You stripped me off
Once, once more….once again
Again and again
No shrieks of embarrassment
As though
Seasoned to nakedness …………..
BUT NOT REALLY
The raping pain never sublimed
The clawing kisses bled
The wounding hugs though clotted
The deep scars were left
Your cramping looks
Glared at ……
My bare flesh
My nude thoughts
No shrill groan of shyness
As though conditioned to brutality
BUT NOT REALLY
It was just that
I craved you to penetrate deeper
Through those
Knotted nerves
Hysterical tissues
And burning organs
And invite you to …….
My small ‘hut’ of love
Thatched with faith
Walled of trust and
Fenced with care…….
.... just forgot to ensure the RSVP to the invite...
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
BLACK and WHITE
At lunch, the whole table almost profusely broke down to laughter –and somebody with the mouthful of morsel, miscalculated a bit between chewing and laughing, which kept the lady colleague right in front a bit wary. Other than the stern Madhulikaji, everybody had a hearty lunch. Even while packing the lunchboxes back in their respective oil encrusted plastic bags, and, counter appreciating each others wives and maids, who must have cooked and packed the lunch, Prabhu again resonated, trying to make his way crossing Shivangi, Anuradha and Pavithra ….So, why do men follow women, they don’t intend marry….for the same reason why dogs follow cars they would never drive…. Ha…ha...ha…the small poster in the corridor with the cute girl with a Shhhhh...... note, was nailed numb to the wall.
Pramod didn’t talk much in the whole interim. He was one of the few who, instead didn’t want to drag his lunch over the joke. An alibi of a meeting with some Infosys guys…and he briskly went down the flight of stairs.
Back to his computers, the 3D maze, screensaver, wobbling over, didn’t change the placidity of his nerves. He cushioned himself again to his revolving chair and gazed at those maze…changing colours…blue, violet, pink, red, green, yellow…and again the same all over again, till the whole screen was filled with a multi-coloured mesh.
There was still some more time slotted for lunch. None of his colleagues were seen around. He took a cautioned look around and leaned back to his chair, loosening his tie knot till the permissible limits in office. He looked up to the serrated ventilator right above his head. A grayish black pigeon is pecking on the glass of the window. He is not an amateur Salim Ali ..and thus turned off his head and tried looking at the other end of his cabin, having a five feet high jute board partition. On it are some colourful board pins nailing some appointments of the coming week, few phone numbers which Neelima must have noted down while he was busy in some meetings with clients. Right at the corner, a small Buddha engraved on a hard cover was pinned…a memento which Devangana had given him after her trip to Sri Lanka. His eyes got stuck at that Buddha, sending across messages through his half closed eyes. Devangana had insisted that it remains by his office table- for it would calm him down, lessen his androgens of anxiety ….and with a slight pause said…would remind of her too. Pramod was not much argumentative with this small aspiration of this chirpy girl.
It has been a couple of years now, of knowing her and revealing himself, though its just two months that he has been feeling that the comfort zone of companionship has been increasing.
He reminisced the table, in the terrace garden restaurant, round, with a white sheet neatly laid - for the first time…. he observed her meticulously - strands of copperish hair just beneath the earlobes, a small diamond stud on the first earhole and a golden fillickry carved peepal foliage shaped gold earring in the second earhole, a big bun which covered almost half of the bare back, visible above the broad round neckline of the black ikkat blouse. Pramod had never tried to see her so closely…..unmindfully, may be, his eyes went down, from the cascade of her bunned hair to the blouse….another thin streak of black, may be the strap of her bra, peeping out a bit where her black and orange Sambhalpuri silk was pinned neatly to the blouse. A thin gold chain, which she continuously looped around with her forefinger, seemingly, in the absence of right alternating vocabulary. Pramod concentrated on the candlelight on the table swaying directions with the wind, making parts of her face momentarily more visible ….. she had put on a black bindi today, adding more fullness to her face and a streak of kajal too….the black mole was very prominent adding more moisture to her lips. The restrained radiance of her face seemed to resonate with the rumbling of the dry round leaves of the sesum … pathjar ki bahar jaise chaiye hui thi …..
Pramod was still clueless, though enthused that Devangana had finally called. He had by then smoothened those anxiety stricken frowns which were initiated as he had a glimpse of Kingshook’s white Matiz in his rear mirror, while coming in. Devangana had hinted about their rifting. So why, …..but then immediated was ….So what if he was seen around…the frown streaks tried reverberating again, when, as he walked down the white pebelled way, viewing Devangana in the corner table, he saw the waiter clearing up the singularly placed coffee cup…By the time he reached her table he had consciously shrugged it all off –partially to keep up to his male ego that Devangana had finally called her, partially since she was in his favourite Black , but more so since he didn’t have much time to delve into situational and relational nittigrities today.
He had just flown in after a hectic fortnightful travel across the peninsular zone and tomorrow early he has to move to East Timor. In fact exploring and expanding the market there was his brainchild and he needs to do really well this time. There were some sloppy ends last time and he knows that he cannot afford to repeat errors at this juncture. There is something exciting coming up in Shanghai after this and he has his eyes fixated on that. For a couple of minutes he was back to the Timorous clients….
...not again…he knows, Devangana is a perfectionist in her relations. Very feminine with her emotions, honestly speaking, very fragile, as Pramod would ideate. Sincerely, he had never conceptualized of being in the company of such women…or may be any women for that matter. He, on the other hand, has been busy conceiving and delivering marketing plans for his company other than the intermittent gardening which has been almost a latent hobby with him these days.
With all his masculine endurance and trying to figure out the feminine essence of romance, he started grappling for the right words. Two months back when they were in a joint venture in Kerala, it was over some wine that she spoke about Kingshook …though in snippets. Pramod doesn’t remember much of that night for he had …well the obvious…was drowsy on his drinks. He fadingly recollects that he had almost forced a glass down her throat. Devangana had an early flight the next morning and when Pramod woke up a bit late, with a splitting headache, the lights of the night were still glowing. On the crumbled corner of the white bed-sheet there were a few strands of hair. He didn’t want to infer much on this. Devangana’s room was already checked out by then and Pramod after a day’s meeting had to go for a couple of days to Vijaywada…and then vagabonding across Mumbai, Hyderabad, Vijaywada again….China for a while….and… imageries of Devangana that night flashed intermittently, he had infact thought once to call her and apologise in case he had misbehaved in his intoxicated state, that night, but it just didn’t materialize.
A bone jarring silence prevailed between them for some time- may be spilling over a bit more than an hour now. Pramod took the last sip from the third beer and got up, still gesturing a blemishness as an uncanny incommunicable silence prevailed. Devangana’s forefinger, with faded design of the mehendi which she must have applied half a week back, was reddening a bit with the constant to and fro friction trying to knot the gold chain…..apparently, as if a clot was stuck in her throat. Whether it was because of the droning silence or because of the innumerable words fixated in the voice box was implicit in the swaying candlelight. …could be Kingshook…may be…..
Pramod niether endeavoured to break the silence nor dig our words from her end. Too many jumbled up contradictory feelings. He felt, irritation was overpowering gradually....what should he do now....in an open terrace restaurant the permissable limits to vent out was pretty low.....an of course he has always felt inapt to express his feelings.
With dexterity he moved towards his black Corsa, a couple of yards in the reverse gear till he swiftly changed chronologically from the first to the second and then third gear. He had barely four hours in which lots have to be done…offloading, packing, the official part has been neatly organized by Neelima, which would make things easier….but why was Devangana so queer…he didn’t have the time to ponder now…a push on the fourth gear and an acceleration to 80km per hour…there are no other options at this hour.
The car almost took a 360 degrees turn, and a screeching halt, when Pramod suddenly realized that he has left his cell-phone at the terrace garden restaurant. He had almost come 20 Km ahead. He had never been so obnoxiously frustrated and irritated with himself earlier. He almost flung back…oops..now what….a big vehicular caravan just at the gate of the restaurant …seems to be an accident…the white ambulance quite fluorescently visible in the dark, some jeeps…for once it suddenly struck him…is Devangana still there, looping her gold chain…or may be Kingshook has come back once again… there was no time to park the stretched Corsa now. He had to take the risk of sliding it in a tangent and rush in. Its around half an hour that he has left the place. Devangana might have carried the cellphone with her….with the ticking of the clock his cognition levels were zeroing down.
As he came out of the car….well there it lied, in the overlooked corner of the seat, camouflaging its black leather cover with the black seat cover…..might have slipped off the pocket of his black trousers. Gears were almost skipped rather than changed on his way back home. In a frenzy the rest was done till he again had to cut through the same black darkness, same black roads for a while, till he was on different roads and crossings… to the international airport. Pramod had dozed off in the flight..so hard that he didn’t take his dinner too….
Third night in Timor, a late night full swing dinner, when Kingshook’s call trembled him. it couldn’t be any other issue than Devangana, which Kingshook had to sort out with him. …but over the table he never had any word with Devangana…not just she was unassumingly silent, but even the right conjuncture and his conviction to say certain things weren’t there. So what was it now… Kingshook knows he is ina business trip…and at this odd hour????
WHAT !! not just his voice and his hands were shivering but others around this epicenter of the shock were also taken aback. Interrogative monosyllables followed---how, when, where, why. Other than the ‘why’ bit of it Kingshook roted the same as he had done to the other friends. She was a mild schizophrenic, though bouts of her suicidal attempts had frequented since the last couple of months…Kingshook was with her on the fateful day over a cup of coffee, but finally gave up on her melodramatic silence …..he shouldn’t have left that day…and then when he called up after a couple of hours…her cell was already in the safe custody of the Police Station.
Pramod came back to his room…listless, numb …..similar white sheets, similar white fluffy pillows, similar bed side lamps….like the cottage in Kerala…he was drunk tonight too….so much as that day or may be more…he can’t recognize this place…Devangana’s bare shoulders are in his arms now as he is trying to pour the whole glass of wine down her throat…her bun has loosened and she was breathing hard of a surrendering respite….he could feel her nails clawing to him…..he couldn’t recollect the rest. He couldn’t recollect much of what happened- with him, with Devangana after that……and couldn’t rationalize why that night she called both him and Kingshook???
Pramod was scheduled to return from East Timor the next night…Thursday…. and Friday he was back to office. Infact, Friday was Poila Boishakh and Vishu…and he thought he and Devangana could spend some time together. .…. and he had to go for atleast a spoonful of Payesam of Cheriamma akin to other years.
Lunch was almost over, spilling over some more today in lieu of the regional new year. The Buddha still stared with half closed eyes. Pramod gradually opened the slit of his leather organizer and took out a white envelope and pulled out the three folded piece of white paper from it….a letter by post that too in his residence address after a long time when he returned home yesternight…. Surprising…. The postal mark of the Lodhi Road Post Office….an address neatly typed….who could have….he had torn it off and fretfully unfolded the three folds… Mrs. Devangana P. Nair …….he couldn’t go much further. The stamp of Kukreja Maternity Clinic was clearly shown. …his head reeled….as if Devangana was looping her gold chain once again…he tore off the paper within the white envelope, into diminutive pieces, tinier than he was feeling for himself… and tucked it in the pocket of his white shirt.
It was Vishu today. Cheriamma would wait…past the terrace gardens….he nervously turned his black Corsa…the white ambulance was still there awaiting to stretcher her body numbed of shame…he didn’t have much time today too. The presentation for the Shanghai group has to be done … after he has his rice, Aveal and Payesam at Cheriamma’s place……he threw the torn pieces of white papers, lowering the stained glass window pane… but it seems he has lost his way the black road spiraling ….his toe slipping off the accelerator……his fingers shivering over the black steering running directionlessly…Devangana…stretching out his left arm he said “ask someone…which is the right way”….Devangana’s face turned towards the window…the window pane is lowerered at her end…her face not seen …she is not in his favourite Black…but clad in the crushed white bed sheet or the white cover of the table… the black long strands of hair significantly visible…flying in the Baaisakhi breeze… coming on his forehead…chocking his throat….paralysing his limbs…… Close the window Devangana…just close it….the viens on his forehead protuberated out in anger . What is she up to ?? The white pieces of papers are flying all over….no..not torn any more pieces …but collaged to a bigger chronicle almost cloaking him….a white blindness harping all over….the bedsheets, the table cover, the ambulance, the stretcher…Cheriamma’s widowed drape……and gradually as Devangana turns……he couldn’t bear her diabolic smile anymore…her white teeth…her white diamonds… white clad. Pramod gripped on to the black seat cover …struggling to reach out to Devangana’s pale palms… a streak of blood flowed down the ruptured vein of his forehead… one drop, two drops, three drops…on the white crushed sheet… he was ecstatic…the drops were BLACK…his favourite black, oozing out …
Memoirs of April 13, 2006
Pramod didn’t talk much in the whole interim. He was one of the few who, instead didn’t want to drag his lunch over the joke. An alibi of a meeting with some Infosys guys…and he briskly went down the flight of stairs.
Back to his computers, the 3D maze, screensaver, wobbling over, didn’t change the placidity of his nerves. He cushioned himself again to his revolving chair and gazed at those maze…changing colours…blue, violet, pink, red, green, yellow…and again the same all over again, till the whole screen was filled with a multi-coloured mesh.
There was still some more time slotted for lunch. None of his colleagues were seen around. He took a cautioned look around and leaned back to his chair, loosening his tie knot till the permissible limits in office. He looked up to the serrated ventilator right above his head. A grayish black pigeon is pecking on the glass of the window. He is not an amateur Salim Ali ..and thus turned off his head and tried looking at the other end of his cabin, having a five feet high jute board partition. On it are some colourful board pins nailing some appointments of the coming week, few phone numbers which Neelima must have noted down while he was busy in some meetings with clients. Right at the corner, a small Buddha engraved on a hard cover was pinned…a memento which Devangana had given him after her trip to Sri Lanka. His eyes got stuck at that Buddha, sending across messages through his half closed eyes. Devangana had insisted that it remains by his office table- for it would calm him down, lessen his androgens of anxiety ….and with a slight pause said…would remind of her too. Pramod was not much argumentative with this small aspiration of this chirpy girl.
It has been a couple of years now, of knowing her and revealing himself, though its just two months that he has been feeling that the comfort zone of companionship has been increasing.
He reminisced the table, in the terrace garden restaurant, round, with a white sheet neatly laid - for the first time…. he observed her meticulously - strands of copperish hair just beneath the earlobes, a small diamond stud on the first earhole and a golden fillickry carved peepal foliage shaped gold earring in the second earhole, a big bun which covered almost half of the bare back, visible above the broad round neckline of the black ikkat blouse. Pramod had never tried to see her so closely…..unmindfully, may be, his eyes went down, from the cascade of her bunned hair to the blouse….another thin streak of black, may be the strap of her bra, peeping out a bit where her black and orange Sambhalpuri silk was pinned neatly to the blouse. A thin gold chain, which she continuously looped around with her forefinger, seemingly, in the absence of right alternating vocabulary. Pramod concentrated on the candlelight on the table swaying directions with the wind, making parts of her face momentarily more visible ….. she had put on a black bindi today, adding more fullness to her face and a streak of kajal too….the black mole was very prominent adding more moisture to her lips. The restrained radiance of her face seemed to resonate with the rumbling of the dry round leaves of the sesum … pathjar ki bahar jaise chaiye hui thi …..
Pramod was still clueless, though enthused that Devangana had finally called. He had by then smoothened those anxiety stricken frowns which were initiated as he had a glimpse of Kingshook’s white Matiz in his rear mirror, while coming in. Devangana had hinted about their rifting. So why, …..but then immediated was ….So what if he was seen around…the frown streaks tried reverberating again, when, as he walked down the white pebelled way, viewing Devangana in the corner table, he saw the waiter clearing up the singularly placed coffee cup…By the time he reached her table he had consciously shrugged it all off –partially to keep up to his male ego that Devangana had finally called her, partially since she was in his favourite Black , but more so since he didn’t have much time to delve into situational and relational nittigrities today.
He had just flown in after a hectic fortnightful travel across the peninsular zone and tomorrow early he has to move to East Timor. In fact exploring and expanding the market there was his brainchild and he needs to do really well this time. There were some sloppy ends last time and he knows that he cannot afford to repeat errors at this juncture. There is something exciting coming up in Shanghai after this and he has his eyes fixated on that. For a couple of minutes he was back to the Timorous clients….
...not again…he knows, Devangana is a perfectionist in her relations. Very feminine with her emotions, honestly speaking, very fragile, as Pramod would ideate. Sincerely, he had never conceptualized of being in the company of such women…or may be any women for that matter. He, on the other hand, has been busy conceiving and delivering marketing plans for his company other than the intermittent gardening which has been almost a latent hobby with him these days.
With all his masculine endurance and trying to figure out the feminine essence of romance, he started grappling for the right words. Two months back when they were in a joint venture in Kerala, it was over some wine that she spoke about Kingshook …though in snippets. Pramod doesn’t remember much of that night for he had …well the obvious…was drowsy on his drinks. He fadingly recollects that he had almost forced a glass down her throat. Devangana had an early flight the next morning and when Pramod woke up a bit late, with a splitting headache, the lights of the night were still glowing. On the crumbled corner of the white bed-sheet there were a few strands of hair. He didn’t want to infer much on this. Devangana’s room was already checked out by then and Pramod after a day’s meeting had to go for a couple of days to Vijaywada…and then vagabonding across Mumbai, Hyderabad, Vijaywada again….China for a while….and… imageries of Devangana that night flashed intermittently, he had infact thought once to call her and apologise in case he had misbehaved in his intoxicated state, that night, but it just didn’t materialize.
A bone jarring silence prevailed between them for some time- may be spilling over a bit more than an hour now. Pramod took the last sip from the third beer and got up, still gesturing a blemishness as an uncanny incommunicable silence prevailed. Devangana’s forefinger, with faded design of the mehendi which she must have applied half a week back, was reddening a bit with the constant to and fro friction trying to knot the gold chain…..apparently, as if a clot was stuck in her throat. Whether it was because of the droning silence or because of the innumerable words fixated in the voice box was implicit in the swaying candlelight. …could be Kingshook…may be…..
Pramod niether endeavoured to break the silence nor dig our words from her end. Too many jumbled up contradictory feelings. He felt, irritation was overpowering gradually....what should he do now....in an open terrace restaurant the permissable limits to vent out was pretty low.....an of course he has always felt inapt to express his feelings.
With dexterity he moved towards his black Corsa, a couple of yards in the reverse gear till he swiftly changed chronologically from the first to the second and then third gear. He had barely four hours in which lots have to be done…offloading, packing, the official part has been neatly organized by Neelima, which would make things easier….but why was Devangana so queer…he didn’t have the time to ponder now…a push on the fourth gear and an acceleration to 80km per hour…there are no other options at this hour.
The car almost took a 360 degrees turn, and a screeching halt, when Pramod suddenly realized that he has left his cell-phone at the terrace garden restaurant. He had almost come 20 Km ahead. He had never been so obnoxiously frustrated and irritated with himself earlier. He almost flung back…oops..now what….a big vehicular caravan just at the gate of the restaurant …seems to be an accident…the white ambulance quite fluorescently visible in the dark, some jeeps…for once it suddenly struck him…is Devangana still there, looping her gold chain…or may be Kingshook has come back once again… there was no time to park the stretched Corsa now. He had to take the risk of sliding it in a tangent and rush in. Its around half an hour that he has left the place. Devangana might have carried the cellphone with her….with the ticking of the clock his cognition levels were zeroing down.
As he came out of the car….well there it lied, in the overlooked corner of the seat, camouflaging its black leather cover with the black seat cover…..might have slipped off the pocket of his black trousers. Gears were almost skipped rather than changed on his way back home. In a frenzy the rest was done till he again had to cut through the same black darkness, same black roads for a while, till he was on different roads and crossings… to the international airport. Pramod had dozed off in the flight..so hard that he didn’t take his dinner too….
Third night in Timor, a late night full swing dinner, when Kingshook’s call trembled him. it couldn’t be any other issue than Devangana, which Kingshook had to sort out with him. …but over the table he never had any word with Devangana…not just she was unassumingly silent, but even the right conjuncture and his conviction to say certain things weren’t there. So what was it now… Kingshook knows he is ina business trip…and at this odd hour????
WHAT !! not just his voice and his hands were shivering but others around this epicenter of the shock were also taken aback. Interrogative monosyllables followed---how, when, where, why. Other than the ‘why’ bit of it Kingshook roted the same as he had done to the other friends. She was a mild schizophrenic, though bouts of her suicidal attempts had frequented since the last couple of months…Kingshook was with her on the fateful day over a cup of coffee, but finally gave up on her melodramatic silence …..he shouldn’t have left that day…and then when he called up after a couple of hours…her cell was already in the safe custody of the Police Station.
Pramod came back to his room…listless, numb …..similar white sheets, similar white fluffy pillows, similar bed side lamps….like the cottage in Kerala…he was drunk tonight too….so much as that day or may be more…he can’t recognize this place…Devangana’s bare shoulders are in his arms now as he is trying to pour the whole glass of wine down her throat…her bun has loosened and she was breathing hard of a surrendering respite….he could feel her nails clawing to him…..he couldn’t recollect the rest. He couldn’t recollect much of what happened- with him, with Devangana after that……and couldn’t rationalize why that night she called both him and Kingshook???
Pramod was scheduled to return from East Timor the next night…Thursday…. and Friday he was back to office. Infact, Friday was Poila Boishakh and Vishu…and he thought he and Devangana could spend some time together. .…. and he had to go for atleast a spoonful of Payesam of Cheriamma akin to other years.
Lunch was almost over, spilling over some more today in lieu of the regional new year. The Buddha still stared with half closed eyes. Pramod gradually opened the slit of his leather organizer and took out a white envelope and pulled out the three folded piece of white paper from it….a letter by post that too in his residence address after a long time when he returned home yesternight…. Surprising…. The postal mark of the Lodhi Road Post Office….an address neatly typed….who could have….he had torn it off and fretfully unfolded the three folds… Mrs. Devangana P. Nair …….he couldn’t go much further. The stamp of Kukreja Maternity Clinic was clearly shown. …his head reeled….as if Devangana was looping her gold chain once again…he tore off the paper within the white envelope, into diminutive pieces, tinier than he was feeling for himself… and tucked it in the pocket of his white shirt.
It was Vishu today. Cheriamma would wait…past the terrace gardens….he nervously turned his black Corsa…the white ambulance was still there awaiting to stretcher her body numbed of shame…he didn’t have much time today too. The presentation for the Shanghai group has to be done … after he has his rice, Aveal and Payesam at Cheriamma’s place……he threw the torn pieces of white papers, lowering the stained glass window pane… but it seems he has lost his way the black road spiraling ….his toe slipping off the accelerator……his fingers shivering over the black steering running directionlessly…Devangana…stretching out his left arm he said “ask someone…which is the right way”….Devangana’s face turned towards the window…the window pane is lowerered at her end…her face not seen …she is not in his favourite Black…but clad in the crushed white bed sheet or the white cover of the table… the black long strands of hair significantly visible…flying in the Baaisakhi breeze… coming on his forehead…chocking his throat….paralysing his limbs…… Close the window Devangana…just close it….the viens on his forehead protuberated out in anger . What is she up to ?? The white pieces of papers are flying all over….no..not torn any more pieces …but collaged to a bigger chronicle almost cloaking him….a white blindness harping all over….the bedsheets, the table cover, the ambulance, the stretcher…Cheriamma’s widowed drape……and gradually as Devangana turns……he couldn’t bear her diabolic smile anymore…her white teeth…her white diamonds… white clad. Pramod gripped on to the black seat cover …struggling to reach out to Devangana’s pale palms… a streak of blood flowed down the ruptured vein of his forehead… one drop, two drops, three drops…on the white crushed sheet… he was ecstatic…the drops were BLACK…his favourite black, oozing out …
Memoirs of April 13, 2006
The desert panorama
Vagabonding is a part of my profession, yet there are certain visits which touches ....more than other . I was in Barmer, in western Rajasthan...around 75 Kms from the Thar Desert and about a 100 KM from the Pakistan Border. Going to Rajasthan is almost a fortnightly affair for me....but this time, in the bosom of nature, i was thrilled. it was stretches of sand spreading for miles after miles and small shrubs of grasses which looked like porcupines getting ready for a frog race .......
Apart from this and a few stunted shrubs of babools there were no vegetation. sporadically you would see herds of sheep and camels craning out their necks to feed on the same. As far as the eye could go it was shades of yellow ochre and brown, stretches of sand and undulating sand dunes, rippled by the wind and with fading pugmarks of the camel.
Sporadically you would see igloo shaped huts, made of dried branches of a plant, which they locally call 'akhda' . i have seen similar plants, but it seemed that the deset species were a bit different.......you need to almost crawl on your knees to get inside those huts, though with my height i had to just bow down my head and walk in. the small entrance bars the hot wind to come in and so once you enter the hut it is cool ....you could hear the wind from within....blowing uninterrupted and then getting diverted by the hut......listening to the wind was really romantic....Felt like a romantic vagabond.....
As we sat to have lunch in the sultry afternoon in a roadside dhaba.....there were sparrows pecking to the Bajra rotis....huge round ones which are baked on mud platelets and mashed with some dry veggies and curd, which might be a bit fermented too . the locally prepared garlic and chilly paste rejuvenates the taste buds !! .....as you enjoyed the rural desert cuisine, there would be some aged people...adding on to the laziness of the afternoon by consuming small little tablets of opium
By afternoon it got dark...with nimbus clouds, it seemed that it could pour down any moment ...the first splash of colours were seen....peacocks were seen walking graciously or perched on the branches of babools...their shrill cacophony broke the tranquility of the deserts......it seemed the welcome songs for the rains have begun, though, localites said that it would not rain
....and then it grew even darker....things at a distance became hazy and it was like a gush of blinding smoke....a sandstorm, which approached like a whirlwind. nothing was to be seen, as we sheltered ourselves in one of the huts....till the storm receded. they said that it was of a smaller magnitude. once over, i saw that the sanddunes were re-shaped ...seemed nature has recrafted on its sand art.
FRom dusk to twilight it stretched over till 8 in the evening, when we went to the hamlet of the nomadic tribes- kalbelia ki BAsti. till a couple of years back they were wanderers, but now gradually settling down....with livelihood options reduced for the floating population. nothing so enchanting for these traditional snake charmners....for their livelihood is shrunk to begging now.
women clad in heavy traditional jewellery and colourful ghargras. the hamlet is also spotted with lean and thin hunter dogs, who are the territorial guards of the place
...and in that dusk....when it was entertainment time, the kalebelias played on their flute, slightly rounded in the middle, decorated with lovely beadwork, (generally used to charm the snakes) and women danced....and huge flared ghagras circled as they took rounds in the sand....and we sat on carpets made of camel hair and admired.
the starry sky was the last treat for the day, for it was millions and trillions of twinkling, across the horizon of the earth...as we had some warm goat's milk....i just watched....trying to identify the constellations….try to identify friends and foes sitting ‘up above the world so high’….. with thrilling senses.
I just wondered… admist this huge stretches of land, each dhani is atleast half a km from the other....so do people have the same concept of neighbourhood as we have.....distance could be so distant....lonliness so lonely........
Apart from this and a few stunted shrubs of babools there were no vegetation. sporadically you would see herds of sheep and camels craning out their necks to feed on the same. As far as the eye could go it was shades of yellow ochre and brown, stretches of sand and undulating sand dunes, rippled by the wind and with fading pugmarks of the camel.
Sporadically you would see igloo shaped huts, made of dried branches of a plant, which they locally call 'akhda' . i have seen similar plants, but it seemed that the deset species were a bit different.......you need to almost crawl on your knees to get inside those huts, though with my height i had to just bow down my head and walk in. the small entrance bars the hot wind to come in and so once you enter the hut it is cool ....you could hear the wind from within....blowing uninterrupted and then getting diverted by the hut......listening to the wind was really romantic....Felt like a romantic vagabond.....
As we sat to have lunch in the sultry afternoon in a roadside dhaba.....there were sparrows pecking to the Bajra rotis....huge round ones which are baked on mud platelets and mashed with some dry veggies and curd, which might be a bit fermented too . the locally prepared garlic and chilly paste rejuvenates the taste buds !! .....as you enjoyed the rural desert cuisine, there would be some aged people...adding on to the laziness of the afternoon by consuming small little tablets of opium
By afternoon it got dark...with nimbus clouds, it seemed that it could pour down any moment ...the first splash of colours were seen....peacocks were seen walking graciously or perched on the branches of babools...their shrill cacophony broke the tranquility of the deserts......it seemed the welcome songs for the rains have begun, though, localites said that it would not rain
....and then it grew even darker....things at a distance became hazy and it was like a gush of blinding smoke....a sandstorm, which approached like a whirlwind. nothing was to be seen, as we sheltered ourselves in one of the huts....till the storm receded. they said that it was of a smaller magnitude. once over, i saw that the sanddunes were re-shaped ...seemed nature has recrafted on its sand art.
FRom dusk to twilight it stretched over till 8 in the evening, when we went to the hamlet of the nomadic tribes- kalbelia ki BAsti. till a couple of years back they were wanderers, but now gradually settling down....with livelihood options reduced for the floating population. nothing so enchanting for these traditional snake charmners....for their livelihood is shrunk to begging now.
women clad in heavy traditional jewellery and colourful ghargras. the hamlet is also spotted with lean and thin hunter dogs, who are the territorial guards of the place
...and in that dusk....when it was entertainment time, the kalebelias played on their flute, slightly rounded in the middle, decorated with lovely beadwork, (generally used to charm the snakes) and women danced....and huge flared ghagras circled as they took rounds in the sand....and we sat on carpets made of camel hair and admired.
the starry sky was the last treat for the day, for it was millions and trillions of twinkling, across the horizon of the earth...as we had some warm goat's milk....i just watched....trying to identify the constellations….try to identify friends and foes sitting ‘up above the world so high’….. with thrilling senses.
I just wondered… admist this huge stretches of land, each dhani is atleast half a km from the other....so do people have the same concept of neighbourhood as we have.....distance could be so distant....lonliness so lonely........
Obituaries to my Ashes
OBITUARIES to my ASHES……….
A spring evening –Max temp 26.5 degrees, Minimum 12 degrees, relative humidity 86.5%. Spring, the English synonym to the Indian Basant. The season, when nature is at its blooming spirits……A white gowned medical practitioner just nodded with his head bowed down and remarked a very filmy ‘I’m sorry’ to the seemingly anxious neighbors hovering in the threshold of the door, which they broke open some hours back.
She was lying cradled, as if safely within her mother’s womb- stiff (or steady?), a leg gangrained and some dried froth from her mouth which had bleached a portion of the already wheatish marble floor. Other than this, no other distortions in the assumingly twenty four hour old dead body.
Well meaning neighbours as they were, ‘intending to’ love thy neighbour as much as they did to ye self, just covering up their olfactory organs, since the whole air staled , not just of her death….but of her LIFE too. Some of them murmured, she lead a mysterious life..a bizarre female !!
For these lazy afternoons, dusks and Godhulis, who sluggishly carried forward the heartbeats, debiting them from the already calculated credited ones, witnessed feelinglessly (the computer marks it as a wrong English word….I argue it’s a true feeling, Engishmen/women might be lucky enough not to encounter it!!) an end of another mortal. Census department and municipality office registers seemingly note no alteration, for there has been no hungama on the succession certificate, heirship authority….and things of similar sorts. Other than the crackling sound of the burning bones and the cheap wood, with one piece of sandalwood to keep up to her hindu origin there is not much heat to those flames of the pyre.
The sympathetic neighbors, whisper sighingly….as they prepare to depart after all the rituals have been performed ritualistically. A distant relative, though his relational pedigree couldn’t be deciphered exactly, sobbed secretively…..Choti ma as he poured the water from the kalash and threw it at his back. What was that …Choti Ma…a bonsaid motherhood, a partialisation of the completeness to femininity?
The flames were almost simmered. Some flesh of the mortal remained half-burnt, it seems….for the shamshanghat canines were awaiting for their shares of the roasted delicacy….or is it the mythological truth of the epics…the dog, the partner of the Pandavas to the heaven, carrying her also, in flesh and soul to the last abode?
…..and you thought as if it bothered me….not really. To be frank, a sadistic pleasure runs through my spine each time I see deaths in this proximity, sitting some meters away near the banks of the river turned nala. I am not a revolutionist, not an aethist, not even a terrorist or an artist. I am just a common man, very common very very common….without the strokes of R.K. Lakshman, without the tweed coat and the short lenghthed dhoti. So common that the whole trajectory of highest common factor and lowest common multiple underpins to a sheer ‘ordinary-ness’- unnoticed, undiscussed and may be unworthy too.
That’s my biggest failure of remaining to be common(refrained from being unusual). Its so heavy a tragedy of my being, my becoming and my belonging, that deaths also don’t shake me any more, since for common men like us- to be or not to be neither makes any difference to the self nor to others. This is my favorite spot, every dusk, lighting onto my favourite Gopal Beedi -the only one I can afford at 35, still unemployed (precisely unengaged in all forms), after flicking a few pennies from my sister’s purse!
Late evening I recede back home for some curses from my widower uncle followed by a dessert (or desert/desertion) of a handful of cold rice and a bit of green veggies. Dieted food indeed - for shrinking….not just in flesh but in existence too. The dog follows me right from the shamshanghat to the doorstep, as I throw away a morsel or two to him. He needs to be kept in confidence, for I am sure, when I die, the youngsters of the neighbouring Navachar Club would just throw me beyond those paddy fields, few kilometers away where the Doms stay. This dog and his brethren would then be the only resort to carry me in bits and pieces to heaven. Not that I feel very pathetic about getting torn to pieces, for, if I were born to some Zorabian or Barucha with a Parsi lineage, the corpse would have been ritualistically laid for birds to peck on it and fly off to heaven.
In all these 35 years I have never regretted for being jobless or as my uncle rebukes –a burden to his senile shoulders. Each day of the life comes and goes without bothering me. The Shamshanghat priest says I am a philosopher….I don’t have the wisdom to cross him. Life has never charmed me, death never beckoned me. I remain as a vestigial being to the system, impotent to my existence. Yet today seeing the young boy wail for his Choti ma, and walk back listlessly, a heaviness sunk in my heart. An eeriness within me, since I am not used to feel feelings. A bit of haziness on my tortoiseshell-shaped glasses. Tears moisturizing my eyes-impossible, incredible. May be I was sitting a bit too close to the smoke or am I getting myopic?
Throughout the night I sat there, listening to the chorus ‘Ram naam satya hain’ and then some mantras chanted and the body , then another yet another …laid on the pyre. Ghee, oil and camphor for no part of the self (the Ahm) to remain unburnt.
A tangible emptiness is around me and has been reproducing and replicating itself all over me, engulfing gradually, almost the way a python does to its prey- the blankness in the eyes, often blinding, the extreme feeling of meaninglessness in the mind, the tendency of normlessness in the heart, the numbness paralyzing the limbs and the barrenness of the womb- seems like hypnotizing. As I sat and started fingering the undulating marks and cracks on the soil …..I just groggily grappled with this identity. There seems to be hunger pangs all over my body and the taste-buds yet resenting. Is it just the sterility of my reproductive organs, grape-vined within the large and small intestines or is it the parochialism of the thoughts which are not resonating anymore or the societal norm of ‘law of averages’ in whose grid I knew I didn’t fit in.
Jackals have started howling far off and there is the hooting sound of the owl ….the whistle of the night-guard
(yet unable to guard The Nishi from the blinding daylight) followed by the distant sound of the diesel engine marking that its half past two. A queer lethargy holds me back from going back to my uncle’s house today. Every damp patch on the cheap white washed wall with disproportionately spread indigo seems to mock my insularity. Infact, I am elated that some more time is ‘passed off’ …though not the mumpphali marka ‘time pass’ at all. It seemed each moment staggered and stumbled beyond minutes and hours, looking backwards and flame-wards, whirlpooling my thoughts.
It was not just the time with the ticking clock, but the space in which it was clouted, knotted with impregnated feelings, which I might never deliver. The symphony went on like this, rewinding and replaying, in the same way, though the orchestra changed. Monotony and melancholy engulfed.
It has been 14 years now, since I performed the role alike to the young boy today. 14 years…. almost synonymous to a whole life, yet life imprisonment here seems, due to some erroneous calculations of the jailor, stretched beyond life, beyond death and beyond any definitive limitations. Through these years feelings have been concealed, commitments reassured to self and convictions rekindled. Yet, there has been a big pause…seems I have forgotten to exhale out after a deep breath and through the metabolism process the carbondioxde is getting continuously hoarded…making the whole body a venomous death chamber….wherein I get transformed to a stinking carcass.
The palpitations don’t seek for a reasonable reason to be on, neither can give a justified excuse…they just beat hard, relentlessly …..62 times in a minute as the report quotes, when I went for an almost finalized pre-employment medical check up. With every such systolic and diastolic move, there is all of it together…the Mukhagni, the chauth, the uthala…the pind-daan… all rites and rituals done in sequence so that the ‘soul rests in peace’ with the ‘father in heaven’.
It seems, I did it all for myself,….It feels really light to be burnt…just reduced to ashes….as if hanging in the air….no, not like that man, (who hanged himself in an old branch of the banyan few months back) hanging 6 inches above the ground but much higher…much much higher. Like that person in the colourful balloon flying about 50 feet high above the splashing, rough waves of the Arabian sea.Yes, I remember I saw it as a kid when I was in Goa with my parents and sister. The lightness when gravity of self and relations don’t hold you back anymore...
But its not all that heavenly pleasure …there is an intolerable pain as if trillions of needles are nailed in me ….. is it that my legs are cemented to the grave which seems so heavy or the dog trying to tear off my flesh from the bones……I cant define where the pain is….in my head, my legs, my ribs…where is it?? No but I am burnt…I did it myself, with my own hands….I can even see the orange pieces of wood shimmering down gradually …. My body turned to ashes….but the ashes seems like a gelatin, glued like a dirty mash. They are heavy like the particles of mercury sticking on to each other, with a slimy sluggishness to move. The particles of ashes too much fixated with the earthly body…cant just renunciate and fly in pieces to the unknown horizons, for here remains a known world, a world which conditioned the body, the soul. A world with its uncomfortable zones domesticated us ….to its evils and odds….rooted us …alike to that gangrained leg of Choti Ma – diseased yet not amputed, the body carrying it through life unto death.
Institutionalization of life towards breathlessly gate-keeping belongings, beckonings…Ha…A vicious cycle till the mouth of the earthen pot filled with ashes is also tied hard and sunk into the deep river bed- to germinate again.
Gradually I am feeling that charm…that my feeling (affective domain) faculty is not yet redundant …. feeling death with all my sensuasness. Every nerve ending seems charged with a welcome note. Death now seems to a metaphor to life…a Siamese twin…a seemingly similar self with a differing identity, a differing individuality- a unique thumbprint. It seems to be a very known domain to me , a very vernacular feeling nested in my life- yet an etiology unknown.
Every particle of ash looks like a microcosm of the life, of my transcendence. A fragmentist, a reductioninst was what I was throughout my life, numblessly addicted to life as an ongoing process – or a going on droning syndrome.
Marginalization featured my life- as an unemployed, unengaged, at the twilight of youthful vigour, solacing and shuttling in the outskirts from my uncles house to skirting around the burning ghat- living an unsettled/unmarried life, with no potency to reproduce, symbolically akin to kangarooing my body……………………………………………………………
Till I realized that marginalization was not just lack of opportunities, conscious choices or sheer apathy in realization of those choices. It could be something like me, stagnated to margins, fearfully unable to be decisive on which side am I on.- within or beyond.
As my ashes fly haphazardly in a Brownian motion liberation spills over. Suddenly I am able to see without my glasses, able to salivate without the conditioned ladle of cold rice and slip into an intellectual addictive stimulation without the Gopal Beedi.
Death, if at all I knew, thou art so beautiful, so bountiful, so blissful….would I have ever craved to live…. A wreath to my calculated breaths, an obituary to my ashes, that’s all my life, to thee I give.
A spring evening –Max temp 26.5 degrees, Minimum 12 degrees, relative humidity 86.5%. Spring, the English synonym to the Indian Basant. The season, when nature is at its blooming spirits……A white gowned medical practitioner just nodded with his head bowed down and remarked a very filmy ‘I’m sorry’ to the seemingly anxious neighbors hovering in the threshold of the door, which they broke open some hours back.
She was lying cradled, as if safely within her mother’s womb- stiff (or steady?), a leg gangrained and some dried froth from her mouth which had bleached a portion of the already wheatish marble floor. Other than this, no other distortions in the assumingly twenty four hour old dead body.
Well meaning neighbours as they were, ‘intending to’ love thy neighbour as much as they did to ye self, just covering up their olfactory organs, since the whole air staled , not just of her death….but of her LIFE too. Some of them murmured, she lead a mysterious life..a bizarre female !!
For these lazy afternoons, dusks and Godhulis, who sluggishly carried forward the heartbeats, debiting them from the already calculated credited ones, witnessed feelinglessly (the computer marks it as a wrong English word….I argue it’s a true feeling, Engishmen/women might be lucky enough not to encounter it!!) an end of another mortal. Census department and municipality office registers seemingly note no alteration, for there has been no hungama on the succession certificate, heirship authority….and things of similar sorts. Other than the crackling sound of the burning bones and the cheap wood, with one piece of sandalwood to keep up to her hindu origin there is not much heat to those flames of the pyre.
The sympathetic neighbors, whisper sighingly….as they prepare to depart after all the rituals have been performed ritualistically. A distant relative, though his relational pedigree couldn’t be deciphered exactly, sobbed secretively…..Choti ma as he poured the water from the kalash and threw it at his back. What was that …Choti Ma…a bonsaid motherhood, a partialisation of the completeness to femininity?
The flames were almost simmered. Some flesh of the mortal remained half-burnt, it seems….for the shamshanghat canines were awaiting for their shares of the roasted delicacy….or is it the mythological truth of the epics…the dog, the partner of the Pandavas to the heaven, carrying her also, in flesh and soul to the last abode?
…..and you thought as if it bothered me….not really. To be frank, a sadistic pleasure runs through my spine each time I see deaths in this proximity, sitting some meters away near the banks of the river turned nala. I am not a revolutionist, not an aethist, not even a terrorist or an artist. I am just a common man, very common very very common….without the strokes of R.K. Lakshman, without the tweed coat and the short lenghthed dhoti. So common that the whole trajectory of highest common factor and lowest common multiple underpins to a sheer ‘ordinary-ness’- unnoticed, undiscussed and may be unworthy too.
That’s my biggest failure of remaining to be common(refrained from being unusual). Its so heavy a tragedy of my being, my becoming and my belonging, that deaths also don’t shake me any more, since for common men like us- to be or not to be neither makes any difference to the self nor to others. This is my favorite spot, every dusk, lighting onto my favourite Gopal Beedi -the only one I can afford at 35, still unemployed (precisely unengaged in all forms), after flicking a few pennies from my sister’s purse!
Late evening I recede back home for some curses from my widower uncle followed by a dessert (or desert/desertion) of a handful of cold rice and a bit of green veggies. Dieted food indeed - for shrinking….not just in flesh but in existence too. The dog follows me right from the shamshanghat to the doorstep, as I throw away a morsel or two to him. He needs to be kept in confidence, for I am sure, when I die, the youngsters of the neighbouring Navachar Club would just throw me beyond those paddy fields, few kilometers away where the Doms stay. This dog and his brethren would then be the only resort to carry me in bits and pieces to heaven. Not that I feel very pathetic about getting torn to pieces, for, if I were born to some Zorabian or Barucha with a Parsi lineage, the corpse would have been ritualistically laid for birds to peck on it and fly off to heaven.
In all these 35 years I have never regretted for being jobless or as my uncle rebukes –a burden to his senile shoulders. Each day of the life comes and goes without bothering me. The Shamshanghat priest says I am a philosopher….I don’t have the wisdom to cross him. Life has never charmed me, death never beckoned me. I remain as a vestigial being to the system, impotent to my existence. Yet today seeing the young boy wail for his Choti ma, and walk back listlessly, a heaviness sunk in my heart. An eeriness within me, since I am not used to feel feelings. A bit of haziness on my tortoiseshell-shaped glasses. Tears moisturizing my eyes-impossible, incredible. May be I was sitting a bit too close to the smoke or am I getting myopic?
Throughout the night I sat there, listening to the chorus ‘Ram naam satya hain’ and then some mantras chanted and the body , then another yet another …laid on the pyre. Ghee, oil and camphor for no part of the self (the Ahm) to remain unburnt.
A tangible emptiness is around me and has been reproducing and replicating itself all over me, engulfing gradually, almost the way a python does to its prey- the blankness in the eyes, often blinding, the extreme feeling of meaninglessness in the mind, the tendency of normlessness in the heart, the numbness paralyzing the limbs and the barrenness of the womb- seems like hypnotizing. As I sat and started fingering the undulating marks and cracks on the soil …..I just groggily grappled with this identity. There seems to be hunger pangs all over my body and the taste-buds yet resenting. Is it just the sterility of my reproductive organs, grape-vined within the large and small intestines or is it the parochialism of the thoughts which are not resonating anymore or the societal norm of ‘law of averages’ in whose grid I knew I didn’t fit in.
Jackals have started howling far off and there is the hooting sound of the owl ….the whistle of the night-guard
(yet unable to guard The Nishi from the blinding daylight) followed by the distant sound of the diesel engine marking that its half past two. A queer lethargy holds me back from going back to my uncle’s house today. Every damp patch on the cheap white washed wall with disproportionately spread indigo seems to mock my insularity. Infact, I am elated that some more time is ‘passed off’ …though not the mumpphali marka ‘time pass’ at all. It seemed each moment staggered and stumbled beyond minutes and hours, looking backwards and flame-wards, whirlpooling my thoughts.
It was not just the time with the ticking clock, but the space in which it was clouted, knotted with impregnated feelings, which I might never deliver. The symphony went on like this, rewinding and replaying, in the same way, though the orchestra changed. Monotony and melancholy engulfed.
It has been 14 years now, since I performed the role alike to the young boy today. 14 years…. almost synonymous to a whole life, yet life imprisonment here seems, due to some erroneous calculations of the jailor, stretched beyond life, beyond death and beyond any definitive limitations. Through these years feelings have been concealed, commitments reassured to self and convictions rekindled. Yet, there has been a big pause…seems I have forgotten to exhale out after a deep breath and through the metabolism process the carbondioxde is getting continuously hoarded…making the whole body a venomous death chamber….wherein I get transformed to a stinking carcass.
The palpitations don’t seek for a reasonable reason to be on, neither can give a justified excuse…they just beat hard, relentlessly …..62 times in a minute as the report quotes, when I went for an almost finalized pre-employment medical check up. With every such systolic and diastolic move, there is all of it together…the Mukhagni, the chauth, the uthala…the pind-daan… all rites and rituals done in sequence so that the ‘soul rests in peace’ with the ‘father in heaven’.
It seems, I did it all for myself,….It feels really light to be burnt…just reduced to ashes….as if hanging in the air….no, not like that man, (who hanged himself in an old branch of the banyan few months back) hanging 6 inches above the ground but much higher…much much higher. Like that person in the colourful balloon flying about 50 feet high above the splashing, rough waves of the Arabian sea.Yes, I remember I saw it as a kid when I was in Goa with my parents and sister. The lightness when gravity of self and relations don’t hold you back anymore...
But its not all that heavenly pleasure …there is an intolerable pain as if trillions of needles are nailed in me ….. is it that my legs are cemented to the grave which seems so heavy or the dog trying to tear off my flesh from the bones……I cant define where the pain is….in my head, my legs, my ribs…where is it?? No but I am burnt…I did it myself, with my own hands….I can even see the orange pieces of wood shimmering down gradually …. My body turned to ashes….but the ashes seems like a gelatin, glued like a dirty mash. They are heavy like the particles of mercury sticking on to each other, with a slimy sluggishness to move. The particles of ashes too much fixated with the earthly body…cant just renunciate and fly in pieces to the unknown horizons, for here remains a known world, a world which conditioned the body, the soul. A world with its uncomfortable zones domesticated us ….to its evils and odds….rooted us …alike to that gangrained leg of Choti Ma – diseased yet not amputed, the body carrying it through life unto death.
Institutionalization of life towards breathlessly gate-keeping belongings, beckonings…Ha…A vicious cycle till the mouth of the earthen pot filled with ashes is also tied hard and sunk into the deep river bed- to germinate again.
Gradually I am feeling that charm…that my feeling (affective domain) faculty is not yet redundant …. feeling death with all my sensuasness. Every nerve ending seems charged with a welcome note. Death now seems to a metaphor to life…a Siamese twin…a seemingly similar self with a differing identity, a differing individuality- a unique thumbprint. It seems to be a very known domain to me , a very vernacular feeling nested in my life- yet an etiology unknown.
Every particle of ash looks like a microcosm of the life, of my transcendence. A fragmentist, a reductioninst was what I was throughout my life, numblessly addicted to life as an ongoing process – or a going on droning syndrome.
Marginalization featured my life- as an unemployed, unengaged, at the twilight of youthful vigour, solacing and shuttling in the outskirts from my uncles house to skirting around the burning ghat- living an unsettled/unmarried life, with no potency to reproduce, symbolically akin to kangarooing my body……………………………………………………………
Till I realized that marginalization was not just lack of opportunities, conscious choices or sheer apathy in realization of those choices. It could be something like me, stagnated to margins, fearfully unable to be decisive on which side am I on.- within or beyond.
As my ashes fly haphazardly in a Brownian motion liberation spills over. Suddenly I am able to see without my glasses, able to salivate without the conditioned ladle of cold rice and slip into an intellectual addictive stimulation without the Gopal Beedi.
Death, if at all I knew, thou art so beautiful, so bountiful, so blissful….would I have ever craved to live…. A wreath to my calculated breaths, an obituary to my ashes, that’s all my life, to thee I give.
Obituaries, still....stilled
A throbbing pain pricking at some sensitive corner of my mind,
A sickening feeling never leaves me alone...never in peace,
A slow poison not strong enough to kill but to leave me struggling for my life,
A dull ache pushing me more n more towards insanity...questioning my sanity,
A truth I'm scared to accept
A past I'm unable to escape
Sapping out all the happiness and leaving me to die in misery drowned in my own sorrow?
If to end is the only end ..then why not ...a sharp pain, a single blow to Silence the moan ?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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