damn cards...

the wind blew, came through the window towards my table, where lay a structure made of playing cards which i build in the morning. it was tall, broad and beautiful. now it lay on the table, just cards no structure. whom should i blame, the person who opened the window, the person who took the curtain for washing, the wind which had to blow this way only or myself who built the structure. i dont know. most likely no one. all i know is that i had a beautiful structure in the morning and now it all lay devastated on the table top. and as i see the cards fallen, helpless and ugly, my courage to rebuild it withers and fear of seeing it destroyed creeps in. how will it matter if i rebuild it or not...how will it matter if it stood or fell again....it will still be cards...which i wanted to give a shape...a shape which i wanted....the wind disliked...the person who opened the window disliked...and the person who took the curtain for washing disliked....the cards were helpless like me.

magic flowers

exhausted and drenched in sweat, she returned home. it was a long and tiring day for her but never so satisfying. as she lay down on the bed which she had bought with the bounty of money she had from the last summer's sale, she immediately fell asleep. it was early morning when she woke up. first sunrays of the day had seeped in through the unmended roof of the hut which had no windows, for she had heard that fortune escapes through windows. the earthen pot which she carries every day to sell yogurt lay near the foot of her bed. she always had kept two pots. one she kept hidden in the mud closet covered with jute sack, filled with milk and seeds of yogurt of the previous day. no cats ever knew about this secret of hers. they only knew about her generosity of the other pot. every night she would come back home and keep the leftover in the pot near the foot of her bed. always in the same quantity and same taste, for she had some magic of knowing how much it will sell everyday and she would prepare only a little extra. the cat would come in the night through the unlocked door, as she kept it every night. his arrival never disturbing her sleep, but she always found the leftover at the bottom of the pot gone in the morning and a feather of an unknown bird beside the pot. she started her day with her folded hands and eyes looking at the stone which contained the spirit of all her ancesters. then she would look into the pot and the feather, curse the unworthy cat which always left the feather of some bird which he might have killed, but she would preserve the feather like every lover preserves the roses of his first love.

as the sound of sweeping from the house beside hers is heard, she leaves her hut with the pot filled with fresh yogurt on her head. filling the streets of the village with her own meloncholic sound. children would come out of their homes, run after her, call her names, throwing mud pebbles at the pot on her head, missing all the shots, and she would never mind. as she walked from door to door, her steps growing slower and slower, million thoughts filling her mind, until she reaches the last of the house on that village street where her feet felt heavy, her eyes tired and only a small was left for the cat, she would rest. she would rest under the old gullar tree, laden with flowers of all colours, blue, purple, magenta, white, yellow and colours that they had never seen before. the most beautiful of all the trees in the village and villages around it. they told stories about it, worshipped it, lighted incandesence at its roots, tied threads around it and she always rested in peace after a tiresome day.

one day, she was resting under the shade of that tree and the day was sunny. there was no breeze and no rustling of leaves in the tree. everything lay still and barren and she slept under the tree, her pot lying beside her, containing little yogurt for the cat. It was a sunny day and nobody passed by for a long time, all the dogs on the street had taken shelter in some shade and there was no sound to be heard. A purple flower broke off from the branch of the tree and fell in the pot.

The next morning when she woke up, said her prayer with closed eyes and looked at the pot beside the foot of her bed. there was no feather left by the cat that day and the small amount of yogurt which she always left for the cat lay there at the bottom of the pot. she felt worried and left for the day's work. that day when she returned after selling, earning a little extra from what she earned everyday till now, she found her pot still filled to the same level where she had started. no matter how many extra doors she knocked that day, she was not able to sell whole of it. she was worried and she could not stay longer under that tree. she left for home and slept, waking up next day with the hope that everything would be same. but it wasn't. no cats came by and she had no feathers to add to her treaser. she sat under the gullar and weapt her heart out. but nothing changed. day by day her earning increased but she never returned home selling whole of yogurt which she had made. she mended her house and made two windows in the house with the fortune she earned, but she lived worried and grew tired of those worries day by day. one afternoon, when she was sitting under the tree, she remembered the day when she had dreamt of a flower dropping in her pot from the branches of that tree. she cursed the tree for that day and for that flower, she cursed it for bringing her sorrow and worry. she cried out aloud, " o unworthy and charismatic tree! were you ashamed of my ugly but happy life? or did you want to see the whole world as beautiful and rich as you? but you forgot that your beauty is incomplete if there remains no ugliness as me. your kindness has no meaning without my curse. your beauty has marred your mind and made you insane. you want to see everything good and fair and rich and beautiful. but you have sacrificed my contended self. you have brought me great sorrow. you have killed my beloved cat and stolen his feathers. i wish you will never bear any flowers upon you. i wish you be laden with ugly fruits. like my pot of yogurt which never gets empty now, but earns me no satisfaction, no one will ever see your flowers now, but you will be always full of fruits."

the children on the streets remembered the tree thereafter as a haunted tree with no flowers, which lay there barren and deserted, asked by no one, watered by no one since the day it was cursed. no one in the village had seen a single flower on that tree and they left it deserted because they considered it ugly without flowers, covered only with small berries like fruit, infected by the curse of demons of ill luck. The old lady would still rest under the same tree and no flowers fell in her pot thereafter. And they would share their solitude for a while. she, always tired and the tree always watchful and meloncholic with no flowers on it, only fruits.

.....hope of the fish eyes

the lamp post, the tree in front of my house and the van parked outside stayed still in that lonely long night, as did my solitary figure in that night of perpetual darkness. nothing seemed longer and more faithful to me than that night which has stayed in me till i died, till i suffocated myself in the amnesty of the god and the devil which created the fire of eternal inexistence of a lost and meandering life. but the hope still lived, torturing me, tormenting me yet in some way completing me and giving me a reason to live a life of this inexistence.
the wind had stopped, so had rain and the last vehicle on the street had passed before dawn broke, leaving the fluttering leaves dead still on the road, when i dropped my last drop of tears, when i decided to drop no more, when i was tired of sobbing, when nobody heard me cry out the sorrow of a fool, when the drops of tear dried and left a tar sticking in the bottom of my heart, when i inhaled the longest breath i had ever breathed. probably i was thinking of drowning the parchment of an unheard love in the tears i shed, probably i was thinking of blowing away the torn pieces of the parchment of an unheard love, probably i was thinking of burying the parchment of an unheard love in the secrecy when the last of the vehicles had passed that street. tears stopped and i breathed in till i could take no more air inside, unaware if everything was as i was thinking them probably. i had not the faintest of idea if i was going to sleep a little or wake up and brush my teeth which felt saline by morning. i had not the faintest of idea that i was going to live after that in the fog of that improbability and heedless ceremony of living. every new attemp to shatter things meeting a glimpse of hope, hope of those fish eyes which had trapped me inside the sphere of the sorceress. that hope didnt have the slightest of the novelty to take pity on my aching stomach and my limping brain. and so i trudged on, i trudged on, not knowing that if the hope of the fish eyes will let me drop out of that sorceress sphere and see its beauty for once and admire it, love it, kiss it, hate it, fawn it, hold it, hold it forever so that it could never entrap me in that sphere again

...another paradise

there, there he was standing again. i could see only the silhoutte, a figure standing in the alley, his back towards me. not running any more, no words spoken, silent, like the silence after a big explosion but no signs of ruin, not wanting to paint anything else, but, but still carrying a bucket of paint in his one hand, hanging loosely by one side and another hand holding the brush, brush which looked dipped in fresh paint and blank, empty walls, standing tall beside him. a light from the front, which he was blocking. this made anything else not visible. he has walked this long alley, alley of life perhaps. painted many colors on the wall beside him. sometimes whispering to himself, as if he had found some companion and didnt want to loose her, always consoling himself that he got responses. probably another whisper or a brush stroke on the same wall that he had painted. it made him happy. it made him sad. it took him long, long time to realise that he was walking alone, everyone was walking alone, muttering to themselves, keeping themselves talking to the phantom they had imagined, or by now, real perhaps. but he wanted an answer now and all he could get was empty walls ahead. same long and tall standing walls, not listening, not replying, staying dumb, filled with nothing else but his own whispers and, and patches of colors, which sometimes looked lively with bright colors for good times that he had spent with them and darker, darker still for the times he feared that something called truth lies ahead, no one was listening to him, it was all his own whispers. sometimes he looked at the walls with a look which said that some one had just smeared the wall with paint, all patch works, ugly, loathesome. he wanted to rub it all. he wanted to start afresh. this time painting the walls with bright colors only, but he was afraid that he could not do it walking alone in that alley. but he was afraid to listen to his own whispers again, for he will be again standing there as he is standing now, a dark silhoutte, his back towards me, not running any more, no words spoken, silent....empty walls....mocking at himself.

...an old memory

wind was pushing his face, hairs all flying back, he was trying hard to see the road ahead with his half open eyes, trees on the sides were fast vanishing behind, and they were leaving behind one after another milestones, however clouds were still fixated to the same position in the sky, and there he was sitting on the horizontal rod of papa's bycycle, legs crossed, holding the front tightly with his little hands and shouting, "faster papa, faster!".
it takes almost a quarter and an half of an hour to cross village to village and reach, where papa teaches kids like him. it was his special day. he was taking him to the place he works. mom had prepared parathas that morning and wrapped them in old newspaper and then put them in plastic bag, so that oil do not drip out and stain the bag. it was there lying fresh in papa's bag, swinging loosely by the handle, his eyes swinging along with that while he watched it.
he had woken up early for this day. took shower and wore clothes which mom keeps safe only for special occasions. he waited for papa to get ready and asking him all this time to hurry up while he got ready. he had made this an special day for everyone in the hut. to his relief they were ready to depart. he took out the bicycle from the verandah, where it is kept in the night. he dusted it with a rag, then sat himself on the seat and lifted him up to sit in the front. his first reaction was to press that round shaped 'ghanti' fixed on the handle. it gave a sound, trin! trin! and he imitated that with another trin! trin! mom kissed him on his forhead and bid them farewell. she was standing there waving her hand till they disappeared on the next corner. he kept saying something all the way. sometimes asking something. sometimes singing song. and all the while his voice sounded like ba ba ba ba when the bicycle went over from one puddle to another in the village road.
sun had kept himself off for the day, for him to enjoy the day under a cloudy sky. they stopped for tea on the way. more because he was crying that his legs have started paining. they took tea and biscuits, stood on the either side of the bicycle's carrier and he asked many questions while papa finished tea. it was difficult for him to keep up with his questions. they started off again. he remained silent this time. less because papa was not answering him, more because he was tired and feeling sleepy. it was more than half an hour now, they were close to their destination. he could see more vehicles passing them as they reached the town's outskirts, but nothing interested him by now, while he folded his hands and rested them on the handle. and he was lost in some other world of his. where there were no vehicles, no trees, no schools, no puddles on the road, no wind, however there were fruits and chocolates there, which he had seen on the way, and parathas too, wrapped in that newspaper, now unbundling before his eyes. the bicycle stopped and papa said, "we have reached, chimpu.", while he rested his left foot on the ground. he lifted his head up and saw a board which read, "barbigha uchh vidyala".

..in the habit of saying hello

It was 8 am in the morning. Quite an unusual day for me, as I had woken up early that day and went for a cup of ginger tea and smoke. By my face anyone could have told that I had not got fresh before coming to the shop, but no one could tell that I didn’t brush my teeth. Anyways, I asked for a cup of tea and lit my cigarette standing beside a tree stained with beetle spits. There was dog lying there on the other corner of the shop, his sleep disturbed by early morning traffic and was itching his ears. I was so much lost in watching that dog that I forgot that I had ordered for tea. I was shaken by my hand to hand me the cup.

Minutes later a man in his late thirties came there for tea or something. I didn’t notice that. But I saw that he was nicely dressed and well trimmed hair and mustache. He might have taken bath as it looked from his appearance. Who knows he might have applied simply water on his hair. He had a matching pair of brown shoes with the color of his belt. And like the most Bangaloreans was carrying a identity badge in his front pocket. As a part of my habit I was so lost in analyzing his appearance that I almost missed him staring at me too. Probably because of smoke. Pollution is really a big problem in Bangalore and now this nasty smoke. Forget it, I wont leave this habit I guess. Oh, where was I. Ahan, the young man staring at me. I said hello. He said hello and smiled. After a minute of silence he asked which place do I belong to. I said Bihar. Now as usual, I was expecting that I wont have to say a word to carry on the talk. He stood there speaking for another fifteen minutes about his experiences in Bihar. And like most of these stories, his story too started from his train experience(no pun intended). After he finished his talking he said not to mind his words, that was what happened with them. I sympathized with him ‘as usual’, saying that these things are quite common place in Bihar, there is nothing he should be ashamed of talking about. He nodded in affirmation. He shook my hand and left in a hurry. I was watching the dog. He was still itching his ears. He was still trying hard to sleep.

caged

locked in a cage i was thinking of getting out as soon as possible. time was running out and death was taking me over. i held the bars tightly and tried to pull apart to make room to come out. only to find that it was too strong and i failed. i was sweating and fear of death made me cry. i can not die now. i can not simply sit locked up in this cage. i have to come out no matter what. the familiar faces started appearing before me. i don't know whether they were making me panic even more or giving me strength. i sat down and leaned my head against the bars and started breathing heavily. i had never breathed so heavily.how did i land up in this cage? who put me in here? was it my foolishness? was somebody conspiring against me? i could think of nobody. i was not crying anymore. i was not even breathing heavily. everything seemed normal. it seems i had accepted that cage.

...an old one...thankfully it was saved too from my habit of deleting everything....i guess one day i ll delete the blog too :D