OF OVER SPEEDING TRUCKS, UNPAID BILLS, HATE MAILS AND NAUGHTY ANGELS.

THIS IS STUPID. ONE OF MY LOW DAY WONDERS. DONT SEND ME HATE MAILS. I HATE THIS TOO BUT IT MAKES ME LAUGH. READ IT AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Tomorrow comes like the over speeding truck and smashes into my face leaving me with scars cut deeper than I could feel. Nothingness came and left me a blank note for tomorrow. It said, ‘this is all your bleeding tomorrow offers you. Your faithlessness has to pay its price and this is all I give. Rot alone you moron!’ and I cried for water is free and feelings are not. I had dared to emote and had paid an expensive bill. Hope, the lover chastised me for I wasn’t paying him enough attention. He disappeared one Sunday morning without a goodbye. Sunday I spent in my pool of tears, swimming in them till the taps dried up. Monday was when loneliness came home with me. She stinks, that bloody bitch, but she was the only one who would have me. She reeked of hate, mistrust. But she loved. Boy, the way she sucked on me. Swallowing away every bit of emotion my weakening mind could afford to muster. She blew me every single night, for nights are when she comes to me-slowly, silently. Her raw skin rubbing against mine, her breath filling me with animal energy. She dug herself into me, making me scream into the muted nights. “Stop! Stop! Nooooo!” But no one heard me, no one but her. And she loved it. My weakness, my lack of resistance made her come every night into me. And in the morning when I looked around she was gone, but her smell followed me no matter wherever I went. It intimidated all those who ever thought of moving towards me. She’s one hell of a jealous lover, I say. Then I saw sorrow at one of loneliness’ weekend parties. She sat there smoking, unbothered. I saw that hope had come and left her too. She had that look about her that his scars had made on me. Somewhere deep underneath our clothes, hope had left scars. Scars that couldn’t be seen when he was around, loving, caressing. By now I had realised it was women who loved me. After hope had left me (men, psh!) I had had one night stands with so many femme fatales-misery, pain, anger, frustration… even slept with all of them at once (WARNING: injurious to health) and now sorrow came. We made love in the attic of loneliness’ villa and I knew she was the one I was to be with. We melted into each other when we came together. She sucked well too but never hurting me. Just a pool of tears was all that came after every night together. No pain, no pain at all. And soon we were all over each other. We made love when loneliness was in the kitchen cooking, when I was in bus stands, libraries, trains, subways…I now had two dearly loving mistresses. They knew about each other and didn’t seem to mind.

I thought this was my happy ending. No hateful Monday blues, no terrifying Sunday mornings and no miserable Fridays and Saturdays. Only sorrow and loneliness. They lit my nothingness and made hell seem so much better.
Until one Thursday morning the truck went right over me. That was the last truck I would see.

I am now an angel who has to stand outside God’s mansion, for I came in late and am known here to have slept with one too many bad women.

Can you hear me scream?
(THE AUTHOR WILL NOT TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR HEART PROBLEMS CAUSED BY HER REPULSIVE WRITING. I REPEAT, SHE LACKS A SENSE OF HUMOUR AS THE TERM IS DEFINED IN ANY DICTIONARY.)

LOVE MARKED ME A "REJECT"

Love collided into me on the park bench and mumbled voiceless sentences. Love had taken the form of a friend on a cold winter afternoon…if we could be called that. I barely talked, we hardly met, and our affections ended with…well…that’s a totally different story. But she was the closest I ever had for a friend. I was a silent 10 year old, dull and lost and all. With huge eyes that stared without a tinge of curiosity. My eyes have grown smaller but on ‘low’ days, I can see the stare lurking in the corners threatening me with a visit. I look away. She was cheerful, had more friends then than I might ever have. But she was different around me. Our two contrary worlds came together to morph into an eccentric world. Our World.

6 years had gone by. All the insubstantial changed-she was happier, taller and thinner, I was 5 inches taller than then, had grown even more ‘into myself’ as she put it. What mattered still remained-the silence, the almost uninterested feel, the strange affection. My grandmother’s funeral was the only reason for us to meet again. She decided we should go to her favourite spot-a bench outside the park. Wooden formalities and ersatz smiles exchanged, we found ourselves with nothing left. So we sat, watching-like two insignificant gods. Just like the old days when time used to push us away into the confines of infinity, a desired infinity.

As we watched a kid fell from the swing. She cursed. ’Shit’. Amusement stabbed me when I least expected it. My lips curled into a grin and before I knew I was howling with mirthless laughter. I heard high-pitched giggles besides me. Giggles that bought memories I had forgotten existed-whining, ice candies, harmless lies, happy parents…I turned to look right into her face. I had never seen that look after the day I fell headlong onto the crowded school corridor as I was rushing towards her. We let the last glance linger for she knew as well as I did that we had no reason to meet again. The smiles were still on our faces and she was still recovering from her fit of giggles when she closed her eyes to blink back a tear. Silly me, I was embarrassed.
‘Shit’.

ANSWERS

Sorrow hums a hollow tune,
As I wait for her,
Tumbling questions into the resonating wind,
Seeking her eyes that put forth a heaven,
Nestled in the branches of eternal silence.
Her lips voice illusions like those of a starless sky,
And fingers that rub away everything remotely weak.
Red fist bangs on sealed doors.
Fever and anticipation wait on me-
Companions on a winter day.
I seek answers from an empty soul,
Trampled upon by crimson crosses.
She turns, as I plead,
Her eyes shutting me out of them,
Fleshless voices dragging me into the passages of raw fear,
Leaving me with a single tear-
Answers to my trivial questions.

THE WAR

The place was perfect-an almost empty café on a crowded Bombay street. A perfect mug of coffee placed in my hand with its intoxicating aroma tantalising my senses. I was all alone. My cousin was ranting about his latest conquest (a girl, a bike or something equally arid). But he seemed so unusually far away. Like a million miles away or something. Gosh! I definitely needed sleep. Hadn’t slept through better part of last night, dozed off on the floor-third time in two months (bad idea, don’t try this ANYWHERE). Slept again to be woken up by the overtly sour mother of mine who was screaming something about 8 being a highly inappropriate time to be sleeping at. Psh!
10 hours, 7 ‘intentional’ lies later, here I was in a café with my cousin taking a short break from his never ending quest for expensive, tasteless, flashy clothes and accessories. The door tinkled and a lie walked in…a female of 50 or 60 years maybe…beautifully dyed hair, unnaturally ‘white’ned teeth, good figure, high heels and a stomach immaculately pulled in by a corset. Then came in a 20 year old lie, laughing at an unnaturally high pitch, cheering for her boyfriend who spoke impeccably vile things. And then I looked around. Couples, lovers, friends…happy lies…. that camouflage every small detail even minutely showing disgust, loners, ugly men and women, the beggars outside…sad truth. Two extremes. And suddenly the room tore apart into two as the two eternal opponents prepared for a war. They roared, charged and clashed…and the war ceased. Who won?
My cousin asked me if he was looking good today. Smile. ‘Umm yes.’
Lie.
The lonely ugly woman in one of the corners of the well-lit café walked out with a bent head.

WORDS

Voices spoke feeding empty conversations,
As the winds fingered my nightmares longingly.
Love abandoned an empty corpse,
To set the sands of time on fire.
Rage grew to fiery heights,
Consuming everything that willed to succumb.
Fingers fiddled with the spine of reason,
Searching for bones to crumble.
And behind the doors awaits eternity,
With all its wares put to display.
Raising pitch mortality yodelled,
Asking questions to a muted world.
And words fell from suppressed corners,
Unclothed and free of pretensions.

AND AN ANT PLAYS GOD

I spend hours on my window last night, looking at the withering trees and the distant lights. I stared till my eyes begin to water, but I couldn’t find a reason for my aimless staring. Ok. Let us assess one by one. What I felt? Unbelievable gay (stupid), no seriously, what did I REALLY feel? Happy. Not the woohoo-life-rocks kind of happiness. What I felt was a sprinkle of it, loneliness has a way of touching you, maybe not always, but at times like these, when you sit in the corner of the world, and watch the madness outside. Everything blurs, runs, rushes at break-neck speed and you sit there unaffected. Detached. Out of place. Like I feel every time I go to one of those parties by ‘socially inclined middle aged ladies’ where the only thing not re-vamped, re-furnished, modified and ‘up’lifted is the furniture. Where they gossip about each other’s husbands (read: behind their backs), about the neighbours, the workers, the increasing parlour charges and et all. Everything under the sun, except those problems that really bother them-fights, wayward children (however cut my mother out of this one, she complains at every possible place, though I AM pretty well behaved), money- for women have a quality of bearing everything silently. They are the obelisks of silent suffering. They cry about small things-twisted lip, paunches, and cockroaches…. But when it comes to cancer, pain, betrayal, she sits there like nothing affects her. For them its heritage and they ought to bear it.

No, where was I? Yes, the feeling of loneliness in a muddle. It’s like the sprinkle of rain on a summer day. Satiating albeit temporarily. For one pretty moment, you feel balanced, equanimous. And then it seeps in, wake up! Ur lonely, you have no one around you! No, no get away from here, go away! GO AWAY!
Madness, chaos…hell? Maybe…
If I think of God the way He is projected, I see him perched on a huge tower, looking down at us as ants, caught in the rush to nowhere in particular and when one ant among us gets awfully boring (you know goody-good, angel eyes and helps others to feel happy) he picks him up to accompany him. The naughty ants get to stay in here longer and if they bother him too much, he squats them into the ground. Into hell. When I sit on the window, that’s what I felt like-GOD. A powerless One, albeit One. Alone, perched away on the window of a small tower. A lesser God. Then it struck me; maybe God gets awfully lonely too. Sitting there all alone, fiddling with ants. And He has no escape.
And the rain of reason hit me but changed to droplets of water when I asked it for an answer.
I sat there, bruised by the cold winds wondering, but the moment had gone. My card had expired. I’d have to wait for answers, probably on this long journey into nothingness I may find an answer. I’ll wait.
And a mortal fooled herself to think she would find answers to questions she never bothered to ask…

is something i did on a sleepless night, aint much of an artist but i think i liked this picture. if ur wondering what it means, so am i...would like some of u to send a description, what u think of it, i repeat of THE PICTURE, not me... 

LILY

A flickering ray of sunlight,
Seeps into a freezing cubicle,
Where he holds himself prisoner,
To self imbibed solitude.
And the cadavers and nightingales burst into a song,
In the tongue of pain.
A bittersweet feeling presses itself,
Onto the coarse path of a dreary life.
The vultures of judgement beckon,
For the evening sets in at a slovenly pace,
But the dreamer in the cubicle,
Conspires no escape.
A greying bundle of filth waits for the night to set in,
For the day has left him famished.
And his entrails creak in a prayer for rest.
He leans back setting his eyes on a quest-
For simple joys in the cracks and crevices of a wasted life,
His eyes hunt them and weave them in a veil,
That conceals the scars and bruises that fate chose to make.
His bloodless heart calls him from yonder,
For love still exists in its forfeited remains.
And as longing flies out of its sealed cage,
A lily in the wild withers away…

AND THE BUTTERFLIES FELL...

Mourning sun sinks in defeat,
As the funereal night blooms,
Shrouding the dregs of shrivelled springs of joy.
The sky brims with defaced stars and broken hearts,
As the butterflies crash into the callous ground,
Wings ripped apart-shorn off their undeserved glory.

And it rains snow,
Bitter-cold like the grumbling hag,
Burying the dahlias and lobelias,
As the butterflies crash into the callous ground,
Wings ripped apart-shorn off their undeserved glory.

Gloom peels layers incessantly,
As sadism embarks on its reign,
And the butterflies crash into bottomless pits,
Wings ripped apart-shorn off their undeserved glory.

Then the mellow winds blow,
Taking with it their magnificence,
Leaving behind festered worms,
Where blue eyes once sought butterflies.

And the yellowing leaves rustled as they said "There lay no beauty in their undeserved glory"