loved me?

why would you
go away like that,
when we never came to know,
how we lost our love?
how we lost our love?

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2495754576742058226

Six Feet Under

2006-10-28T23:17:00.000+05:30

Darkness falls around me
like the snowflakes
as they gather up,
a blanket to cover
the blinding light.

Crimson waves arrive
chasing away the
dying sun rays,
now ushering the
creeping stars.

I wonder if they will
shed their light upon
my solitary figure
enlighten me?
show me the path?

Its pitch-black around me
but for the pale moon,
for now its light,
weak,diffused,yet
a reluctant guide.

I see ghosts of my past
they havnt yet drowned
in the depths of dark
in which i’m floating,
in which i'm lying.

Ahead there is light
that burns my vision.
here is its absence,
enveloping me,
embracing me.

What do i do
to repel this light
i've now come to hate?
What do i do to
escape its overwhelming brilliance?

Let me hide away
in this omnipresent
shadow,larger than
my own shallow
imitation of life.

i'm tired,need my peace
even this obscurity,
being a non entity,
faceless and nameless,
satiates this want.

darkness falls around me
as i lay buried six feet under
numbed,devoid of pain.
life and light depart
Finally,i rest in peace.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2495445384193902834&na=4
http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=18314183&tid=2495445646186907890&na=4

2006-10-27T15:55:00.000+05:30

take me away take me away
from this loveless life i lead
love maybe a lie as i always say
but you'd still believe and strive
for the love we know will be
never ours.

enigma?not really..

2006-10-26T18:51:00.000+05:30

i am no one.
i am nothing.
i am nowhere.
monosemy in all.
comes down to null.
void.would you believe?
from cloud nine to
Lucifer's den.
A bumpy ride?
no, a rocking transition.
clueless at times.
can i make it?
what am i?
a spirit within flame.
a flame within fire.
a fire within me.
mere mortals
leaving the world behind
without any imprints
on time and memory
of a single soul.

Killing Me Softly..

2006-10-19T16:40:00.000+05:30

"Killing Me Softly"

{LAURYN:}

Strumming dub plates with our fingers,

Eliminate sounds with our song,

Killing a sound boy with this sound,

Taking sound boys' lives with this dub,

killing him softly with this sound.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,

singing my life with his words,

Killing me softly with his song,

killing me softly with his song,

Telling my whole life with his words,

killing me softly with his song.

I heard he sang a good song,

I heard he had a style,

And so I came to see him and listen for a while.

And there he was this young bwoy,

stranger to my eyes,

Strumming my pain with his fingers,

Singing my life with his words,

Killing me softly with his song,

killing me softly with his song,

telling my whole life with

his words, killing me softly with his song.

I felt all flushed with fever,

embarrassed by the crowd,

I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.

I prayed that he would finish,

but he just kept right on

strumming my pain with his fingers,

singing my life with his words,

Killing me softly with his song,

killing me softly with his song,

telling my whole life with his words,

killing me softly with his song

{CLEF:}

Yo L-Boogie, take it to the bridge

{LAURYN:}

Strumming my pain with his fingers,

singing my life with his words,

killing me softly with his song,

telling my whole life with his words,

killing me softly with his song.

Strumming my pain with his finger,

yeah he was . . .

shoutouts and fade.

------FUGEES--------

wait for you...

2006-10-10T12:27:00.000+05:30

i wait for you
as the parched up land
waits for monsoons
to heal its cracked wounds.

i wait for you
as the frozen bud
seeks spring season
to bloom and spread its fragrance.

i wait for you
as the thirsty river
aniticipates its meeting
with the sweet saline sea.

i wait for you
as the luminiscent moon
sits upon dawning sun
to fade into darkening oblivion.

i wait for you
as the west winds
head for high mountains
to caress their peaks.

i wait for you
as the midnight
seeks the rising sun
to clear its dread and quiet.

i wait for you
as the lover waits
for a life time
i wait for you...

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2491853930393503986

nothing

2006-10-10T10:50:00.000+05:30

i lie here
asleep yet awake
restless
unaware worthless
so lost so lonely
out with friends
seeking the true ones
failing ineviatbaly again n again
without foe or friend
i lie here
underneath this blue sky
seek redemption!?
i dunno what it means
i seek the meaning
on this ground,altar
of lies n deception
i seek the truth
know its out there
hidden waiting for discovery
meaning
i never found out
lied to n cheated upon
silent
resolved silence
words could hurt much more
thier futility at the fore
forsaken by love
unforgiven by love
forotten by love
fearful of love
what is it that u seek?
what is it that i seek?
do we ever reach utopia?
do we ever cross this abyss?
do we?do we ever?

love....?

2006-10-08T14:49:00.000+05:30

love maybe a lie
but you'd still believe
cant you see its a sham
so many hearts break,
so many forgotten promises
and so many true lies..
i could be on of them
a victim of this lie:love
but no,im helpless,even worse
cause im incapable of love..

Disenchanted

2006-09-16T16:06:00.000+05:30

Cynics' Disenchatment with the world.

its such an illusion
this simulated world outside.
waiting to trick you into
this game of make-believe.

you want to believe
that it could be true
what you believe to be
your life,heart,soul..

an ocean of people
swarming on deceit.
a collective crime
of treachery and lies..

a friend would stab
you in the back,
a friend would walk
away witout a glance..

indifferent strangers,
cold and unconcerned..
devoid of any compassion,
humanity a delusion.

so many different faces,
so many different roles,
each played in conniviance,
with people and time.

they pretend and show
what they claim to be.
a facade of charm
draped over reality.

Know none,trust none.
cant extricate the truth
from the brew of false
intoxicating lure.

nothing is right,nothing wrong
it is what you want to be.
morals and principles are all gone
in this distorted fantasy..

i'm disenchanted,cynic now.
the magic's worn off..
let me come to terms
with this disillusion.....

----------------------------------
knw its not gud..
but had 2 vent it out
sumhow,sum way..

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2487597128176896242&na=4

A Thousand Miles...

2006-09-12T14:40:00.000+05:30

"A Thousand Miles"

Making my way downtown
Walking fast
Faces pass
And I'm home bound

Staring blankly ahead
Just making my way
Making a way
Through the crowd

And I need you
And I miss you
And now I wonder....

If I could fall
Into the sky
Do you think time
Would pass me by

'Cause you know I'd walk
A thousand miles
If I could
Just see you
Tonight

It's always times like these
When I think of you
And I wonder
If you ever
Think of me

'Cause everything's so wrong
And I don't belong
Living in your
Precious memories'

Cause I need you
And I miss you
And now I wonder....

If I could fall
Into the sky
Do you think time
Would pass me by

'Cause you know I'd walk
A thousand miles
If I could
Just see you
Tonight

And I, I Don't want to let you know
I, I Drown in your memory
I, I Don't want to let this go
I, I Don't....

Making my way downtown
Walking fast
Faces pass
And I'm home bound

Staring blankly ahead
Just making my way
Making a way
Through the crowd

And I still need you
And I still miss you
And now I wonder....

If I could fall
Into the sky
Do you think time
Would pass us by

'Cause you know I'd walk
A thousand miles
If I could Just see you...

If I could fall
Into the sky
Do you think time
Would pass me by

'Cause you know I'd walk
A thousand miles
If I could Just see you
If I could Just hold you
Tonight...

---Vanessa Carlton--------

Thank You for Smoking.

2006-08-30T15:39:00.000+05:30

THANK OU FOR SMOKING.
_______________________________________________________________________
it was the very first one,
just one i said,
i dont really wanna do it,
just for trying it out,dude.

out came the smoke,
formless and unaffecting.
where's the high i wondered?
whats all this fuss about??

tried to do it right,
like getting the tunes
of the song u love perfect,
again and again and again.

got myself a teacher,
who knew the ropes
n would be willing
to let me be his pupil.

learnt to take it in,
savour it,let it into me...
let it get me into a high,
let it give me that'thing'.

brain's fuzzy alright,
n oh yeah the high,too.
on a different plane altogether,
man,it was so cool..!!!

tried it once,twice,thrice..
now too many times to count.
it wasnt for jus trying out,dude.
cant u see i really need it???

need to get it into me,
play havoc with my senses,
get my system in a mess..
till i lost myself in the smoke..

enveloped by the smell,
habituated to the feel,
fingers would but naturally
reach for those cigs..

cool no more it seemed..
pocket n me both empty,
just an empty shell,
left with carbonaceous lungs..

a brain that keeps ticking wildly,
body prone to sudden coughing fits,
limbs shivering uncontrollably,
lungs gasping for that air..

i tried n i tried real hard,
to give it all up..
what was the use,i said,
in commiting slow suicide???

but never knew anything,
more difficult than this task..
even the much hated algebra
seemed like a cakewalk..

i'd try for days n days..
then get back for 'sometime'
no relapse,i'm on track..
but bloody weak willpower!

then extreme cures sought,
to get out before i'm dead..
had to sign into that prison..
n get rid of that poison within..

what do i do,dad?
i'm sorry,forgive me dad,i'd cry..
i promise i'll be good,
keep my curiosity in check.

jus for tries sake,no more,
let me out of here,dad please..
before i get more desperate,
n get onto worse stuff from here..

i worked real hard n finally,
it was all over,all done with.
free to walk out from asylum,
free to breathe in some fresh air...

life was good,life was up!
back with good ol' friends..
man,wasnt it a miracle..
how i survived that fate..?

met this dude,really great guy..
asked me if i'd like to try..
this really amazing thing..
n get to another level of ecstacy???

just once i said,for fun's sake..
it wont hurt to just try..
i dont really wanna do it,
just for trying it out,dude...
_______________________________________________________________________
SMOKING IS INJURIOUS TO YOUR HEALTH.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2484440522635348210&na=4

The Peace-Maker

2006-08-30T15:30:00.000+05:30

the peace-maker

Dont know where to go,
both my own,my blood and bone,
fighting against the other.

one has his pride
other has none..
one has her past before
the present...
one heeds neither the past
nor the future...

succumb to my own
selfish motives,
i support none
or so i do...
but to them i show,
i support both.

both are right,
both are wrong,
both blaming the other.
i hate to admit
but i dont want to
do that goddamned job..

i cant to do it,
i love them both..
i dont want to do it,
i hate them both.
a problem of your own,
resolve by consensus.

but no we are dragged,
into the war,somehow..
the burden of keeping peace
falls square on the kids..
stooping already with so much
on their spongy minds.

why give us those options
we cant ever take.???
why force upon us the choices
we can never make.??
why tell us to take sides
when we have nowhere to go.??

its not done,its so unfair..
asking me to settle for
a half-existent family..
asking me to balance fragile peace
between two avenging souls,
from whom i was born..

dont know how to be..
a peace-maker in this battle,
where either way there's loss...?????

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2484437531190626546&na=4

Misplaced Incapability

2006-08-28T14:24:00.000+05:30

An ode to Nothing-II

Misplaced Incapability:born with it?

want to be loved..
cant say nothing.
a misplaced incapability
cant do nothing.

want to be cherished,
but cant return nothing.
a misjudged vanity..
cant prove nothing.

million reasons inexplicable,
answerable to none.
thousands promises unkept,
complained to none..

dont want to be misunderstood,
aint expressed nothing,
dont want to be mistaken,
aint guilty of nothing..

waiting to be there
just a few words away..
set apart by an incapability
and our egos in fray.

had written this some time back,jus b4 maths exam...

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2484021767618955506&start=1

Long road Journey

2006-08-28T14:15:00.000+05:30

An ode to Nothing-I

long road journey:captive to nothingness:escaping its misery.

a long road journey
an endless way
an unknown destiny
an untrodden path..

lost and seeking,
crossed many mazes.
seeking and wondering,
gazed at many stars..

the skies opened up
and let down the rain.
the sun burnt up
the dry parched land..

a black dot on the horizon
lost in the sepia desert.
a mirage maybe,a vision
descending from the azure sky..

almost there,yet so far
fingers grasping nothing.
marked with so deep a scar
reminding of empty misfortunes..

its a long road journey,
an inherent curiosity,
to unravel our destiny,
a monotony of nil,null,none..

a captive to nothingness,
a vagueness of life,
this miserable nonexistence,
perhaps be over at the end of the journey..

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

hav written this after a really really long gap,so plz do read it n tell me if i still can write or hav i lost it.??

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2484020977344973042

Break Away..

2006-08-02T14:53:00.000+05:30

"Breakaway"

Grew up in a small town
And when the rain would fall down
I'd just stare out my window
Dreaming of what could be
And if I'd end up happy
I would pray (I would pray)

Trying hard to reach out
But when I tried to speak out
Felt like no one could hear me
Wanted to belong here
But something felt so wrong here
So I prayed I could break away

[Chorus:]
I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes til' I touch the sky
And I'll make a wish
Take a chance
Make a change
And breakaway

Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I love
I'll take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And breakaway

Wanna feel the warm breeze
Sleep under a palm tree
Feel the rush of the ocean
Get onboard a fast train
Travel on a jet plane, far away (I will)
And breakaway

[Chorus]
Buildings with a hundred floors
Swinging around revolving doors
Maybe I don't know where they'll take me but
Gotta keep moving on, moving on
Fly away, breakaway

I'll spread my wings
And I'll learn how to fly
Though it's not easy to tell you goodbye
I gotta take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And breakaway

Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget the place I come from
I gotta take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And breakaway, breakaway, breakaway

-----Kelly Clarkson--------------------------

Sarah,My Princess

2006-06-29T15:51:00.000+05:30

Sarah,my princess
i love her so,
i see her broken,in pieces
it hurts me so..

the smile i love,
is faltering by the day.
my princess' eyes blur
like the darkening clouds gray.

i watch her fall,smiling
unawares,into this abyss,
deep and ever widening
sucked into nothingness..

i remain helpless and disabled,
see her crumble down and retract
into her shell,impregnable,
desolate, in despair..

life turns hell and
then you die
i half agree,
but tell her its a lie..

my words seem hollow,
bereft of meaning,
they seem to be failing
my love and me..

my eyes seem as empty
without her looking into them
no reflection of my love
in that listless vision.

i can read her voice,
my princess sounds sad.
she's fighting valiantly,
and trying too hard..

she fears she's fighting
a losing battle..
i fear it may just be true,
but i cant concede defeat..

if only i could be there
and hold her to me.
and tell her how i love her
to the end of time..

if only i could turn back time
and stop her fading away,
bring back her essence,her smile,
so real,luminous and gay.

i'd take my sarah,my princess,
my love far away..
far away from fear, from death,
far from this world...

i'd take my Sarah,my princess,
my love to a new world,
a world i yet have to discover,
tell her to hang on...

had written it long time back. but found i could post it only now..

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2470213389780257010&na=4&nst=0&nid=1538-2470213389780257010-2471449092671853144

doppelgänger :alter-ego

2006-06-12T23:30:00.001+05:30

Cant see the face,
neither hear the voice,
yet it tugs at my heart
pulling at its strings...

there's a chasm in between,
an abyss to cross
of a thousand steps in
my path to reach you..

a wide void filled with space
time cant invade,
memories balanced on a tightrope
time cant pervade.

so far away from each other,
yet in existence,apart
blended from heart and soul
moving back and forth alike.

it seems like an illusion,
but yet so raw and real
a stranger in the mirror
an image of yourself...

love,pure and unblemished
now scarred and blurred
preserved in heart's corner
protected by my blood...

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2469838458462669042&start=1

Gone with the Wind

2006-06-12T15:46:00.000+05:30

So many memeories to cherish,
so many moments to be missed,
but a soft breeze came my way
and blew tham all away..

Brought a fresh lease of life,
into a tangled mess of emotions.
let them scatter away in abundance
and make their way in the winds.

Its all past and gone,it seems.
remnants,few and scarce
all gone with the wind,
leaving the sweets scents behind.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2469782686164846834&na=4

old flames..

2006-06-12T15:28:00.000+05:30

Maybe it will stop shining
like the burning sun in blue skies
or the brightest stars in twilight,
but whatever you do, old love never dies.

Erratic waves of emotions and feelings
may cease to ebb and rise,
whirlpools of passions churning
may just dormant lie.

You may feel like walking out
and ending the sweet pain,
try to forget all about
those romantic nights and days.

It's there in the hearts,
gasping with muffled cries,
surviving the wars of time and space,
doesnt ever die, old love never dies.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2469801861046339826&start=1

Return to Innocence

2006-06-12T14:28:00.000+05:30

I want to be in the rain,
drown in the downpour,
let it wash away my pain
and open all the doors..

doors to my childhood reopened,
memories of play and innocence,
untouched and pure,
returnedto my unscarred essence..

feel the drops go down
with my unshed tears
and let it drown
all my unspoken fears..

feel it cleanisng my soul,
releasing my mind
from the clucthes of old
uncommited sins and crimes..

like the trees turning
a pleasing hue of green,
after all the dust and grime
been wiped by the rains clean.

i want to be in the rain
.with the innocence of a child,
laugh like i've never laughed..
and cry like i've never cried..

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2469778292413303026&na=4

And thats how they met..

2006-06-12T01:04:00.000+05:30

It will never be known as just a co-incidence that they met. Each was aware of the presence of the other.
Sana was worried how he’d react when they would come across each other. She had known he’d be there; after all, it was in his honour that the party was held.
Manu was going through the same thoughts when he saw her arrive. He quickly escaped into the kitchen to look for his brother, friend, anyone.
He was more than surprised she’d accepted the invitation. After all that had happened between them.
She couldn’t refuse, not while she was under her mother’s inquisitive eyes, which would detect any guilt from within a mile. So they went along playing, singing, and dancing with all the others. Never letting each other out of their sights. Keeping an alert eye out for the other. A nice charade they had put up and doing their best to avoid each other. But when you most desperately want something to not happen, it inevitably does happen and sooner than you would like. So the moment arrived. Manu’s mom brought him to Sana and asked,” have you shown her your drawings?” Manu just shook his head without looking up. And when he did, he found not his mom but Sana standing there and looking at him about to say something. but he spoke first,” I’m sorry.” she said”, its o.k. sorry.” then Manu’s mom shouted over the din, “come on. Let’s cut the cake...” Sana said, “I’m really sorry Manu. I shouldn’t have put that ice-cream all over your face in front of all them boys...”
“It’s ok...,” he replied, but now smiling,” I shouldn’t have pulled your piggy-tails.”
With that, they held hands and smiling went forward to cut the cake with five cracker candles on it.

Fixing the hourglass.

2006-06-12T00:42:00.000+05:30

fixing the hourglass

i'd like to sleep
some more,
but am jolted awake
by this disgusting alarm clock.

i could do with some
more tea and scones
but no i have to run,
and a train to catch.

i wish it would travel
a bit slow to let me
see the daily rituals
at a slower pace.

i watch the people
scurrying across,
like ants hurrying
to gather food for winter.

i see them trudge along
like androids mindless
just going on and on,
un-bothered by life.

i find time laughing
at us zombies
chasing it on all fours
while it eludes us.

i know we will never
keep up with it,
forget the high thought
of ever saving it.

i go and try
to fix the hourglass.
i think its running
a tad faster.

i fail,miserbly
ending up tangled
in old-spun webs
by time and people.

i decide then
let time run its course.
i'll go slow...
and let time chase me..

wrote this for a friend who went to fix the hourglass which ran a tad faster.

http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2469665953248708850&na=4

revival

2006-06-10T23:39:00.000+05:30

Revival
A lifetime of memories and grief
subdued in my mind
images of an eternity
enclosed in a lifespan
beyond the realms of time and space
bound together at the very core.

Shadows creep across the walls of lost days
lost voices in the winds
whisper in many ways,
calling my soul immoratl
to the day of the living,
Rising out of a slow trance
amongst many a surprised cries.

Walking among the living dead,
their souls stringed in freedom,bringing back a thousand tears,
and then a million smiles
haunting forever the past and future
swinging in time eternal
joining a heart beat of one
to that of another beating heart.

revival http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2468176067748432114

loneliness..

2006-06-09T23:48:00.000+05:30

loneliness in itself
haunting my solitary self
tearing into depths
of sorrows and griefs..

bearing apart from others
a world of shared joys
a world of shared hearts
unable to share my loneliness.

like a candle burning
in a blowing storm
fighting a losing battle
against the wily winds..

ceasing to exist
under the swaying gale
but shining with fervour
in dead calm of darkness

lonely in conflict
yet at peace with itself
loneliness came to haunt
my solitary self...

loneliness http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2468301663329585394

Remains of the day..

2006-06-09T23:43:00.000+05:30

A tear drops into my palms
outstrectched to catch those
million raindrops.
but all i held were my tears
instead within my span.

A storm raged within me
very like the hale outside.
Roaring and heaving
like a thousand waves
crashing on the threshold of my dreams.

As the leaves flew away scattered
so ran my thoughts abandoned.
The tree stooped lonely
and shivering
like my heartbeats frozen in an eternity.

How do i live
in these wild winds swaying afar..?
taking away my love from me..
leaving me alone crumpled,
with the remains of the day...

remains of d day http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2467985025455622386

love..many a faceted stone..

2006-06-07T23:32:00.000+05:30

love, many a faceted stone,
shining with pleasure
at sight of beloved
now and then dimmed
under wordly shades and shadows.
glinting with a malevolence
uncharacteristic so to it
from jealousy and hurt.
emitting a faint glow
so sheer in happiness
of passion, mercy.
deprived of shine
by clouds of grief and loss,
but gone through the mill
of trials and ordeals..
comes out brighter,the jewel
letting the light on it
scatter a million fold,
and give a thousand joys
to many a lonely hearts.

one of my most juvenile writings i feel..

luv http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2468301869488015602

dancing in d rains.

2006-06-07T22:55:00.000+05:30

Dancing in the rain.

An ocean of tears burst
upon us
dreanching us down from
the far above clouds
we stoodt there trying
to hold the drops
but they just dissolved
into us.

As we felt the grief
fade away
along with the tears
of the sky slate gray,
and with it came a joy
so infinite
stretching beyond the storm
darkening at the horizon..

Flashes of lightning danced
in wild abandon
with the rhythm and roars
of thunder wild,
while we danced in a torrent
of raindrops,
listening to the music
of falling pearls...

dancing in d rainshttp://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2468301757818865906

juvenile dreams

2006-06-06T23:08:00.000+05:30

Many a dreams my eyes have seen,
each waiting for the time
when a new day will dawn
to make them come true..

Waited a thousand light years,
and many aeons beyond
trudged along paths crossing
to unravel my destiny..

A fierce desire rose within me
springing from my heart
and a constantly restless mind
seeks the very near yet distant future.

A lifetime of journey ahead
a million peaks to scale
and a thousand failures in between
but still think life's been worth the climb...

juvenile dreams http://www.orkut.com/CommMsgs.aspx?cmm=1538&tid=2468180208096905458

Monsoon ends:a short story

2006-06-06T19:17:00.001+05:30

had written it long time back.deleted it frm my other blogn reposted it here.

Monsoon ends.

Their love seemed to have ended…like an end to an unpredictable monsoon and the imminent arrival of autumn of life...

It was raining. I wanted to go out but she wouldn’t hear of it. It’s such a joy to get wet in the rains. But lately we haven’t gone out anywhere. I don’t know yet.
Last Sunday he had come for dinner. Perfunctory greetings exchanged, we sat down for the home made Chinese Mom excelled in.
‘So how’s school Phil?’ he asked.
I wished he would call me Phyllis and not Phil, which sounded like a boy’s name.
‘Fine Dad’, I replied.
‘I’m leaving day after. We are first going to Paris. From there, as our roads lead us....’
Mom just sat there nodding absent-mindedly.
I could never understand his sudden whim to see the world now. Now, when you were married a good 18 years, had a well-paying steady job in a bank and seemed perfectly at peace with the world. Mom and Dad had been together since school, which seemed like forever to me. And now Dad has been living separate from us for the past 3 months. Away at his own small dinghy which I called his penthouse for it was certainly larger than our own 3-bedroom apartment. Mid-life crisis? He wanted space, he had said. Wanted to explore the world, and live out the experiences he had missed out in his days of youth when he was busy making a career. But then, so had Mom. Yet I don’t see her packing her bags for a world tour and demanding her “space”.
‘…. Then maybe we’ll go to Venice. You know Phil its known as the City of Canals…’ he was going on.
‘Are you going alone or with somebody?’ I asked unaware of what he was talking about.
‘Er--with an old school friend. He and I had been thinking of such a trip since high school.’
Ok. So it wasn’t any ‘other woman’ case. Thank God. I couldn’t bear that. But even this growing distance wasn’t any better. Families are supposed to be together. If he doesn’t care, then neither do I.
‘Er—I’ve got to complete a school assignment... So... Goodnight Dad.’ I said and hastily excused myself.
Dad stayed for an hour more or so. I couldn’t care less about what they talked.
A week has passed since dad had come for dinner and... Goodbye. Moreover, it has been raining for 2 days now.
The doorbell rang. I waited for Mom to open the door but she was lost in her own thoughts. Grumbling and leaving my favorite seat by the window, I went to the door.
Standing on our mat, drenched in rain shivering all over was Dad.
He tried to smile. Failing miserably he just came in.
Mom was still in her own thoughts. Dad gave me an enquiring look to which I gave him one of those ‘its-all-your-fault-look’ and went away to resume my window seat.
‘I came from Paris’, he said.
Mom just sat there looking at him.
‘I went where we had gone 15 years before. You remember Café Farmville in Les Halles.?’
Mom nodded. I couldn’t understand what was going on.
‘Phyllis is still there. Would you believe it.?’
Both Mom and I shook our heads though I guess Mom understood something that I did not.
‘Must be very old now?’, said Mom.
‘Very. Has lost sight, partially though. But still remembers everything. Asked me if we had named our girl Phyllis….’
I did not want to know any of this. Both of them were looking at me and I was surprised how they could look a good two decades younger in two minutes.
“She still makes the best coffee. And is still waiting for her Armand”, Dad was saying.
He walked towards mom and crouched down beside her chair.
‘I wanted to see the world I thought I had missed in my youth. I wanted to explore it on my own. But as I traveled, all I could think was what we had done there when together... how we had watched the sun sink on the river Seine and made a promise to always watch the sun go down together.
After every two steps, I would stop and think about how you used to whine about walking long distances and I would offer to carry you in my arms instead.
At every monument, I recalled how you pestered others to click our photographs.
In every crowded street, I’d remember how you would grasp my arms so tightly that it hurt. At every shop, I’d smile at the memory of you buying the cheapest thing to save money for the rest of our trip.
Everywhere I went, all I thought was about how we used to fight and bicker, get tipsy and used to do all sorts of crazy things and how much I was missing it. How much I was missing you…I went exploring but it wasn’t complete without you. I set out on a journey of rediscovery... but all I rediscovered was the love I still have for you, as silly as it seemed in school, as mushy as it seemed in college, as demanding as it seemed when we slogged 20 hours a day, and as deep and strong as I see it now….’’
He didn’t complete what he wanted to say. Mom had taken him to our terrace and they stood watching the rain holding hands. As they had stood, 18 years back for their wedding picture on a rainy August day.
Now I know. I know why I love the rains. I know why my name is Phyllis when my Mom and Dad are Arin and Asha. And why Dad had come back.
Love is a journey that may seem too difficult at some time and you would like to go another way… but all roads lead to your love at the end of the day. Love goes on in all seasons... Even after monsoon is long gone and autumn is arriving.

another kiddish poem.

2006-06-02T23:37:00.000+05:30

its all in my heart
with all the joys
and all the sorrow
but it all seems
so so good
i just cant say
how good it feels
i feel like singing
i feel like dancing
i feel like shouting
with the wind on my trail
my eyes just cry
is it joy or grief?
i ask and just smile
for i know ........
its just time
time for me to be
to be what i love
to be with whom i love
to just sit there and talk
and talk about you and me
you and me that's we
we for us and the world
it all seems just so good
is it what you call happy?

lost...

2006-06-01T23:27:00.000+05:30

jus scribbled it down... had 1st put it at orkut though..

Let loose into the wind
among the rustling leaves,
being blown away to
other lands far off..

A little flower travels
across vales and gales
in its fragrant form
lingering in so many places.

very incomplete though..