Short Story 15

"He hurts me more than anything else. Every failure is related to him. Every success is a proof to what he's missing out. He's too embroiled in my everyday." she sobbed and wrote.

Her tears touched the paper and turned crimson. The book ripped open. A gash was formed, and as if from a hidden mouth the painful wail of a woman was heard.

The book burst into a million droplets of blood. They splattered the wall. They splashed on the lone hurricane lamp that was flickering beside the table. The fire turned red.

On Writing

Writing is my self-defence. It is my way of making peace with myself. Somehow, when you see words shaping your thoughts and insecurities, everything seems lighter.

I don't write for anyone. I know a few people read me. But I don't write for them either. I write to send a fragment of me into the cosmos. To get rid of that excess baggage of thoughts or emotions that can't seem to be held anymore in my pea-sized brain.

I'm glad I can write to vent things out.

*phew!

Short Story-14

She piled up the stones one after another. This was her joypile. There were thirteen stones in all. One for the little blue mug. One for the feather of the Azure-winged magpie that her uncle got from China. Then there was one for that day she got to climb the hill and saw a rainbow.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, and the stones toppled over.

Thirteen was always unlucky.

Short Story-13

Once again she collided with the wall of the past. It had grown longer, sturdier and thicker somehow. Piled up, she thought.

She wanted parts of it broken. Will a slap do? Will anything heal?

Some walls cannot be broken. They'll be there to shamefully remind us of all our failings. To taunt.

Short Story- 12

There was a time when all I had to do was reach out. And a rainbow would be mine. It was a life of sunbursts and glittering rains. Answers were simple one words. Worries were bound between school textbooks and were left behind once homeworks were done.

And then I grew up.

Perspectives got added. People walked in and out of life like I gave them a choice. Things that mattered died with time. I never thrilled the same way when I saw a touch-me-not shrink within itself. It was too familiar a sight. I shrink almost everyday. From people, events, truth.

Poetry in the wee sma' hours- 2

It is one of those nights
when moonlit coldness
yanks at memory pools
and raises questions
that have no answers.

where hands grope for a clasp
and feels an empty room
and searchlight eyes
meet darkness as a guest.

It is one of those nights
where the jigsaw puzzle is scattered
and pieces go flying
some get lost in cranny abysses
some hide themselves under bedsteads
and some get crushed in the edges
and the pile that remains
just can not fit right.

It is one of those nights
that in endless armour
fights your defenses
teases your meaning
and raises questions
that have no answer.

Poetry in the wee sma' hours-1

images of sepia past
whizzing on small screen
while reality paints
a contrary messy picture

mind transfixed in random past moment
goes through a monotonous mindless reel
rewind
replay
rewind
replay

pity washes the feet
with its cold clasping hands

once again questions are raised
that have no answers.

There are things to talk on dreamy winter evenings
when cold fog hugs cold feet
and toes wiggle to the tune of chattering teeth.

Remember coffee cups
and hot fumes rising
brown liquid bubbles
burst dead by the cold.

There are things to tell on dreamy winter evenings
tales and confidances and wholehearted jest

When hands reach out
to tease the rising flame

There are walks and talks
and forgotten laughter
There are some memories
pleasantly to be made.

Short Story-11

(Inspired by the Rupali theatre in Ahmedabad)

The reels must play over and over again. Even in the stranded hall. Light still came through perforations that made their way through wasted concrete. Little specks of light through little holes.

The moth eaten chairs stripped naked, foam exposed, with a stench that rose in the air stood testimony in silence. After all could the halides and nitrates stop shimmering! They were still around, suspended on dust that floated thick around the echoing halls.

Images rose- black and white, faint traces of colour-yesteryear's forgotten dreams rekindled.

And voices...they resounded, one over another, music interlacing through it-chaining them captive like memory.

And once again, cinema was born...

Short Story-10

Is there ever a point of no-return? Or is everything such a point?

Where are lines drawn? Will they always be blurred? Or should we necessarily detail everything to its last dot?

What is right and wrong? Isn't it just a perspective? A view we take with ourselves due to what life has dished out to us? Will different things apply differently to different people?

Where is truth? What is?

Too many questions bogged her down. She wished she had a ctrl+alt+delete to manage the tasks of her life at will. She could have closed one application, started a new task with ease or just plain hibernated from all the crap and escaped a hang.

She decided, sometimes, life was better left a rhetoric!

Thoughts-5

Potatoes.
deep fried.
like the feet on hot summer afternoons.
slaking thirst with lemonade.
bottled as a drink.
wine is something I should try.
Bunjee jumping.
With an umbrella?
Mary Poppins and her frilly skirts.
Vintage thoughts.
Ball dances with Prince Charming.
Anastasia.
Things I yearn to remember.
thoughts.



Thoughts- these are how mine are fashioned. This is an attempt to shape them on paper.

Check out my art work on Behance Network:

Click here on the Project name: Cobweb Crawls

Or type the following on your browser window:
http://www.behance.net/gallery/Graphic-art/633672

Thoughts-4

Certain thoughts,
I tuck between the lines
It is my escape route
of having said, and yet
left things unsaid.

I may
shimmer clear like crystal to you
in dazzling white tones
little do you know
there is a vein of rouge
in undertones, running through.

Look between the lines
under the sheets
things are hidden
meanings are laid thick
stashed away.

Thoughts-3

I want to levitate, or like Mary Poppins, fly away with my umbrella into far far away. It is raining and I think the world would look more wonderful from up up above than at human eye level.

Why agree to view the world from mere living eyes. I want an elevated version of it.

When the rivers of slush wade in and out of my toes, my feet get caked in the mud. The earth wants me rooted. I want to fly.

Maybe when I put distance between me and this life, I'd appreciate it more. Maybe...

Or maybe in those skies are answers I stupidly search for down below.

An umbrella, the wind, pellets of rain and me... romance never had a better description!

Thoughts-2

A crumpled paper
set on fire
curling up
edges singeing
rocking in fetal positions

Thoughts-1

ratiya kari kari ratiya
ratiya andhiyari ratiya

The voice dug holes into her spirit. Her eyes announced a vacancy!

raat humari toh
chand ki saheli hain
kitne dino ke baad
aayi woh akeli hain

She looked around at the colours that invitingly asked her to crawl within their swirls and strokes. Thick enamel stuck with obstinacy on white washed walls. Walls, oh yes, she knew she could colour walls; but...

andhera rootha hain
andhera baitha hain
gumsum sa kone main baitha hain

A little hole in the wall was what she wanted- to crawl into. It would definitely not make her feel restless.

andhera Pagal hain
kitna ghanera hain
chubhta hain, dasta hain
phir bhi woh mera hain

In the sadness she found love. A love that was hers and hers alone. Romance layering itself thick and falling like a shroud over her. An envelope of sorts. Where she needed no postage stamp to travel. It was the destination in itself for once!

uski hi godi main
sir rakhke sona hain
uski hi baahon main
chupke se rona hain

Tears betrayed her by refusing to give attendance when they were sought. Their stark disobedience built up the rebellion within her. She could learn to make conversations with pain in the absence of tears. After all, a stone had crept within and built a fortress over her heart.

ankhon se kajal ban
behta andhera aaj

Black swirled in her cup of tea. Layers of dust magically had inked the water in black. Black. black. black. The more she uttered it loud, the more thick it tasted in her tongue. Thick like the hurt that festered within. Like a thick undergrowth carpeting the floor, daringly questioning the entire existence of the floor below!

samjho ki baati bhi koi bujha de aaj
andhere se jee bhar ke karni hain baatein aaj

She had made a tryst with pain when she decided to be born into this world. She had kept happiness as a hostage back there.

Ekphrasis

As part of our Music Workshop conducted by Vasu Dixit (lead singer and rhythm guitar, Swarathma), we were asked to go freewheeling on words or images as we heard a piece of music play.

The music we heard was the background music of a Dutch industrial documentary short film called Glas(Glass) by Bert Haanstra about the glassblowing industry. The music was primarily jazz and the way the music enhances the visuals and vice versa makes it worth a watch.

We did not know that the music was from a film as we just heard it. We had to create something with the music for inspiration- 'ekphrasis' as Plato would call it.

Here's what I wrote, before realizing that I was absolutely off the mark! :D


Tiptoes and cats
slender tall woman
smoking a pipe
Holly Golightly?

Furtive taps on
black and white keys
sleepless nights and serenades

Metal holes
fill with music
resonate within four walls
along with wine glass clinks

Red
and also a faint tinge of blue
waterlights and romance

rolled-up ball of fur
purring in delight

bristlestrokes of yellow
like cat eyes
shards of black
like hers.
canvases on walls
fairylights winking.

"a little more cheese, please
a sour dumpling of it."
Crispies breaking
and getting soggy in the mouth
heavy viscous sour cheese
zing
tang
explosion of taste

a twirl here
handclasps
flirting eyes

***********

dissonance
metal telephone vibrations
android calling home
"CSE04 reporting discontent
among species of the alienship"

music breaks
symphony freezes like the icefloats

Time has been broken down
opened up to let
another dimension pop in.

******

like a bad dream forgotten
music sets right
romance
rosepetal smells
sprinkling of salt
on ovenhot curry
white crystals
shining a second
before being consumed
by the everyday colour
of the curry.

a moment before forgotten
in the moment that came by
to overwrite

a joyous abandon
classics on Tv
plush sofas
hearty embraces
sip on wine
delicious cheese
a meal for two.

******

Short Story 9

The two of them walked in the mystery of the twilight, holding a promise in their handclasp. Wordlessly, they seemed to know where one's footfall was going to be. They seemed synchronized, as if they were both a part of some magic spell that bound them together. Perhaps, there was a magic spell!

She stole a look at him. With blatant disregard for societal norms, she was one to express what she felt. Yet, how much can a person look at another and not creep them out with the hunger of one more vision?! So after a while, she had to satisfy herself with these stolen sidelong glances, noticing the bridge of his nose once, looking at that sparkle in his eyes or seeing how his mouth crinkled up when he smiled.

He always noticed those sidelong glances, and turned around to see her eyes sprinting across his face. He loved it that she did this, as it gave him one more reason to look at her. See the calmness and excitement taking alternate hold of her features. That quest in her eyes, the steady nature of her gaze and the loyalty of her smile. Her face was a promise he wanted to hold.

It had been some days since they went on these trysts. Every evening, he would come home, and she would accompany him. They would walk, sometimes wordlessly, other times, throwing in a word or two. Mostly, words seemed unwanted. They spoke through some unworded language that only the two of them understood. A bat of an eyelid, a fleck of a hand, a suppressed smile and one knew what the other was saying.

Today had been the day when they had finally confessed what one meant to the other. It is not like they gave it a tag or began building airy castles of marbleburst and glass. It was yet again a kind of acknowledgment- now in words- that life was meaningful in certain ways because they had found in one another something undefinable yet deep. It was not as if an unbreakable seal had been formed, but more like a hope of something beautiful had fluttered for the first time.

They had suddenly found beauty in life together, and they wanted to see where this journey would lead. There were no conclusions, it wasn't even a beginning. It was just an understanding, and probably far more beautiful than any of those verbose promises and grand declarations that the world had seen.

Short story 8

Somewhere, by the sea, Krishna laments, playing his flute. I can hear its faint notes. For all the games he has played- with minds, hearts, lives... he laments.

"I too am a mere toy of fate," his song claims. A plaintive note arises. A struggling breath, choked with tears he dare not shed in front of those who worship him, finds its way through bamboo shoot and musical voids and begs for forgiveness!

The sky. The sea. The earth. Early stars standing testimony for the cosmos. And the dying embers of a smouldering sun lining the horizon. He prays to the Panchabhootams through his music, pleading to be relieved from his bounden duty of playing his crafty game- turning kin against kin, twirling destiny between his thumbs.

The faint sounds still visit on rainy days like this one... Between the patter of the drops, I almost hear Krishna's sobs. In the breeze, I still can hear the lull of his flute and when the raindrop touches me, I feel a love so pure, so gentle and so trusting. Who else, but Krishna could touch that way?

Short Story 7

Niti switched off the radio as the radio jockey jabbered on. It had been a long day. Too much work. Too little satisfaction in it. And a horrible head ache to top it all.

"Come here kitty-cat!" she twitched her cat's ears and let it curl around her feet. She dug into the box of cookies and tossed one at her foot and popped another into her mouth.

She wished something could unwind her a bit. The radio couldn't and neither could the book. Way too heavy to read after a day's work, she thought.

Something to soothe her and make her feel comforted...

The lights got bright. Something zipped in through the window. Her jaw dropped. A parade of musicians had zipped in through her window. Eyes popped out, jaw still frozen mid-air and voice in a knot, she managed a gasp.

"Hello and welcome to Wishwhatever works inc. We operate at your deepest requests and needs. We just received a neurospiritic signal from your internal systems requesting our services to unwind you. So here we are, presenting the Interstellar Orchestra," a man greatly resembling a smiling Dali declared.

The musicians started to play and two men handed out tall glasses of some frosted drink to a still-shocked her. Finally managing to come to her senses, she almost started to protest, when the drink handlers gently nudged her to sip her drink.

As she sipped her drink, she found her muscles relaxing and her heart pacing back to the normal.

As the lilting jazz number drew to an end, the Interstellar Orchestra sat on their knees and drew out a rose each from within their neatly brushed jackets. A baffled, but calmer Niti, graciously muttered a 'Thank you' and managed a smile.

At the sight of her smile, they bowed and disappeared in a blink.

"Kitty-cat!Erm... Did that actually happen?"

Kitty-cat continued to nibble at the cookie.

Short Story- 5

She wondered where he hid the rainbows. They were probably hidden in one of those million lockers in 'Earth Needs' section. They were so beautiful, she wished her Dad would let her throw them merrily on earth whenever she wanted. He was the chief of everything the world was about. Many told her, they called him 'God' down there and apparently that was the highest post anyone had ever got. She didn't quiet understand all that, but she knew everyone loved and respected her Dad and that was more than enough.

She was very happy today. When she got up, a globule had died and a spectacular show of light was visible in the distance. She loved the way all kinds of colours just burst out in randomness. They had all trooped near the dying globule and had watched the 'death dance', as it was called.

It had made her so jubilant that she felt like throwing some colour down below at the earth. Her Dad however had just given her a stern look and walked away, when she had suggested it.

Now, she slowly sneaked to where he kept all kinds of rainbows hidden. The Rainbow Locker, it was called. She had discovered the small locker, number 203, adjacent to The Unlimitted supply closet of laughter and the Limited extra toe cabinet.

A dread ran through her. Last year, her enthusiastic exploration had resulted in an extra toe being tossed accidentally down on earth and a newborn chewing merrily on it. That her mother couldn't make out what that rubbery thing was that her wee little girl puked, was another story altogether. A whole village of ideas poured forth, but time healed their curiosity and that tale now remained forgotten and buried.

She chided herself for being so reckless and slowly opened The Rainbow Locker, and chanted,

"Give me a rainbow that would span a mile
That would make the world delighted for a while."

A mist developed within the endless locker. Colours stirred within. A faint strain of music slowly built up to an audible symphony. And a thin, wispy and beautiful rainbow emerged. It twirled around her. She touched it and the colours passed through her hand, leaving a pleasant coolness on her palm. She whispered softly, "Go spread joy wherever you wish to". The Mile Rainbow headed towards the earth. She sighed and then readied herself to tell her Dad what she had just done.

Short Story-4

"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. " Marion slurred in the film.

She rewound the disc and replayed it.
"I love you, Harry. You make me feel like a person. Like I'm me... and I'm beautiful. "
She flung the remote and walked away from the room and into her study.

"Lies", she wrote, "Films are lies. They make us believe in something that does not exist. They are like little 'how to' programs that try to tell us what life, love, truth, expression, sadness, happiness etc should be. The writer's ideals of these concepts are what we see fashioned on screen and what we, religiously look for in our own little lives. And that is the reason why all our love seems stale, our happiness too less and our sadness overtly dramatic. And this is why I have decided to stop watching films. I have ruined my life enough by aping everything that comes on the screen. And I shall no more. "

And she broke the nib, as if having declared a death sentence!

Short Story 6

She tried writing. Over and over again. Her mind was not able to siphon its thoughts and articulate what she was feeling. The prose froze, she stupidly thought.

Untitled 8 was opened and not one thought emerged that had any interesting bent to it. She typed blah as her status message in every possible social forum.

And she closed all the documents without saving them. She shut down her computer. She crawled into her bed.

Sometimes, one should never try to write, she sighed to herself and slept.

Short Story 3

(for all those who are puzzled by these sudden short story series- my fiction project begins next. I'm just freeing my mind and pen by these tales of randomness.

DISCLAIMER: The themes might be influenced by my own life or of people and things around me. But by no means are these stories chunks of my life or anyone else. THIS IS PURE FICTION.)

The idle familiarity of home calmed his frazzled nerves. Finally...finally he could rid himself of all those clawing agonies that had plagued him through morn and dream.

Home was the best eraser to wipe away pages and pages of things you never wanted to be associated with, but had inevitably got yourself mixed with.

The smells of that single layer of dust that somehow managed to always stick to the sofa cushions acted like a balm. The faint sounds of the radio from the kitchen across the bend of the corridor, sounded like a lullaby. He sank deeper into the sofa and told his mind that nothing could go wrong anymore. He had got his soul back.

Short Story-2

That was so long ago, she mused. Her limbs ached with a kind of tiredness that was not just physical. Yes, age had finally caught up with her, after running a furlong behind in the marathon of life.

She shook the dust of the cloth. It was lying like a rag in the corner of the room. She remembered the exact moment she had cast it off. Tearing it into shreds, fat drops of tears wetting its surface, and a guttaral cry of hatred and the throw to that forgotten corner.

Long ago suddenly seemed like now. The memories had just played their trick on her, all at once intensifying the simmering flame of thought and evoking everything.

She didn't cry this time. She felt the texture of the cloth, and with it, its memories and smiled. It didn't really matter anymore. But she felt tired, very tired for having to go through the motions of the past once again.

She threw the cloth back into the forgotten corner and decided she needed a nap.

Short story 1

A raw fear gripped her. The dream had been too vivid, too beautiful. She had lost herself in that dream- letting all the beauty ensnare her and in all abandon, she had let go of her hold on herself.

And she had woken up. Crudely. From those images of pristine perfection. To the stark drab graying walls of her leaking room. To those flaky patches of concrete still struggling to hold on to the wall with invisible ivy hands. To that wooden skirting that was paling and crumbling in parts and annoying her by their presence and absence.

She had known somewhere, when the dream began, that it was a dream. But why then did she allow herself to sink in its embracing waters?! She had lived through the carousing ways of happiness and mortgaged sanity for it.

And now- she was left with nothing but fear. Fear of the craving gnawing crushing emptiness that she once called her heart. It was not there and she wanted it.

Project 2: Lac-Luck!

I grew up listening to tales of the Mahabharata, and even as a child, I always used to feel that it was one of the most wonderfully real stories I had ever heard. Full of human frailties, problems, treachery- it depicted a very real picture of the world to me. Although I recognized this to a very minimal extent back then, as a child; I only realize how relevant the Mahabharata continues till date.

B.R.Chopra’s televised serial Mahabharata was part of my weekend diet of TV programmes. With its wonderful cast and some riveting performances, it had me glued. I found the Lac palace incident one of the most interesting parts of the Mahabharata and this game was inspired from the same.

The idea of trapping the Pandavas unawares and burning them alive along with the lac palace was brutally brilliant. The counter plan devised by the Pandavas, to build the tunnel of escape due to Vidura’s timely warning was also a life-saving idea.

These concepts of device, conceive, trap, counter device and escape seemed interesting to work on, when asked to devise a game based on a story. I’ve tried to use these concepts in my design of the game too. The route is devised; the game with its open floorboards is devised. The traps can be opened and counter-closed to escape.

The game went through many peaks and lows and was revised many a time. What has emerged is the most feasible idea of the lot.

The board, inspired by the Manipuri and Meghalaya bamboo dance and the foosball, could be used to play other interesting games that could be devised.

For the story of The House of Lac, click here

Sandhya Ramachandran
sandhya.r@nid.edu

Project One: Ollikuchchi Octopus by Sandhya Ramachandran

It is with a sense of secret hope of getting back to playing with toys and games that I took up the elective of Toys from Tales. Wanting to reconnect with all those hours of unadulterated fun, stitching little doll dresses and playing innumerable board games, I was hoping for two weeks of absolute fun.

Although life is meant to make you regret hoping for things, for once, it didn't disappoint me at all! In fact, this elective has turned out to be even more fun than I had imagined.

Classes with Rutti and Sajith and a whole bunch of similarly excited classmates are extremely interesting and enjoyable.

The very first day, we were asked to make a toy that best described an incident from childhood or ourselves. It was such a delightful experience-and also nice and self-absorbed- to sit and think about oneself and recreate the flashes of childhood memories that sifted though our mind.

Everyone came up with a toy by the next morning. The toy I made was called the 'Ollikuchchi Octopus'(Eng:Stick-Thin Octopus); a dig at the stick figures my sister used to draw as a kid.

The Octopus represented the extreme anxiety I had in me from childhood(it continues, till date) of trying to do many things at the same time. A juggler of activities, I needed 4 pairs of hands to finish whatever I had undertaken. Also, as per Animal Symbolism, the Octopus is a sign of creativity and insatiability. What better a way to represent it than using the Octopus?!

As a child, I was too full of myself and in all arrogance, I used to boss around the people in my class. Later, this 'higher than thou' attitude lead to a fall and a whole reanalysis and reformation began! Stick-Thin Octopus); a dig at the stick figures my sister used to draw as a kid.

I shaped the OO out of a thin bamboo branch over which a cloth octopus was strung. The bamboo branch resembled stilts and was signaling at the fact that I never had my foot on the ground. To represent my flighty attitude, I made four rotor blades by crossing two ice-cream sticks in the centre and keeping them in place with a board tack. These blades, I stuck to the bamboo branch octopus with adhesive. I strung little ghungroos(bells) at the tips of the rotor blades to provide some sound every once used- a dig at my talkative nature.

I used bright primary colours to paint OO, to attract kids. The stick , tack and ghungroos were painted bright blue, the rotor blades were poster red in colour and had some intricate hatching patterns on their top side. The head of the Octopus was a moss green with white polka dots and had a happy expression painted. The hands were made of multi-coloured cut cloth. A small white band held the head and the body together.

In all enthusiasm, I decided I'd develop the merchandising also for the OO. Hence emerged the pamphlets that go with it, and the poem that it has.

As my original doodling brought forth a gingerbread woman, I decided to explain my toy in the form of an act. I covered my toy with another piece of cloth and as sense strikes the OO, it sheds its cloth skin and emerges to fly off into the sky.

OO can be used for two things- one as a rattle for babies, and another as a fly-away toy. You need to spin the bamboo stick between your palms- almost in a churning movement- and then let it go. It spins in flight and then crashes down, unless you catch hold of it in a while.

However, OO was a parody toy- meant for me to laugh at the person I was and be thankful for the improvements that have happened, and hopefully get working on the parts that still remain.

The Poem that went with the toy is as follows:

A gingerbread woman

feeling fragile

acting all snooty

hiding all the while

Stilts shoot out

like horns on head

high and mighty

ego well-fed!

A constant quest

and arrogance too!

Little kid happy

goody two shoes

Pretty little frocks

bunch of bangles

a mop of curls

always in tangles.

Life eats her up

slowly chews her ego

with no choice left

she must let go.

shedding her skin

once sense did hit

a power hungry pair dies

where eight hands fit.

Octopus woman

grinning wide

flying off to the sky

a purpose beside.

Setting off instantly

the world to conquer

exploring searching seeking

with enthusiastic fervour

New one emerged

trying to be good

genuine to people

helping as much as she could

Trying flying

sometimes falling flat

feeling good, feeling bad

feeling pretty, feeling fat

A swirl of emotions

continue to haunt

as the world applauds

also while it taunts

Little Octopus toy

reflecting little me

growing up still

trying to BE

The flight continues

and so does the fall

But good and bad

make life afterall!

Sandhya Ramachandran

sandhya.r@nid.edu

WHY DID YOU GO?

I know you were suffering. I know you went through things I don't even want to recount. But I miss you so. I think of you so often. You are no more a call away, a trip away, a letter away. Where do I reach you? How do I reach you? Thoughts sometimes are so insufficient.

I want to hear your voice, Cumbum thatha. I want you to call out to me in that endearing voice. I want to hear that voice I so admired saying a deep 'Hello' at the other end of the phone call.

Why can't it ever happen again? It is worse to think that sooner or later, everyone around me will reach your side and so shall I too.

Sometimes everything seems purposeless.

I miss you dearly, especially today. I hope you are smiling in the heavens.

I shall always hold you close to my heart Cumbum thatha, for you were and are and always will be a wonderful person.