Short Story- 18

(Attempt at a piece of love-writing. Bear with me if it sounds dumb and hollow! :P)

Last night, you came in my dream. After...what...ten months?! And today, I've not forgotten you. Yet.

All those words are coming back. The ones you used to sweet talk me to silence. How could I speak? Words seemed so inappropriate. I was hoping my silence was more eloquent.

The same colour rushes to my face now as it did when you used that voice of yours to claim me for your own. This time, the colour rises for other reasons- anger? pain?

Or is it embarassment? At having bared open my soul to you and let you camp there? It took me so long to painfully pull out keg after keg that firmly kept your tent down. And every time I removed a keg, my flesh hurt. Smarted with all the love I had just imagined.

Thank god for the distance that separated us- then and now. Blessed distance that kept me safe from my vulnerability.

But sometimes, I wonder, would distance have actually made these plain talks, real? Made meaning of what seems like a stretch of once-upon-a-times?

Today you refuse to go...image stuck in my eyes. Persistance of vision and memory. The colour of your smile...once a cool aquamarine to my senses, now a murky un-understandable brown. Those little crinkles around the corner of your mouth...perfect geometric lines chiselled on to your face, now an ambiguous clutch of arrows shooting out everywhere. And then those almost brown eyes...aah... those that were both warm and cool, trusting and loving; now an intangible white mass with a black pinprick for an iris!

What happened to you? the you I knew, talked to, laughed with and shared life with? Did he die? Did he disappear? Did all the hopes and promises sublimate?

You have changed, and hence, I have changed, and when in dreams we meet, we live another lifetime, the one I once wished into my life!

*****************************************************************************

Coming soon... the journal pages from my two week trip to Landour(the lovely lovely world of Ruskin Bond)! :)

Blogsville, I am back! :D

Short story- 17

"It had set into a rhythm. A long chat after work. Lazing in the room. Settling with a cup of food and her. They'd talk. Endlessly. About everything. Sometimes about nothing. It was a ritual. It meant something. Or so he thought.

But the more deep the waters got, the more the swimmer's life is tossed into the mercy of the sea. And thus one day, when all this depth of sharing and caring and meaning grew over bearing, he panicked and ran.

A coward."

Grandma looked up from The children's tale book of the big bad world. The kids looked at her with eyes full of pained anticipation.

She sighed. Then smiled. And continued to read.

Published!!!!

Presenting
Kavikala: a visual poetry project, in collaboration with 33 artists and
33 poets, aka the Madness Mandali. Check out my illustration at 0:26 secs. Yay! I'm published! :)

Check it out here!

Short story- 16

She scribbled and a tear smudged the paper. She folded the sheet and gave it to the grave-etcher. Her eyes looked pained. She nodded and departed, leaving him standing with the folded bit of paper.

He picked up his tool bag and slung it on his shoulder. He opened the paper.

"Here lies the grave of a coward who couldn't appreciate the beauty of things he had. Who played a million lies throughout his life. A man, who despite being loved truly, did not want it. A man who died, in the end, wishing to change his past. May his pitiable soul rest in peace."

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.