Saturday, October 29, 2011

STRIKE 3...2...1

Do you see the rage in his eyes?

I see it too.

He burns because he is disconcerted. It makes him sick, when he watches them doing it all wrong. They had taken their oaths hadn’t they? They had promised to serve her, the soil on which they grew, hadn’t they? Others are befooled. He isn’t. He knows. No one would believe him.

This must be stopped...must be stopped...MUST BE STOPPED!

He will put an end to this.

It feels unnaturally heavy in his hand. It’s loaded. He had remembered to do that, he did. He can do this, of course. It is the virtuous thing to do. Can he? CAN YOU DO IT? DO IT? DO IT NOW!

His trigger finger jerks and BANG!

Break into a run.

What do you see now?

I see only pain.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Mumbling #2

Music is the ultimate high, don't you think? Better than any drug there is. Inside you, it has the power to build up a storm. Lose yourself in it and you can find yourself. Leaves me baffled, craving for more.


When I didn't just open my eyes to look,

I saw.

I saw a pale light.

Hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Everything around me looked dangerously real.

The paper on which I write smells nice, feels coarse in my hand

It’s the most beautiful creation by man, this paper.

As I take off the make-up,

I see.

As I stand alone,

I see better than ever now.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Mumbling #1

It’s so easy to tell a kid not to cry over the ice-cream that just fell out of his hand, because it’s stupid. You’re consoling him with ‘Hey! You’re crying over this? What’ll you do when you’ll face greater losses in life later? This is silly. Be a sport.’ How insightful! That ice-cream meant the world to the kid.

Saturday, October 22, 2011


Walking on the marble floor

Cracked old paper

My grandmother’s hands

Desert cooler

That crooked smile

Lavender scented body wash

The smell of gunpowder

Woolen tights

Blinds on windows

Wilted leaves


I find it here. Where do you? :)

Saturday, October 8, 2011


The eyes that met, the gaze that pierced

The tingling of the skin; she neared

I clung to her and drank her love

She shivered for the fear of Him above

But together, here, it felt so right

In joyous ecstasy moaned the night

Her sparkling skin made my vision blur

She was me and I was her.

As I put my hand on her breast

Her heart thumped with unrest

She cried because it was so beautiful

I cried because it was impossible

How they did not listen to our plight

We were one before we saw our first light.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

The one who dances is considered crazy by the one who cannot hear the music.

He’s running the race

And though the pace

has begun to tire him out,

he runs still

Saddled, bridled and directed

All fingers pointing North,

he runs South

Labyrinths ahead

Monster under the bed

Groans and crawls out.

He runs amok.

The fires burn

The waters churn

Rhythm engulfs him

He cries out loud

The soul screams for more

Amidst the furor,

Ecstasy throttles him

He hits the ground

No labyrinth ahead,

Exultant, he treads

Whittling a path of his own

He no longer runs.

Monday, October 3, 2011

I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house, I saw a blackened ruin.

“A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses, fancying she has stirred. He withdraws; not for worlds would he be seen. All is still. He again advances; he bends over her, a light veil rests on her features; he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty –warm and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance. But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger! He calls aloud a name and drops his burden and gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter-any movement he can make, he thought his love slept sweetly, he finds she is stone dead.”

People talk of the power of love like there is nothing in the world that could be greater than that. Love is what gives meaning to your life. Loves is what makes the stars shine brighter. Love is what makes the world go round.

I’ve never been in love. I don’t think I have what it takes to be in love. The whole process of the hurt and pain makes me shrivel up and I shut myself completely. I’ve never been in love and yet I cry like a small child when I hear the pain in Adele’s voice as she mourns for her lover. Her words echo in my head, her pain seeps into my heart and I burst out in a fresh round of tears. I lament for a feeling I never felt. And I am the girl who didn’t cry when she got needles put in her eye during her operation.

I like my life to be simple. I try to find ways to make myself more perceptible to the things I see around me. Love, however, just doesn’t seem to find a place in my otherwise undemanding existence, because of the simple reason that it asks for a lot. It takes too much from you and doesn’t promise anything in return. The fear of being bereft of it later makes me wary in the first place. So i busy myself with more important things in life.

Deluminating One, Illuminating Another

Most of us need to seek refuge. A hideaway. It may be a book, a movie, music, a friend or a lover, or all of them. Under their wing you can look away from the reality that presses itself on your face.

A good book or a movie is a great way to drown yourself in another character’s life (and for most of us, it’s a relief that it is fictional). A character you could possibly relate to, whilst, paradoxically enough, constantly distance yourself from that figment. So you’re there, yet not there. Another advantage that both of them provide is that they are conclusive in nature. You know that by the time you finish your film, you will get your popcorn’s due. Because everything will be fine and no one will die (or maybe all of them will if you’re watching the wrong kind of movie). The point being, that it is conclusive, so you seal most of them with a kiss, a laugh or a tear. Don’t you think it would’ve been better if we knew what genre of movie our life was so that, in the least, we could maybe set the mood accordingly? That would have helped clean up so much of muck.

Just about now, writing down all that comes to my mind is my way of escape. It’s comforting since I have the assurance that no one else can read this unless I let them. However, no matter how rejuvenating that might be, I can’t help wonder how beneficial this dwelling upon ‘the unreal’ is. One ends up neglecting what is there and even if one does take notice, there is disappointment of not living a life that could be retold with zest.

So what is one to do? How do you find a perfect balance? Isn’t it more understandable to make most use of what you have with the ‘If life farts in your face, go help light up someone’s stove’ kind of enthusiasm, instead of holing up somewhere with your book? Not really. I’m a comfort seeker just like the next person. So if you’d tell me to pick between ice-cream and salad I would make the obvious choice. Sure, make a big deal out of one life that you live but seek repose in the fact that you can inhabit many at a time.