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Thursday, January 8, 2015

The Circle That Was.


 “As the pall of day fell – hues of a great number stretched across the welkin: the goldens turning to oranges and pinks and finally to the beginnings of black as the Sun kissed farewell; she could not stop herself from being receptive to a strange stirring, a stirring that was strangely familiar at the same time. Having garnered a lofty fondness for daylight, for the promise it brings, she encountered trouble in the recent admittance of an uneasy disposition, that the Temptress representing the other side of day promised more. She promised to bring, and she did indeed bring, wrapped in her cloak of black; dangers of such calibre, that threatened to burn down every wall she ever put up, and did indeed burn every last wall down to leave her standing – naked, vulnerable and in a state of ecstasy so palpable that the Temptress of the Night would forever be the recipient of the greatest degree of gratitude.

Now that almost every wall lay in ashes, half-hearted attempts to put up temporary picket fences were employed; she tried harder as she saw him come sauntering across the grounds. His face belied his state of being, the strong taut jawline belying his slightly frantic, palpable insides that lay whirling a little at the sight of her, a lazy smile cementing such fa├žade, making her realise that it was not long now, it was not long till he came up to her; and then, she would lose the little that was left, lose the last of all that she had single-handedly, painstakingly built – the high walls, the fences of varying nature, all of every possible restraint that she had strengthened over time. There was but one thing that was of slight assurance to her timid self, that one thing that she believed would never fail her, such belief soothing her hurried breaths a little.

She looked up to see him walking over the last of the debris and the soot, and as he headed towards her; she could not help but be drawn to him as he playfully jumped over the remnants of a little flame and then bending down, moved aside a boulder hindering his way. Feeling her scared eyes on him, he looked up, unable to hold himself back from smiling at a countenance as beautiful as hers, and wished he could tell her how she was trying to hold on to something in vain, something that had given itself up because it knew the magnitude of what was coming its way; that if she chose to vehemently rebel against the force of such obvious affections, it would all be futile exertion.

As he now stood a few feet away, she stopped making any effort at any sort of restoration. Now, as she stood there, she smiled a little, having rested all her faith in that little circle drawn around her in chalk, that little circle that nobody had stepped into, ever – her refuge, her sanctuary; it held her and only her, always. The degree of faith that she had in that circular outline, was staggering in stature. Staggering in stature, on every occasion, on every other occasion. He stood before her, smiling, and bowed his head slightly. Then, without pretence, without further ado, he stepped into the circle, one foot at a time.”


The first time I met you.
Do you still remember it as vividly as I do?

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Ink & Reel.


Away from here,
There used to be a place,
Of limited visibility.

The place, a Room of Transformation of sorts;
Along with shape shifting for a major talent,
Had many many shelves.

He liked the single suspended dim red light at the centre,
And the shelves, in parallel rows and bathed in red.
He came there with his picture reels,
To stow them away on the shelves.
Till it was time.

She liked yellow, and in plurality;
The lights hanging across the ceiling, end to end,
Making apparent, the shelves against the walls.
She came there to hide her many notebooks away.
Till it was time.

For years,
She never appeared in the pictures he took.
He never figured in any of her texts.

And then, one day -
The little yellow lights wouldn’t stop blinking,
The red light wouldn’t stop flickering.
He saw the yellows.
She saw the red.

It was time.


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Little Ministrations.


   She flinched a little, her lips doing an involuntary ghost of a smile. As the reason behind the smile started moving on its way, progressing towards the little people; it took them a while to comprehend what was happening. To look at something coming your way that you may have wished for and desired, for the longest time is perhaps a feeling of the greatest kind of joy, and that is exactly how the little people felt as they saw her command come hurtling towards them. “Finally, finally!” they yelled in rejoice, their tiny faces lighting up with the rawest form of happiness. Now, these little people were in a perpetual state of unrest, owing to the fact that they held the reins of the many chords of thought running the whole length of her rather busy mind. They had grown to become extremely hard workers, doing their best to keep up with the incessant inflow which ensured that the chords remained in constant states of palpitation.

   As soon as it arrived and it arrived encased in a huge bubble, at the threshold of the atrium which acted as the control-room of all the chords of thought in question; their pride in acting vanguard of the expected breakthrough was so great in magnitude that it literally bounced off the surface of the bubble. When the words broke out of the bubble, her whispered ‘Let go’ reverberating against the walls of the atrium, it surged the little people to scamper to the controls of the chords to do what they always wished to do. In response to an invisible common cue, the levers of all the chords were pulled down at the same single moment, and it happened. The floor shook and the walls vibrated, such reaction only certain, taking into consideration the magnitude of what was coming. As her little people watched what unfolded beyond the walls of glass, they could do nothing but stay rooted to the floor, in awe, in varying states of apparent reverie. As all boundaries and restraints were now taken down, they watched: Her greatest fears bring their ugly faces to mash against the timid ones of what she believed to be her strengths, the brightest scarlet of her deepest desires swirl with the whitest of what society deems virtues. Then there was the mighty ‘Ought to do’ going head to head with the mightier ‘Want to do’, each repelling the other, neither in the mood to conciliate, neither in the mood for accord. Chaos as a word would not do complete justice to what was being witnessed then. Was this expected? Yes, very much so. This is what was anticipated, what was being looked forward to.

   All of everything rested in her hands now: no guards, no restraints, conformity to nothing. Her little people could almost imagine the look of relief on her face, at letting things just be. This is what she always secretly wished for. This is what she wanted all along, to be undone in the most reckless manner. To act in whatever way she wished, against barriers both internal and societal, against warring thoughts in those myriad chords that now all stood dissipated into one tumultuous, vulnerable whole. Finally. Finally, free.

   Expectant, the overjoyed little people watched her intently as she was posed a question by the face in front. Finally, she would say or do what she truly wanted to, opposed to the working of the once familiar shackles that now stood broken. Some of the little faces unable to contain their excitement were doing little jigs around the place. In the outside world, she wondered a little about the question posed. And what she did next shattered the hearts of the little people, piece by piece. She looked at the face in front, and as they watched in horror, said absolutely nothing and smiled her familiar smile that they recognized all too well. And in that moment, they knew. They knew that in the far corner, across the atrium, on the other side of the chaos outside, one lever still stayed active, the one which she had absolute control over. One which controlled the words that came out of her mouth. 



Sunday, March 16, 2014

In the Abyss


Cross-legged she sat, staring ahead.
Weeping,
Into the deafening Dark.

For the fifteenth time,
The voice spoke -
Of despair, of misery, and their friends;
And the strings, in ancillary unison, agreed.

Forwards and backwards, 
Forwards and backwards,
She rocked.
By the growing minute,
Her rocking - more spastic, more frantic.
Her sobs, more distinguished.

For the last time,
As he spoke of the Despondent's fate,
She gave way -
She began to cry;
Without shame, without restraint.
The loudest cries, unheard.
The saddest cries, unheard.
The residual echoes, too.

Somebody called her name,
Somebody knocked at the door,
She clicked Pause;
And walked into the Light.
She would be back soon.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Fire In Her Eyes.


They were dancing already.
One tried to rise higher than the second,
A third’s arms entwined both, or tried to.
Another mighty tried to commiserate with the weaker,
Both coming together – one lower, and two individual raging uppers.
The flames never stopped dancing.

His vision zoomed back out,
Her face shone in all its pubescence:
The mouth – its corners shyly tugged upward,
Into a smile so unassuming, kind, almost timid.

He’d seen,
And dismissed it to oblivion.
But, he’d seen.
He’d seen what would take his life,
He’d seen the fire in her eyes.


Sunday, July 21, 2013

The Ruse.


She walked, and while she did; felt a hand at the small of her back. Every time her pace slowed down a little, she was gently nudged forward. She didn't bother too much about it. Instead, the curiosity of where the smoke was coming from in the distance trumped over the want to know what lay behind. So, she never turned around. After she had walked for a while, she could see the flames rise higher, and with every foot put forward, she could feel the heat increasing; she was slapped occasionally by sudden blasts of hot air. Soon after, she realized she did not want to keep walking forward, and so, she decided to turn around, intending to walk back. Turn around; she did, but walking back didn't happen. Instead she was pulled from behind, towards the smoke and the flames. The panic heightened of course, and the more she resisted the force, with a greater opposing force was she met. All the writhing, twisting and turning, the shrieking in varied pitches, did nothing but aggrieved her more, and fueled the wrath of the rival force. She was now being pulled closer to the source of it all, and as the smoke got denser, so did the visibility, and so did her lungs; so much so, that she almost choked. Suddenly, she was pushed to the ground and was now being dragged by her legs, held by hands of two dozen invisible men. In the process, her body smashed into stray jagged rocks leaving her in shades of black, blue and red. After a while, all cognition of blood and tear and sweat was lost and every prayer made, every desperate plea for clemency, was left unheard. Now, the men had decided to play – They threw her up into the air and her cries of mercy were met with their obscene laughter. When in suspension, her eyes fell on her cause of death. The next thing she knew, she was lifted into the air one last time, and thrown into the pit. As her body hurtled into the depths of the dancing flames, her skin barely hung on to her bones, and the parts that did, were charred to the point of resembling jet-black hide. At this point, she shut her eyes. A few moments passed, and then, she realized. She could feel the fire a mere inches below her, but she could also feel the support of a dozen ropes beneath her. Her skin was still charring, her face was a little more than skeletal; but she was alive and so, she laughed.

In all possibility, she may be handed over to the Weird Ways of the World again to be heckled in ways as terrible as she’d seen, or worse; but in the end, she would still be alive; saved, somehow. She might be left scarred, and mangled, but alive, still.

She decided that she would never think of suicide again. 

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Pending.


She felt it again - The familiar knot in the throat, its walls brushing against the walls of her windpipe. The uneasiness was always felt at varying intervals and with time, it only grew. She was aware of this but of what use is such awareness sans succeeding action? The object referred to here is this ball, a globular knot - made of threads of varying proportions. Every human trachea is home to one such knot, the difference between the first and the second being that of volume. For most people - People who are at comparative ease swapping syllables with the face in front; getting rid of such a tangle is not an issue of contention. An obvious reason being, that for such people, the knots are much smaller by virtue of being coughed out as part of conventional conversation. The people not belonging to this kind are the ones with the problem.

The thing down her throat was big, considerably big. This was because of the massive volume and to blame were two things – The considerably greater denomination of threads and their relatively greater thickness, as compared to the average. Undoubtedly, this weighed the knot down by a large margin. Each such thread signified something. While some of them implied unresolved freezes from the Past, others represented the uncharted uncertainties of the Present. Few others represented in many names, Emotion. Every now and then, some of these came loose and were responsible for the constant obnoxiousness against the walls of the pipe. But these strays were only being dutiful reminders, of getting rid of things that should have been done away with long back. So, individually and as a whole, the fragments bothered her, immensely. Every time she got close to letting the whole thing out, she failed. Sometimes she coughed like she had blackened lungs all her life - she got that close to getting it out.

She believed that eventually she would get rid of it. She never did.

So, when not tended to, the knot gets bigger than the mouth.