Shut your eyes until they wish to see for themselves and if they do not, be kind. Shut them forever. Darkness will enlighten. Darkness makes my skin lighter. Darkness makes the edges of my teeth unclench. Darkness makes perforations in my regrets and shakes it off in dark. Darkness settles in the small of my back, the skin in the arches of my knees and arms. Darkness does neither ask nor force. It rests; instead like a lukewarm fabric on a seething forehead. The heat, not a failing of immunity but a failing of the spirit. Fancy words. Loud Brains. Plaguing mouth. Pigmented Eyes. Diseased ghosts of your body's past. Past like a crumbling Epitaph. Slow fermentation of emotion. Mental carcinogens on a suicide mission. Rehearsed lies of a martyred poetess. Witchcraft in a desert. The healing spell of a Eunuch's curse. Rings in straw hearts. Eyes bleed art.Blood bleeds more lies. Please a writer.Knife your soul. Anti-climatic floodlights at the end of the life-cuticle. Disparities of the universe. Violate knowledge. Kerosene your troubled childhood and ignite your hormonal effigies in the mass orgy of an emotionally apocalyptic Eden's attic. She spited death for its charm.It provoked her because she was easy. She tore at her skin to wash the residues of her failures. Them, too wise to converse courted instead. Please do not hang by the sheets tonight, there as is an impending funeral. Hold the carousel a little more tight, it is but a carnival. For father, feign your self to religion. For mother, this one last delusion. Don't have me mistaken. This is no chronic preaching of emptiness. For even lacking needs a form to flaw from. As smolder is to metal : is space to emptiness. * And there is no precious metal to my name, no body alike for emptiness to claim. * Glory be to the Storyteller.
I long to live oblivious to my soul. To drown my form into a calming catharsis. It is when I know I have wronged that I hate the right thoroughly and guiltlessly. I have lived in engulfing bitterness and preached escapism. I have taken pride in practicing what I preached. I have in myself, an insatiable need to die each time I learn to live. But I live to tell.
Because words are the limericks of survival. Because.
Mental fluids on steroids.
There is this stinging isolation, overwhelming heartache and blinding rage that I need to suffer from, to be able to write. It is as simple as my words are and as complicated as they could be. And the words, they don’t heal. They bury.
I wouldn’t come to writing then, it would take me. It would lift my remains after the sorrow of being would threaten to push it off the cliff and each time, nastily leave me hanging by a fragile stem by the very end instead.
Self victimization is a hobby.
It’s like a false rape alarm. To craft a polished dignity around a manufacturing failure. It’s not about the sympathy or if there’s room for wonder, publicity.
It is the inherent need to feel hurt or abused by life.
Not out of masochism but out of habit.
Because happiness is awkward. And misery is our comfort zone.
Belief and fortune miracles.
It is like god. When escapism has an accepted and approved form. And a following. Mount your tears and pass them on like in a juvenile nursery game. Like the Rubik’s cube. Familiar frustration. A lottery. Because the explanation is always that there are not supposed to be any if it’s not yours to win. The lottery. And the miracle too.
Life’s experiment in death.
I am the stale and pungent hide of an animal shorn apart, the flesh being poorly picked upon, decaying amidst the algae and the swarms of curious flies mulling over the worth of my failing organs.
I reincarnate through my parasites. Because crutches are limbs to the soul now renounced by my body. Because leeching is civil.
The addiction of brackets.
Much too much thinking in hexagonal patterns of self destruction. The cruelty in the joy of morbid writing. The misguided impression of a lucid dreamer. Stroke of collectively pathetic genius. Borrowed word of mouth. Reeking of a lack of. Evermore.
Because all labels are stereotypes and all stereotypes are labels and they will deny it and I will too because intellectuality is seductive and it seems to like vice versa a lot. The word. Or not.
A universal mockery.
I am the dysfunctional stillborn of a deeply troubled fetus. Every muffled scream of the mute. The botched blood sample. The black sheep in Technicolor. The negative in a washed up film in stop motion. A colonial language for the outdated tongue. A burst of filth in a perfect afterlife.
I have tried to not understand the place this will take me to; I do frequently hope though, that it is a better one.
She whispered in her favourite stuffed bear’s ear, as another drop touched her eyelashes and trickled down her cheek. The storm had sobered only an hour ago and left its thinning tributaries spilling off the potholed path downhill. The last of rain drops came slowly and fell heavily, like hailstones. She would loosen her arms around the decaying pillar in the portico everytime she saw one coming, swing her body skywards and shut her eyes just in time for the drop to fall exactly on her lashes and giggle forever; bobbing her face from side to side to dry her nose and wait for the next one.
By thirty one, the gentle mumbling came closer. She recognized this kind of chanting. She had heard it often in the valley but for some reason couldn’t place it today. The blur of white heading towards their hut made her heart thump. She felt an eerie sensation in her body every ten seconds and it became incredibly heavy to bear as the blur of white was of people she kept photographs of.
They were 7 of them, or atleast she could only count so many from the distance.
She thought she recognized a pallid, frail man.
It was her father.
But she felt like she didn’t know him.
This man was so sad. She had not seen her father this pale or weak ever. Or this sad.
Everyone had familiar faces, the aged man from the grocery shop, the boy with the broken cycle, the old lady who knit sweaters all day and many others who looked so sad, she couldn’t place them.
They kept a white colour lump on the ground in the inner courtyard.
Her eyes were calculating the stark contrast between the red oxide flooring and the white of the sheets as she ran in after them.
She had just noticed some dull, maroonish spots on the white cloth when she felt a hot wetness on her scalp.
It was the lady from the last house in their row, standing over her head.
It is such a strange day, the little girl wondered.
The lady never seemed to like her, always mean and angry. She remembered her threats of beating the kids up with a bamboo stick if they should steal from her peach plantations.
She must have come to show her father how they made her cry so he would punish her.
She quickly ran to her father and clutched his left leg tight and looked at him with endearing eyes to convince him of her goodness.
But she realized he could barely see her through the blur of tears in his eyes. Now she was convinced it wasn’t the mean lady. He sat besides her, his face a miserable show of pain and vulnerability, very unlike his usual self. She felt dampness down her cheeks too now. He held her so tight it scared her more than it hurt. His touch spoke for his helplessness. Like he wanted her to do something about whatever was making him so naïve with his emotions.
The mumbling started again. This time all of them hovered over the white lump like bees over fresh honey.
Her father just sat there, not even trying to make an effort to stand or move, as if he wished everything around him would turn still as he were and stay so till he would turn stone.
She gently drew her fingers from his moist palms trying not to upset his thoughts or bearing.
A man draped in a saffron cloth with a numb, impassive demeanor slowly pulled the sheet off. He was deliberately slow, as if the pace would keep the misfortune from happening.
When he pulled it off the crying became unbearably loud, making it impossible for her to take it in.
And when she looked at the face of the body it contained, she felt a strange tugging in her stomach, like a hard kick making her intestines churn.
It was the first face she had ever seen and the sweetest she had ever known since.
Those eyes were shut now, they used to be so big and round and bright.
She touched her fair cheeks, drained of their natural pink.
She had always wanted to be as pretty as her and if someone would tell her she looked just like her mother; it would make her very happy.
She wished her mother would get up kiss her. Surely she was allowed to wake up for her daughter and kiss her on the nose. And then they would later laugh on how scared everyone was and tease her father of being so timid.
They said the riots got worse. She was in the market place in Tehat buying some bread when the militants gunned down seven people, including her mother in a misfire. The bullets pierced through her neck and chest but noone would come out and help in fear of getting killed. When an old sweetmeat vendor carted the street hours later and found her body, her heart had stopped beating.
They asked her to be a brave girl and not cry even thought she wasn’t. Maybe they wanted her to.
They said her mother was in a land of flowers and snow, living with the angels of the moon.
That she was happy and at peace. Happier than she would’ve ever been here.
It made her sad. She though her mother was happiest when she saw her face every morning.
She didn’t know a happier place existed.
She didn’t understand. She had come to this world from her, after her. They were tied together when she was born. So when they cut the ties, did it mean that her mother was free to go?
How could she go anywhere without her? Especially to a better place? And how could she be happy when it made her sad and her father so unhappy that he cried infront of everyone?
Did this mean she didn’t love them and only loved the angels?
They only caressed her and hugged her in answer. Maybe they never got to ask their mothers either..
Noone ever told her what she was to do if something like this happened. Maybe it didn’t come from experience.
She wanted to go back to counting the drops but the rains had since stopped and the clouds fought and bellowed angrily. She quietly stood up, straightened her frock, walked out of the courtyard and sat by the decaying pillar in the portico with her favourite stuffed bear begging him to not start crying or she would too.
So I surrender, gift you my absence and grant you utter possession of my soul and my living.
I visited that place of death.
It was dark as used to be.
I however didn’t feel the rush this time. ofcourse.
Your make-believe audience were present. They say they grieve for you almost as much too.
The hunching palm trees, remember them ghostly ones? The rustle of them still chill my bones as I take it for your muted footsteps like i did always.
As I nervously laugh now on reminiscence of how much you hated my ubiquitous impulse of a morbid end, I quite contemplate it again standing here by the edge, at my toes.
An arrogantly unceremonious end, I grasp. I stop.
I almost foresee déjà vu; only it is too late for a cliché even.
I see the same galaxy, it’s brighter and the elapsed gaiety warms my heart.
My frail limbs resurrect that time of simultaneous weekdays and perennially broken weekends of forging passion over the coarse, fragmented limestone walls.
It is almost as beautiful as you; the melancholy.
It’s spiteful and solemn. oh, and how.
I plead without no nobility whatsoever now, to end this tempest.
But for the cold-blooded sadist.
Didn’t I always tell you so?
It cast a ghastly shadow of the mortal shape in which death hovered over in deliberate circles.
I was joyous; the thespian slave that I was to succumb to your myth.
So I touched those limestone walls again. To crumble and surrender and overwhelm my spirit like you did.
I desire the feel of the smooth of your skin against mine.
I hunger for the feel of the hollows of your stomach firmly against mine.
I wish for the sickly sweet smell of your breath in mine to linger in me for until the last dawn I see.
I weep beyond coherent reasoning.
Through the length of that ominous space, my vision narrows flinching only to conjure a human figure over that washed out white doors.
I thrust my face now like you did, towards the beckoning melody of the twilight.
Poetic almost, it rhymed like clockwork; your parallel universe crowding mine.
A spiteful piece of art.
Perverse.
Cynical.
Eccentric.
Only this time it is a moral eulogy.
Because the death is of the immortal in me.
For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, own them, and make them a conscious part of our spirit and our writing.
All writers who have devoted their lives to their work know this reality: whatever our original purpose, the world that we create after years and years of hopeful writing will, in the end, take us to other, very different places. It will take us far from the table at which we have worked in sadness or in anger; it will take us to the other side of that sadness and anger, into another world.
The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live in. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.
-
ORHAN PAMUK.
For and from the man whose words move me.
They are to me the same as they have been always for you.
and someday we shall meet.
On one of them rare idle Sundays of mine, [yes, I flatter myself.] I give myself some profound Einstein like moments. [And no, I also have no idea what that's to mean.]
Today’s special incidentally happens to be my Grey cell’s pet too!
WRITING.
So this post is written to ponder over why I write so pitifully less often.
Did I mention I adore alliteration?
Anyhow!
Cerebrum mumbles once in a while of the injustice done by letting it idle around. I console it by saying Paris Hilton is geographically and technically space, and it unfortunately takes an ass-whipping lot to reach where her non-existing [tee hee]ones have.
Cerebrum does a happy dance with pelvic-thrust and everything.
Microsoft word is an evil thing people. Everytime I click it smiles wickedly as if saying, ‘oooh. Trying to write bighead? We’ll see who goes beyond the third paragraph this time!’
Bitch it is people, swear to blog!
swear to blog!
Cerebrum. Munchkins. Come back to amma NOW!
Okay? Okay.
So slowly even as this demented thing goes on, I realize; despite my craving to translate just about everything in my head to words, to give every thought a living form that exposes calculated bits of my soul to people I want to reach out to, I feel a violent urge to withdraw and let them thoughts safely sober out right where they originate from.
Ambiguity being my primal OCD, it clings to my skull with an Edward like precision.
Edward scissorhands I mean.
[HA! Got you, you gay twilight bitches =] ]
Of the plethora of excuses I procrastinate with, my craving for perfection to the extent of killing what I create if I hunch a negative premonition stands out.
Did i also mention I don’t quite comprehend tautology?
Anyway, don’t get me wrong there, I aint subtly hinting the thing you are by now mutely smirking about. [But if YOU think so, I’d humbly agree :)]
All I emphasize on is the degree of my self-destruction. I mean, do you see it you lovely people, do you?
I am a damned one trick pony and take no joy in it and yet have the cheek to indulge in such extravagance. The nerve of me I say!
My very need for perfection in everything I write is such that I’d rather curb my sole reason for living than to do so for the love of it.
Passion I tell you is a gay bitch.
It laughs gaily at you everytime you try to kill it, it smirks Al pacino:God-father like and seduces you George Clooney like.
It surpasses love, logic, success and ambition. It defies your rationale, your chain of thought and karma.
It haunts you with a maniacal speed, it makes you jealous of all them smart butts who write without having to worry, to analyze and think and then re-think once more of how it will be perceived, whether it will be taken how you want it to be, if the concluding line will deliver the punch it is supposed to, will pun and sarcasm EVER register, will drawn out and complicated sentences ever be conventional, will this fashion of writing for once not seem vague?!
So you get the point readers.
Then there are those dark times when I fancy surrendering my soul to them science leeches and safely and endlessly mumble to my chi of how hopelessly lame people who think they can make a ‘flat in Bandra-something beyond a TATA nano- pet Yorkshire called barood’ delusion come true before ‘botox-savings piggy bank’ has to be broken into are. [see what I mean by drawn-out?]
But when the social order demands a degree-attained existence one does not question righteousness, one just shuts one’s trap and photocopies in advance for the next semester.
So such you see birdies is my twisted, oh-so-melodramatic opera-like musical. *loud sigh*
Cerebrum threatens to quit unless mushy names are stopped NOW.
Pardon me if this piece of writing seems to you, like an unpolished cross between the works of Dan Brown and Sidney Sheldon. I just happen to be a HUGE fan. [Did you know I dream of genie was produced and co written by Sidney? No? Then shut up. I am number one fan only.] Also for those of you who happen to be slightly impatient with long posts [no, I aint insulting :| ] bear with me please. It won’t be not worth your time. Promise :)
Here goes :
The alcove with its perished lighting offered but an ironic muted glow to her face. As he bore his eyes into her charcoal like ones, she couldn’t take it no more. The sweat percolating under the taut collar of her tweed tinkled her skin everytime it trickled down through her chest over her belly.
Her eyes froze deadpan everytime his lips parted and sighed and shut again offering no solace. His gaze penetrated into her soul leaving faint traces of gooseflesh through barren skin. Her knee caps gradually froze with the tension created in her body. She felt a hollow, rhythmic softness guide her senses.
The venom was undoing rapidly.
“We have done this before” “Have we? Why is it then that ‘we’ meet here tonight?” “Is that a question?” “Do I hear a polyglot asking me that?” “Spare me.” “Not tonight.”
The nerves popping through her receding hairline constricted exposing her pale, fermenting skin. “Can I have it yet?” “And how inconvenient would it be if I refuse?” The Styrofoam coffee holders tumbled spilling the remains over the quivery counter carved off shoddy wood as her angry fists came down on it.
The little of the sparse crowd in that deserted ranch house stirred for the while; shrugged it off then, drowning into the emptiness of the ambience. The voices now muffled, disappearing into the humid air.
“Don’t you understand? I do NOT have the kind of time for your little tricks. Let me have it. You know it is important to me. You know it.” “And I am not exactly going to do that”
Her wrist is now clasped into a crushing grip throttling her nerves. “Now listen up bitch. You kill him. Today. And you get your little tootsie back. Or… well, my little tricks always work don’t they hon’? ”
“Bastard.” “always the same hon’; always the very same.”
She knew that toothy smile would haunt her till the end of time. Concealed behind that loathsome grin were intentions which she knew could surpass her wildest, most feared imaginations.
“I can’t.” “Did my sweet ears hear a no?” “You can’t make me do this.” “Try me.”
“But he is my father! You want me to kill my own father?” “For your own sweet life, now don’t you want THAT so bad hon’?” “I will not kill my own father. I will NOT, do you hear me?
And are you going to kill ME now? So be it then. Kill me” “Ah, I don’t poke dead meat hon’. and he aint no father to you, he sold you for the work of god, remember?” “Do not utter god’s name from the wretched tongue you got; besides my life is none of your business.” “So do we have a deal cut? Kill the bastard and you get your sweet arse out of this.” “I won’t.” “So what about thy blood?”
The lady stops dead in her tracks. “Do you mean…” “Ah, do I? Yes I do. Kill your ‘father’ and your Eurague; the holy Eurague which your community lives for will be spared.” Her head was spinning in circles faster than the ceiling fan overhead. Bile rose steadily through her throat and after what just transpired, it threatened to come out.
She had to end it. End it now. “Alright. I’ll kill him. Give me the holy Eurague and I will kill Maurias.” “AH! The kind of shit your people do for darn words. I wouldn’t do no sort of a thing for a barrel of crack! Where is the world going?”
“Nowhere close to heaven with swine’s like you.” “Ah, I serve my purpose on earth like the rest of us hon’, only I don’t hide it! Well, so get to business, we meet here tonight after the murder and you get your shit back, but if you strut your little brains around won’t someone be really sorry?!”
“Two things, don’t call it a murder and don’t call me Hon’ ever again.”
The lady in tweeds stormed off. She was going to kill her father today. Her foster father. The man who taught her to floss her teeth, to pick good shells from bad ones at the beaches, to wear her tennis shoes without messing up the laces, and Eurague. The holy Eurague. For which he had chosen to give his life up. And he had taught her to do the same.
She had sworn to two things in her life. To not think twice before quitting her life in protecting the Eurague if she had to and to never ever leave her father’s side, no matter what. Her only family. Her only proof of existence. And her faith. The faith of her following.
She was at fork tonight. And all was about to change.
The night of the ‘murder’ she returned the holy eurague to her community after the biggest sin she had ever let herself commit. Holy Eurague the manuscript that held secrets of the protectors of time, the protectors of life and existence was in threat no more. And in due course of events, the venom did not deceive her. It took her in whole and washed her chi of all the sins. It was a self sacrifice. Only, she didn’t know if the heavens beseeched her presence any more.
pardon me if the post makes you think of my writing as a cross between Sidney shedon and Dan brown, I just happen to be another one of the starry eyed fans.
Also, some of you impatient ones [ I aint insulting, really :) ] might find it a little lenghty. bear with me. It wont be not worth the time. I promise *angel halo*
[two negatives - positve :D ]
please bear with me.
here goes.
odd things forever have evened me out. so well, on 19th birthday I chose to start another blog. This wont dissapear in a few days. I swear.
*angel halo*
this is an extract from my facebook note. so be kind and leave a comment here too :)
*drums roll.* THIRD. NOVEMBER THIRD. ok lame. sorry.
SO, Day begins with cussing at people expected to be wishing at 12. Dweebos dropped in at 12 with a cake [shocking more than surprising after the we're-out-of-town excuses which like a nincompoop I totally fell for X_X ].
received the most unique gifts, with embarrasing pictures ofcourse .[had to be ] Gorging sessions in four different places till excreatory organs even would take it no more.
[ Mad over donuts - F.A.B ♥ ]
Lot of reminiscing over the past. possible marriage and then divorce scenario's discussed over puke provoking citrus-rich lemon Ice Tea. [ beaches do that to women. wait, or maybe it was the Ice tea this time ] Had a absafrigginglutely brill day with gorgeous people who are officialy the best things that ever happened to her ♥
people who shine : Ambuddhi :) [ taking a day off from work for an aspirant CA is a TASK] you made it happen. it indeed was the bestestEST burdai EVER ♥ Krupru [themes :o :o I didnt know that could happen !! :o ♥ ] Rasna [ kasara bitch : love♥ ] Gala [ It's around my wrist :) ] Rittoo [thank you madame for remembering I exist :P ] RinRin [ I officially come before fantasies! YAY YAY :P :D thankoo !! ]
The mug holds the section of pride on my lappie table :) I really never expected this one!!
People who were sorely missed but showered me with calls instead: papuddi and praty ♥ ♥ [ loved the cards :D and yes, I will be happy always :) ]
People who made it unique: Ankit: you did make me smile throughtout the day :) thank you !! Preeta: kick that loser on the bum. thank you, you ♥ deeskha: I miss you love :( and raksha ofcourse ! :) masa : I officially LOVE bouquet's now !!! very unexpected and thoughtful :) choco almond has always been my favourite ♥ gala's mum : thankoo aunty, I'll get another piercing soon ;) anita patchi : gorgeous bangles. I ♥
sexy hippie tee. HOT sling. two hours of rigorous gaming and then london dreams : courtesy chachu n chachu ♥ thankoo :D [ I single-handedly earned 44 tickets in boxing and virtual bowling. yeah,NOWcall me anorexic * satisfied grins* oh and ranvijay is gorgeous♥ and salman CAN act :o ]
Nailbed-licking worthy food, favourite archies cards, gorgeous clothes, killer shoes [ they sort of still hurt though ] : ammu ♥ always!
Hair and 'thobada' that still feels and reeks of whipped cream and chocolate [ after hour long sessions of washing, scrubbing and finally scratching with coconut skin ]courtesy : too many to mention. which is not a good thing X_X it was supposed to be my special birthday talent *sniff*
Ugly sty courtesy: me. Fab day courtesy: mum :) ami, rachana[ amin/gala], mahfrin, ritu, krupa. You are all officially my rockstars ♥ not that you werent until now. just, you know for the record !! *khi khi* this more than made up for my screwing the 18th !!
dad, pratyusha and omkar. screw the distance, you're all always right here :)
and everybody else for all your kind wishes :) the special inbox mesages, the calls from people not expected to remember... special would be an understatement to describe my feelings :)
and for those who didnt, well screw you. I wont wish you next year. yes yes, my brains no? stopped growing in 7th only :) and no, not with my height. it isnt funny anymore : some post birthday exemption?
*puppy dog eyes* oh and only one bloody year left. welcome wrinkles, poppy nerves, and bald patches. wait. they've already arrived.
nineteen it is!
and melodrama is indeed my middle name :) that will be all.
