Truth

Being great is easy, being generous is easy, being scapegoat-ish is easy, and being a martyr is easiest….It saves a lot. A lot of truth, a lot of pain, a lot of bitterness. But being honest is becoming increasingly difficult. Why don’t people open up and walk the road I wonder? Me included. Me even more so. Shedding the burden is not easy you see. One gets used to the acting. One cannot give it up. It’s the other skin, the role, the mould, the part, the other identity. One lives it out each day hoping someone will notice the blood that oozes, the sweat that screams out, the anguish that pricks. No one does. And you keep dragging it- inside out….outside in….and the days are passing by.

Farther Away...

One loses to a number of causes….one ages for different reasons…one dies through multiple symptoms. You wake up one morning and realize you have lost those cells that carried those few drops of love in your system…

How weird it sounds…unreal, ‘out-of-the-world’ kind… Yes it does. But I promise you its true. You can look into the mirror and see those fine wrinkles, those dark patches under your gray eyes, a witness to the toil you do…a toil you no more have a reason for… that’s death. Silent and growing.

The dreams have abandoned your sleepy brain as you simply notice the dirty sheet you wake up on and that clock that pushes you towards oblivion. The scariest part is to lose those important words. They are naked now…barren…single-colored…eliciting no response. He doesn’t clap, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t notice. And you move just an inch closer to death.

It all passes by you each day. You begin to wonder how you lived in those belated days, when the breath came easy and the smile reappeared often. It makes you bitter. The falsity of the effort grows. The purpose of the talk fades away. And you clutch that finality. The finality of standing on the nadir. You can clap.

Weekly Off!

Initially, the idea of getting a weekly off pained me. No Happy Saturdays for me then? Sulk…sulk…sigh…sigh….life seemed bleak and miserable…Sunday is not a fun-day actually…one just oils the machinery for the grind that follows through the week…what bad luck, what misfortune! How it tortured me to see people waking up late on Saturdays, enjoying a lazy meal and catching up a flick or two…and then I had my revenge! ;)

Suddenly on a hot Tuesday morning, they would spot me snug and happy in bed till ten!...I would stroll deliberately in front of them with a cup of lazy tea. “My chutti you see…” and they would give me red, hostile looks and move on…the peace, the contentment that I felt….to see them rush out of home in a mad dizzy, crib about the heat and dust outside and return late tired. And then I would narrate my grand account of merriment on a comfortable day. The books I read, the movies I saw, the impromptu meal I rustled up, the unplanned, multiple naps I caught…blah and blah and blah…it of coursed irritated them, some even threatened to kill me…but there was no taking away my sense of victory! How I look forward to my weekly offs now…just hold my temper and work on bleary Saturdays…and wait for the manna dew that lands in my plate on a Windy Wednesday, Tangy Thursday or Filmy Friday! :)

Holiday home…its a battlefield! ;)

Passing By...

At Dawn...

Her eyes opened to the patter of raindrops outside the window. The room was unnaturally dark for that hour…one of those Calcutta days when the dawn imitates the dusk. She couldn’t bring herself to leave the bed. The clean white blanket won her heart all over again and she hid her face deep into it. It was indeed the hour of contemplation; the early morning breeze, dampened by the rain outside, invited reflection. The calm of the violet dawn and the twitter of unprepared birds moved her soul.

Staring at the ceiling, her mind traveled back to the events of the last week. She could now think of it as a whirlwind that had culminated in the storm last night. And now this placid morn. How far they had traveled from each other, in a matter of days. Years had crumbled into nothing. Simply nothing. One of those swaying, powerful stretches of time that take away memories and emotions, feelings and sentiments, foresight and forgiveness. It was a battlefield all the way. They had turned themselves into brainless warriors feeding on false pride and reasons. Nothing could hold them back then. They had geared up to carry it far…just a little behind the Greeks and Trojans. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes and murmured to her battered soul-“it would be fine; she was right”…and then the soul betrayed her. Her pillow was briskly dampened by those heavy drops that gushed down from her eyes. She felt bitter. Not with the world, not with him, not with them. It was simply a heavy, self-critical heart. And she despised her tears. To come out that early! At dawn…

She got up and walked to the balcony. It stood deserted and dark. She had abandoned it these days. There was no need to hide in its corner and scribble. Letters weren’t needed anymore, songs never sung. It had been weeks since she had peeped into the nest it its roof, or been in company of the lazy cat. Its all gone. She told herself. The best and the sweetest part of my life. I have cut it off. If only she could say these without the watery response from her eyes, without that sinking feeling in her heart. She knew she would be fine then. That was indeed the sign. Pitying her melodramatic soul, she tried to scrub the sentiments out of her face. The mirror stood over the washbasin. And for once, she couldn’t smile.

“I will be back.” - She said to it and sat down to write.

I would give anything to live an untroubled life. No decision, no confrontations, no ripples, no breaks, no shudders, no waves. To simply say a friendly ‘hello’ to the atoms of life that pass by me each day. Indecision would then be my mate. Inaction my shelter. They would not allow me translate thoughts into moves. And I would be spared of the rod of pain and accountability.

But why should I fear the rod? Why should I get it anyway? Am I that weak? That helpless? That cowardly? I suddenly feel moved and firm. Time to decide then? Well, yes. How does one do that? One who can bunch the same number of pros and cons? I know the loss I know the gain. And I am never prepared for the pain. So why budge, why change, why choose, why decide? Why not let those atoms just touch you mildly and pass by, into the unknown future. Swim on…day to day…will you meek soul?

No. Because, sometimes, the random, berserk atoms hit you hard, catch you off-guard, break your bones and scratch your muscles too. They bend you down, tie you up, blind your view. The omnipresent salt is rubbed in too, as you try swimming across the sea of life and agony. Poor, inconsolable you.

Spare yourself, love yourself, stay afloat, challenge the sea. Drink in the salt; pour it out. Wipe your eyes, face the Sun. But do decide. Decide to live life in your own, stubborn, gritty way. Tame the vicissitudes.

Relief...

I have begun cleaning up…

I am wiping it then….

I know it…

I can see the algae surrounding me…

All the green, oozing wilderness….I created

My achievement, my wealth…

They don’t let me breathe and dream.

The other day I woke up

When my dreams were suffocated

I caught the dampness in my palms….

My achievement, my wealth…

My web, my illusion…

Its not a call for help…

Its not a sigh of loneliness…

Its not the white flag…

My achievement, my wealth…

The treacherous greenness

Worse than the simplicity of death…

Keep away, stay apart…

The cowardice of the blind day…

Inhale…problems, greasy smoke, stares, remarks, mistakes, errors, jealousy, spite, competition, frustration, failure…
Exhale…sigh, bitterness, words, inhibition, tears, complaints, noise, crash, soot, smirk, gasp, venom…
Desire to hide…I need an ostrich neck…
Clipped wings…dry legs…dry eyes…
Sometimes the ridiculous isn’t ridiculous enough…
And you aren’t dead till you die…

I am sure I am learning each day...

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I am not sure it helps...

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I am sure I will carry on.

Folding Up...

Each day Time teaches me an old lesson
Withered and unclear on the white paper
Of the diary…

Will my moonstruck talk please?
I ask you…
Let no answer drop from your lips…

There are gestures of pain
Woven into our life and love
That tell me to take heed…

They say take your heart too.
The one that is stale and hardened now
Hide it in your small fist…

But do not move your soul more than an inch.
Warm it near the logs one more time
Its the needle touch of the iceberg tip…

There are these thoughts...there are these sentiments...and there are these steady set of feelings...some coloured hopes and some sepia-toned expectations. 'Tantalizing' is not the term, 'unfulfilled' sounds too strong..."unhappy" is inappropriate and "unsure" is not quite that too...Its this wierd sense of hesitancy,numbness, apprehension...like that ticklish sensation in your tummy...that stops you right at the last tumbling minute...depriving you of the adventure-ride...that you so dearly want...a warming of those thin ears and that mild restlessness of the soft-beating heart... you know you act really dumb!

"When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him. In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."

- Albert Camus (1913-1960)

Shadows...

There are voices standing outside my dilapidated door,
Abuzz with those same million sooty questions.

They chase me through the labyrinthine ways
Of my own dreams, demanding those hidden cloistered answers.

The last time that I had seen that face near the brown broken wall
I had promised it those answers I left folded in your trunk.

Now come back to me with them and save me from their eerie shadows
Those that have taken their abode under my weak window.

The damp walls of my rooms cannot parch their thirsty throats.
They want those names- mine and yours.

Shrewd promises of last summer prop their mutilated heads again,
And Spring comes lamely with its bag of false yellow hopes.

Come and tell them, it wasn’t my plan to mislead-
It was the wicked woman Destiny that led us on the wrong road…

Help me unpack my heavy bags of bricks and memories
Let us give them back to the hungry red river of yore.

Save me from surrendering on this rusty dead journey
The shadows are indeed dark and wise; you leave me again…stranded on the road.

Midas had a touch that turned everything into gold. I have a touch that disappears the thing. I say this and you will not believe. But I know...know it too well. It will vanish, the moment I touch it, call it mine. Its called the "Vanishing Touch".

Essay on My Family :) :

My name is ... I have one elder sister and one younger brother. My father is a teacher and my mother is a housewife. I love my parents very much. I also love my siblings. My sister and I love to read storybooks, while my brother and I often play cricket, badminton and football. My brother has often broken windowpanes, showpieces and cricket bats. My sister only breaks my head, eats it actually. My brother loves to eat and my sister loves to sleep. I love to talk. My dad loves to teach and my mom loves to cook. Every year we go out for summer vacations. We meet our cousins and often have picnics. My family also celebrates different festivals like Diwali and Holi. Diwali means rangoli and clothes to me, holidays to my sister and more food to my brother. It means a lot of expenditure to my father. My brother studies in a big school. He is always late and never finds his tie. My father also goes to his school but never wears a tie. My sister makes tasty parathas but eats a lot of them too. I don’t eat much, not food. I love to be with my sister in a joint in College Street. We often eat dosas there and discuss our future plans. We also go for movies, without informing people at home. My brother often finds out and goes about spreading it. My mother knows we do not go for buying books there, but she never complains. I also like her for the way she makes her bun. I always try doing my hair that way, but it will have to grow longer. I like the tea I get after coming home and love to stuff my pockets with dry fruits from my brother’s tiffin-box. My brother often pretends to sleep and overhears us sister talk. We then shut him out and he sulks around the house. But, my Mother knows how to cheer him up and comes with a plate of fried potato.

My sister has been away for three years now; my brother will be out to a new city too. I cannot miss them enough here, so I will go away too.

TIME

Everything heals...with time. Which is good or bad? Good, becuase you have to live...bad, because you thought you would hold on longer. Does that surprise you? Startle I mean? No...it only makes me restless for sometime and then I lie back and accept the blatant truth...that they mutter all the time...till it reeks from books, pages, mouths and so many channels...Time is the GREATEST healer...To TIME I give it!

A Meeting.

There was more to the effervescent smile that afternoon, as they settled in their typically unsettled manner at the coffee table. She smiled more warmly than ever. He was amused like never before. That’s why he called her an interesting specimen.

She was nervous, darkly intelligent and mildly sullen. Yes, that was the flavor of her temper, well almost. Pauses and perfunctory questions took their usual place as the two wearied each other out. The coffee, the TV. set, the boisterous moms, the noisy children, something should have rescued them.

Was there anything else to put on the table? Who wanted? Who cared?

She fidgeted a little more than she had…six...right…six months back. The ears turned scarlet for sure and the poised smile stuck. Her hair of course had grown longer…So what? He knew better….

Probably, she was meeting his glances more frequently this time, making him expectant of some unexpected adventure, the thrill he sought everywhere. He was still to decide on what to wear…his familiar chuckle or the grin.

“Okay…I need to this time around….”
“Hmm…yeah...sure…what?” He waited intelligently.

Her cup was empty, her eyes full with their decided whiteness…big and unwavering. He knew she would not be inhibited for once. The small hands threw the dark hair back, making way for her words:

“I choose to breathe easy….”
“I choose to walk away…”

The skirt swept the chair like a dream. She was out of his sight…yes…forever.

I hope its a *NEW* year!

Meaninglessness...

Here is to writing...or to not writing...its stuck somewhere, the wheel, the mud won't let it go. There is a clear moment before us, when the truth is out! Of action, inaction, hopelessness and hoping anew...Who started it? And who will end?And who shall live out in the interim this drama of living?The question unrolls like a red carpet...red it is this time...the blood-soaked one!Hands raised, eyes wide, mouths agape...the act has taken place. Let each stand up now and answer to his ownself...does death carrying a meaning now or, will the living add a meaning to this grotesque place called our world...