Open Letter To Humanity.

Open Letter To Humanity.

What we are if not the minute knittings on the tapestry of this universe? We come in all shapes and sizes, colours, flavours and scents closely held together by the shared culture and common thread called history.

The knittings look separate although the underlying layers are intangible and inseparable. You pull one thread out you’ll get the tatters after a while. The roughness of the time is inevitable. But, many of the greats also said the time is a great healer. So, it might seem from the shallow look at the past that we are moving towards a dark hole of an inescapable fate, we might be wrong.

There was a period when people had the time but no concept of time management. Now in this digital age, everything has a ticking time bomb attached to it. Every tweet, every picture, every status update have time mentioned. Every sale, every event, every meeting is constrained with time and everyone is running catching up with time. Everyone’s reminded ad nauseam of the time like it’s a commodity. But, people don’t understand that time is there to spend and not save, and considering it as a commodity will only make us restless and nauseated every minute of our life.

You ever wondered why animals are so easy going during their life. They live and die like it’s a regular affair. There is no conflict other than their defense mechanism.

So, why there is such an existential dilemma for humans? Could it be possible to suppress the urge to expand and live this life to its fullest?

Don’t take the aforementioned a fatalist view. I’m not calling to inhibit our unique mortal gift of the imagination but what I’m calling to suppress is the illegitimate hubris; the inexorable urge to dominate.

As a species, we have received an unforgivable amount of self. And nature has no control but to roll over and reset all sans anything of the past. 

Whenever there is any natural calamity, I feel like the Mother Nature is wounded and trying to lick its wounds.  But she’s tied by the greed of its children.

In Hinduism, there is a belief system that says you get this human body after eight million different births in various forms like animal, birds, and insects. Human life is considered supreme. I can’t say if this is the ego of humans writing about themselves or the truth. Whatever it is about human birth, I believe we all die the same human or animal; death ornaments set aside. Mother Nature doesn’t differentiate.

Another Hindu philosophy is of “vasudhev kutumbakam” which translates as the whole world with all its living beings despite their form, are part of one family; Earth.

If only we can overcome our mental blocks and identity repulsions. The world will be a better place.

A Delinquent Dream.

A Delinquent Dream.

It was a silvery night. Eyes opened, he lay in bed, scanned the adjoining hall. He could see the contours of the table, chair, his computer, sofa. It was a full moon, he guessed.

Something had happened this morning, something that might not be what it seemed, but still, he felt breathless with excitement or fear, he couldn’t say.

He had the same monotonous routine to the office and back. This morning the crow was late for his duty that’s why he was late; he made a funny excuse in his mind. He missed his usual bus which takes the shortest route to his office but, today he’ll have to wait for fifteen minutes for another same route bus. Or, he can get next bus which took a longer route just in two minutes. Decided to take the next bus. He hopped on. It took a strange-looking turn, new houses, buildings, parks and somehow people too looked different. It’s not as if he knew all the people on the way to his office somehow it felt like he’s in a different city altogether.

He isn’t the outgoing type he preferred the comfort of his house. He’s also not a recluse. It’s just that small things annoy him.

His best days are Sundays when he shuts off the world and its only him, his tea and his book. It’s clichéd still he had worked hard to develop the habit and trained his mind to enjoy this.

He was sitting on his seat when suddenly a shadow passed him and sat in front of him. It was a girl. She smelled like lavender. The smell was almost pulling him if not dragging him. He wanted to take a peek at her. Unfortunately, her hairs covered her face.

He fidgeted in his chair to bend in a way so he could see her face. All his nonchalant efforts failed, people were starting to notice.

He threw his exhausted self in the back of the seat and looked at his watch, still had twenty minutes. Lost, he started looking out. But she still occupied his mind. Two minutes, she stood up like next was her stop. She turned back at her seat to put things in her bag before she got off. He puppy-eyed looked expectantly at her. As she was collecting her bag she cleared her hair off her face. He breathed again. He transcended and fell hard in love with her. It knew no bounds just the pain was unfathomable looking at her going.

Staring in dark abyss he asked her name. Slowly the night got heavy on the eyelids and dreams took over.

Again, he was late and got on the next one. He waited in the same seat looking for her. No one came in the front although someone smelling of lavender sat beside him. It was her. She looked at him sending shivers down his spine.

Crow came early. Reality took over. He could not get him another salary cut for some unknown fancy broad. He took the early bus and got back to his cliffhanger-less life.

Prostitute

Buzzing of the broken tube light at the corner of the street, the brooding silence makes this place easy for people’s darkness to emerge. This is where she used to stand, on display.

The night is truly a shadow of the earth itself. So why people fuss about other people working at night? They judge but, for her, the hopelessness of the day is the same as the darkness of the night. She lingers around the road to sell what all she has left, her body. Don’t think men don’t sell their body, principally you are not selling your body to anyone else but surrendering it to the deepest and the darkest corner of your heart then the world comes into play, brings you the physical value as well as the buyers. This buyer usually varies for men and women.

The world judges her for doing this dishonourable job but what they usually ignore is the puppeteering of human by the unrelinquishing attachments it has born with. All the girls she knows has one thing in common with her and that is “the past, present and the future has conspired to bring them here.” And now “decisions” doesn’t play many roles in her life because the society she serves never decided to bestow any sort of dignity her way. She has become a part of balance where her weight is on the side of “bad” which balances the “good” and between the two is an insurmountable abyss.

The hypocrisy of the “normal” of this world will always benefit the wolves while the souls who are naked in their truest form will always be culled like goats. Most are still hiding under their ego, shame while draping a cloth of virtue to whitewash their vice which she never claimed.

Whims of Nostalgia

It was a strange road; both of them were new here. She lay pushing her back on the tree. Her fingers, placed gently in his hands. She was looking down when he said for the first time, although they were already betrothed to each other by their souls: “I love you”.

He took her hands to his beating heart and placed upon his chest. She gaped at his pounding heart. She started rubbing his chest so to soothe him. He said again “I love you”. She looked up at him and cupped his face and said “I know”.

Road was empty and they had no sense of time. They skipped classes for their little rebellious sojourn.

His dry lips needs constant moisture and she was there to provide. Before he could say anything about his unrequited expression of love she pressed her lips upon his and resolved his undulating mind. As what all men want, he also didn’t bother.

She didn’t said much but she had a presence which made him scared sometimes. She looked directly in his eyes erasing all his doubts. Also he was a little bit afraid of her. It may be for the fact that she was the one who chose him and not the other way around. He was like a typical teenager, like a bubble that flows with the wind irrespective of where it might take him.

She was a totally different animal. She was like a hull of the ships which sails with the unassailable winds to find its own way.

This was her decisiveness that always frightened him. Even though as she was kissing him he feared as of what she might be thinking of his compulsiveness as she might already knew what he has wanted from start of this fling.

You anticipated it correctly, it didn’t last. But the agony of living with his juvenile decisions was overwhelming. His increasing want could never be satiated. He like a drunk was drenched with the overpowering urge which was devastating for both.  She recognized his agony and her limitations. She tried to cajole him but for the insolent he was she had to end it rather painfully; for both of them.

Don’t ask for an ending because life has some endings that doesn’t fit the imagination of time.

My Dick……(A comedy)

I think I’m like my dick, limp, without any motivation to stand up.

Everything captivating motivates me but it fades away quickly. Like a movie I was just watching, it was full of beautiful scenery, awesome storytelling and a blushing beauty of an actress. It was about an adventure of a man who lost his job he’s been doing for sixteen years. His life was depicted as monotonous. Movie doesn’t say it but the actor was handsome and I feel his story was little exaggerated but who am I to judge? Right?

Anyways, coming back to my dick and me I think I feel pumped when I see things I like to do but for some reason (well who are you kidding) I could not. So I feel like that guy should be me but again after some time that dopamine wears off and then I come back to my real self, unmotivated and limp in my bed like a dick on balls.

I would like to write more but I can argue that stretching your thoughts can really take the meaning out of it. Trust me, if not read my other posts.

NOTE: If you want to know the name of the movie, comment.

MOTHER.

I think I first saw her for who she was when she had let me go play by myself for the first time outside our house. When I came back, rolled in mud with my nose running she took me up in her arms and caressed my dirty self.

I can see her sighing with relief and a worry that now she had exposed me to this world which is going to slowly swallow me and turn me but I think she believed that she could still call me for who I was; her son.

I think the whole world is united with one word, “maa”. With all its coercion and cohesiveness this word has stick with us for generations maybe since the first humans with same instinct and reverence.

It was the first time when I felt like breaking into pieces when she had sent me to school. I cried incessantly for how callous she was for not caring and letting me go. When I visit those memory lanes I find her there waiting for me to come back. She was never cruel to me.

She was right that the world is slowly going to come between me and her. When I hastened to get my bag, clothes, shoes, looking at the clock thinking I was going to get late, she kept saying “there’s still time”. She never said it but she was still the same, as broken as when she had let me go for the first time. She has three kids, so I don’t know what part she has left for herself.

I could still feel her warmth from when she was trying to hold me for one more second before she could able to see me only on holidays for her next remaining life.

I think that was the day she truly felt old… and I as a man. “But I’ll always try to be the same kid to you my mother and I know even if I fail, you’ll always recognize your kid. I love you.”

STARDUST.

I must tell you before the dust of these emotions settle,

Because I might not be the same person.

I envy sometimes: the animals,

Passing so easily as a wish fulfilled.

Not glorifying the animals.

I must admit, this whiff, called life, will end,

And heaving through is not a good look.

It’ll look beautiful sometime,

Sometime it might haunt,

Reasonable are those who embrace and not complain.

These are not wise words but who can trust,

Who can trust these divisive, insinuating, empty ‘words’?

Be timid, be strong, be bully to a bully and be gentle to the gentle

Be vulnerable; open yourself for a death-defying injury

Because this might bring you back to the most basic human feelings.

Why do we love those characters: unmindful of the world?

Be the one. 

It might not always be ‘the road not taken’

But every same road has infinite different destinations.

Choose yours.

It’s not a guide don’t take it personally,

It’s a plight leave it reasonably.

Could this monotony be broken with a fellow traveller, take them

Because the start and the end will always be alone.

Do never hope for the ‘best’, as it’s self-ish,

Leave the ‘best’ for the unawares as now you know yourself.

NOTE: Earlier, ‘empty words‘ had a different context there. I love “words” and that’s why I’m here, littering my words around. This is a new format I’m trying so please don’t be mad at my ignorance. A little few who do read my writings, THANKS for being here. I would love if you comment on how did it make you feel because that’ll be the best. You guys are the best. ALOHA! (I don’t know why I just write that, we usually say NAMASTE. Let’s embrace the Hawaiian culture today.)

Life versus Peace.

There is always the struggle for constant endeavour to chase the bright light in one’s life. But personally, life is monotonous, no striking epiphanies, no fictional plots with the simple hero and villain story. It is the just the moments one gather nimbly or some time it might tear your nails off in pursuit of scratching for a meaning; wonder if there exists any.
Many learned persons describe it as the persistent struggle, whereas some adorn it with the countenance of God itself. I take my (our) life and their (any of your favourite author/philosopher) learnings and could say in my very limited comprehension that one could not quantify the life in a shell with disparate meanings clubbed together.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes I feel so expansive, full of potential. But, when I open them, the reality sets in and the “sticker” stuck to my head that says “you are minuscule in the vast existence of the universe.” So when they say life is a struggle; I agree.
In the spring of life, are these existential questions healthy? No. I admit, but at the level of advancement when we are the god of ourselves and apparently, Science want to leave nothing for god’s sake. Hysterically enough, boundaries never cease to move. Growing and growing, the hunger of answer to the simple question: “what does life mean?” There are many answers but it seems that the question changes its context very rapidly and drastically.

As many losers and countless winners (of course subjective) have said: “life is painstakingly hard.” To them I say “sir/ madam you have hit the bull’s-eye; an incontrovertible fact.”

DREAMS.

Silver is the colour of the sky. A house secluded with a recluse: that’s me. The whole front wall is covered with the green, creeping slow with determination to devour the whole someday. Small lawn made a soggy green bed for the small chirping ones. It was trimmed to perfection. Silence is palpable but was smoothly disturbed by the drizzling rain like a wave in the water; in sync with the very nature of it. You can smell the petrichor sitting in your chair while sipping on your tea.

This is my happy place and this is where you can find me when I am lost. Bathing in the beauty of my imagination, memories that I have subconsciously amassed throughout my childhood. Watching places like this in the movies and little by little I have created my assemblage.  There have been times when I concentrate deep enough, I find out, this is the ruins of my dream. I have never seen the inside of the house. It is like I have been looking constantly at the scenic beauty of outside but forgot about what lies inside. I tried hard enough but could see nothing. It’s very dark and frightening. I fear of what might be hiding inside for so long. One day I inched into the darkness and went inside. It was so dark that my eyes were halfway out looking for a speck of light. Little by little as I crept deep inside I could hear a thumping sound; a constant one. It was faint. I couldn’t figure where it is coming from. A sweat rolling down my forehead splashed in on the surface like I was standing in water. Then I can hear sounds, like current traveling through high voltage line. Now only my ears are working and everything was shut down. When I moved forward I could see something; a speck of light. Not knowing exactly what I was following, it was like a trail left by a source which is moving. I fixated my eyes to it and followed. But it wasn’t getting close to the source. I was restless. A feeling started to creep inside of me like I feel when I think about all the lost opportunities. I started to panic. I clenched my fists and started walking fast, legs heavy, weighing down in fear. When I still felt like I am never going to reach it, I started running. Chasing for it. I ran wildly. My hairs were drenched and then suddenly I realized I am naked. Not running but just kicking my legs around; crouching, laying on the floor. I felt the warmth that I never felt in my whole life, maybe I did, anyway, I don’t remember. As I moved my hands around, it was sticky. I tried to smell what’s on my hand but found my hands entangled. When I tried to move my head it felt like I had no energy. When I felt it with the hands itself, it felt like some cord. And then I felt warmth again but now it was doubled. I suddenly realized that I was crouching in something like a basket filled with liquid all over and covered with some kind of skin. But to my amazement, there was no panic at all. It was bizarrely calm. Then, I heard someone talking to me, it was voice a woman and when she talked I could feel the vibrations of her voice. It took me into a trance. She felt like an angel, my angel and she was saying she will always love me and take care of me.

Next, I was again on the balcony of my happy place. But, now it seemed like a hideout.

ALARM RANG!!!

HE GOT UP AND LEFT FOR WORK. STRANGE SMILE LURKING AROUND HIS LIPS.

Divinity of Love.

Darkness was smeared across the sky. Clouds added just another shade of black. Shrieking lightening, striking with all its might, made thunderous sounds. The rain was pouring like never before and each drop hitting the ground with the intention to break it. Empty roads were glistening due to the combination of street light and spatting raindrops. It was a grim night.
After his night classes got over, it was pouring outside. Everyone was inside the building waiting for the rain to stop but she wasn’t there. He panicked. He started looking for her and found out that she had already left. He picked up his bike and scurried off in the pouring rain, unaware that someone was waiting for him at home.
He paddled hard and after some time he caught up to her. He was still behind as she was with her friend. He waited until her friend left. He was soaking and when he got to her side, she simply smiled and took her turn and went forward. He has to take the other turn so he took that. Now the rain was slowing down but the lightning wasn’t. He reached the road that supposed to take him to his house but was still thinking about that smile, and then suddenly everything was unbearably white. He squinted his eyes but still too bright. Then, he covered his eyes with his forearms. Before he could see any more, he felt a jolting pain in the chest as someone was giving him shocks. Again, he went to the same place but now it was reasonably bright. He couldn’t understand but he was standing in his house. Suddenly, he heard someone crying uncontrollably. He tried to move forward but his legs felt lifeless, he tried again and again but couldn’t move an inch. Again the sobbing was heard. He felt the jolt again. Again, he was in his house but now he can see the figure crying. He rubbed his palms over his eyes. Now he could see her mother. Crying, her legs were shaking and she was trying to reach the curtains to hold onto something. His eyes were wide open, baffled by the peculiarity of the situation. He jerked his legs forward but felt a jolting pain in his thighs. He fell down. He tried to creep towards his mother but the pain was simply too great. Again, he felt a jolting pain in his chest. Again he felt a burning sensation in his eyes, but this time it was real. Someone was showing light in his eyes. He started hearing sounds of sirens wailing, spiralling red lights, the clamour of people was overwhelming. He opened his eyes only to find out, he was lying in the middle of the road. People were all around his head. Someone had his wrist, checking for pulse others packing their tools. He came to the realization that he had an accident. He tried to stand up and was surprised to find out that this time no pain was there. He sighed and looked towards his house just a hundred meters away. He picked up his cycle and started moving towards his house. People were dispersing. He didn’t feel like talking so he moved forward. He was taken aback when he found his father kneeling down sobbing on the road, his back was towards him. He was in a fix for a moment till he saw her mother running towards him; weeping. She went straight to his father, ignoring him. She knelt down with him and started crying, deliriously. He froze for a moment but took a step forward. Too much of his dismay, he found someone lying there. As he sent closer he could see himself lying there, legs shattered from the thighs, neck broken made a frightening twist. He froze in fear, he was shaking, he brain started flooding, thinking of the possibility of never seeing them again, he for the last time wanted to kiss her mother, tell his father that no matter what, he will always love him, although they had their differences it never made the difference. He wanted to tell her mother that she was the only person in his entire universe who meant the most to him. In the midst of all these emotions, he was flashed with a smile. What did that smile mean to him? What does she meant to him? Now that he was thinking he couldn’t even remember her face. And now when he was evaluating what really matters is his and her (his parents’) tears that weighed him down as he couldn’t understand the real meaning of love. So what is love? Is it the illusion that keeps us from emanating into reality? Time passed and all the sorrow left him and all that remained is remorse. Then remained peace of dissolving in the unity or whatever it’s called.

P.S. I Love You.

Am I rails or a shadow? One that is connected from the roots and the other that will never meet. What am I?

One follows its companion intimately while the other has an debilitating distance with overwhelming anxiousness that can never be cured. So tell me what am I?

I find rails more faithful, as they don’t ever leave sight or side while shadows might leave for its fancy. So decide what am I?

One that is tangible but might never reveal it’s presence whereas the other, so frail and frightful at the same time; conditions applied. Once again, what am I?

I don’t want to be a rail as I dread, I might never unite with you and at the same time I don’t want to be the shadow as I couldn’t leave you. Decide, what am I?

Blessed are those who can strike a deal between the two but I do not have time as I am waning in your indecisive abyss. What do you want me to be, rail or a shadow?

Please decide.

NOSTALGIA

Sun dangling, clouds soggy, I painted.

River flowing, rain drizzling, I painted.

Wooden hut, chimney smoking, I painted.

Spiking grass, bushy trees, I painted.

Happy colors, lucid water, I mixed.

Smile and joy, merry kid; I lived.

Now I live, like a tree, shackled roots.

Now I live like empty cloud, moot.

Live like Sun, don’t burn out, radiate.

World is vibrant, do not fade.

Be like river, merry flowing; iridescent.

Live as kings, who don’t die; crescent.

A dilapidated shack.

A small jungle, very much invaded by the urban jungle had a little broken shack. It had many inhabitants. The shack was like a hostel to every little animal like a cricket, butterfly,  a rabbit, a cat, squirrels, an old tortoise and little birds of every kind because they were afraid of big animals especially humans. It was a very harmonious union. It was harmonious because there is nothing more uniting as the common sense of survival. It was harmonious also because no two were necessarily connected in the food chain, the cat though, was seriously instructed. They let her stay there because of her shrewd skills. All of them were actually helpful in some way or another. The tortoise was an old studious fellow proficient in the social and civil way of living. Birds were the spy. Crickets devised a unique way of communication. Rabbits had an hospitality job like cooking and taking care of the place. Butterflies played their role as messengers.

This shack although dilapidated was deluxe. Every irregularity from human eyes played a role in making it more accommodating for these inhabitants. Every hole and crack became the door, the shattered roof acted as the ventilator as well as the shower on rainy days. These people had a different concept of comfort and luxury. For them, it’s the most lavish and at the same time very natural thing to feel, smell, touch and taste all the elements of nature as they all had a captive past. Confined behind the doors, under air so unnatural, sound so mechanical, the light so unbearable, living with it only the humans have mastered and called them essentials.

Sometimes at the night they all gather together and meditate on: what is so inherently different between them and theirs? Here the use of the wisdom of the old tortoise comes into the game. He had a long life and he has seen the finest humanity has to offer from all generations. First when they(humans) didn’t understand the life they killed. Once they learned that something inherently same working for everyone they worshipped it and sometimes us as well. Then they learned to write and communicate through the language and script they started to discuss the origin and the end of all. Next came the rationality which has plunged us into the hole where we became second to humans. Science had cut us into pieces and skinned us alive, even when we screamed; they continued. When the same happens to the humans by the humans they called it a gross violation of the moral norms and human rights. What about everyone’s right to live willfully as governed by nature.

They all heard these stories myriads of time but every time they feel like a part of themselves who lives across the transparent boundary in those concrete jungles is eluding from them forever. Maybe they are as intelligent of the species they say they are and maybe they don’t need the help. All of them heard humans talking about leaving the planet so they all pray to the mother nature, “may all of them get the same mother as you were to them before they ruined this relationship”.  

THOUGHTS: Mess Or Messenger.

What’ll happen if your thought could run through your fingers? Thoughts, so frail in existence, cornered in some cul-de-sac of the brain. But, when you let them flow through your fingers, it’s nothing less than a miracle. When you write, you’re picking the best your conscience has to offer, so lucid and so streamlined the thoughts start to flow under your supervision. It’s immeasurably satisfying. Our mind has a lot to offer but singling the ones (thoughts) you want is something likes distilling water from milk. Some do meditation for this, I write. Choosing the words with shrewdness and stringing them together is similar to focusing on your thought and letting them go (you’ll understand if you meditate).

Writing a story is the mammoth task if your thought is not organized. Try it. Why it is so beautiful to read a well-constructed story? Why these writers seem so full of wisdom? I think the answer lies in the way they’ve mastered their ability to think.
Thoughts can the vehicle of creation or destruction of one’s own self. It is the choice everyone has at their disposal but only a few could make their mind. I’m not saying I’m one of those few it’s just that I’m still learning to reach them.

But, I must suggest only writing is like holding a tsunami with your bare hands, building your knowledge and increasing the ways in which you can express yourselves will equip you to fight the tsunami of thoughts and maybe one day master them.

PEACE.

Quote of the day: An AFRICAN PROVERB.

“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”

Library.

You might do wrong to think that he didn’t read, it’s just that he didn’t want anyone to know. But, library was an beautiful excuse to see her. There was no sign and then suddenly she walked in. He sank deep in his heart as she approached him. Every step that brought her closer made him madly in love with her.

Silence buzzed in his ears brought back his sinking heart, that started pumping again. On the other side, every books she pulled, opened her world and led him in. Summoning all his attention he looked the other way but she traced his image in her eyes.

He knew the cruelty of nature so dragging his fingers along the books he walked forward. He felt heavy as someone was pulling, actually it is something pulling him; his shirt. As he tried to jimmy it, it made tearing sound. She noticed him and smiled. He didn’t saw her looking at him but he could feel her sight like feather brushed on back of his neck. She walked around the stack and reached to help his shirt; she didn’t ask. As she was helping him he couldn’t help but look at mole on her lip. It was free but he wasn’t. Entangled in the thoughts he just stood there. Her suspecting look brought his attention back, he never had so much loss of attention but somehow now it’s just banished him.

She stood there as she expected some conversation. So he gestured “Thank you” with his hands and now she was staring at him, open-mouthed, gasping for air as he turned and left.

Human-Nature vs Nature.

Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com

What is it that makes us humans? Biologically, there is an ostensible recognition but what is so intrinsic that made us so dominant and at the same time so fragile? This question is prevalent in the mind of sceptics of the world and there are various enlightened minds who have given a satisfactory answer. Some say it is our intelligence, some say it is our imagination, some say it is a successful evolution. But, as the science progresses we came to know for the fact that we are not alone, our fellow mammals are also in the possession of these capacities.

It is just that our ignorance that led us to believe that we are superior. It is the illusion of grandeur. Dolphins use more cerebral capacity than humans, how about that? We have an inherent belief that one who conquers others is superior. So we conquered animals, jungles, seas, rivers, lakes and everything tangible to intangible like atoms and made the demons of destruction. But, we failed to recognize the intelligence that sustains it all. In the name of science we are failing the very human nature; compassion. The hidden force that bestowed humans with the more than just the survival instincts unlike our other counterparts, we owe it our mother nature to be human as much as possible and not destroy the very intelligence of this planet. This is the only planet having the intelligence to sustain itself and you might believe it or not but I believe that we are playing with something so beyond that when it gets fed up, it will swat us like flies from the face of this earth.


So again, what is to be human? I hope we understand before it is too late.

SHORT STORY (PART-1/4) : “A Familiar Face”

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

……keeping a mirror beside him, he jotted down on his notebook, ideas that sometimes breezed across his jumbled up mind. Mirror was placed at an angle such that his eyes’ periphery could see someone (his own image). Yes, he was alone. The reason was internal actually. He could never cultivate enough social skill to make or even maintain friends.

College was tough, not many people to call friends for and no luck with girls. He wasn’t hideous but for some reasons, he just never felt any chemistry with a girl.

One day, he was travelling in DTC bus where he was sitting behind a couple of girls, one sitting exactly in front of him and the other one was standing. They noticed him because one was supposed to have seen the empty seat first, but, he in his ignorance-is-bliss kind of attitude sat there first. He sensed that she was staring at him and it was proven in a study that if someone is staring at you, your subconscious mind can sense it. So, to pretend he fidgeted with his cell phone, and she went on discussing with her friend. This was an awkward moment for him. So, when his stop came some people stood up to get off and so did he, and while she is going to take some other seat away from her friend, he tapped on her shoulder and said: “it’s vacant.” She shot dagger at him with her eyes as if to tell him “you don’t touch me, bastard.”
He cringed and shuffled his legs to get out of the situation because if some self-righteous social justice warrior has taken over the case; he would have been dead meat. He said sorry and got out of there quickly. But in that brief encounter, he imprinted one of the beautiful pairs of eyes he had ever seen, skin that is so perfect having a milky consistency, hairs so thick that it bounced with every subtle move and the lips that could melt his hardened heart with the slightest of touch. The moment stretched into his mind like an experience. That night he dreamed of meeting her. She asked him to kiss her and said that she’s been waiting for him and then in the next moment they were doing it. He woke up with a boner and a smile smeared all over his face. The next thought suggested that how perverted his brain has become.

It has been five years after that day and now the memory is faded into a dull one but every now-n-then he still found pieces of that face in every random beautiful one. He is now a professional, grilling his youth to make a safety net like every next person albeit it’s totally against his unpredictable and effervescent nature. There is a girl that he likes in his office, but he couldn’t help but notice that she is very high maintenance. So, all he could do is to watch her being with some of his seniors and enjoy them crashing out of competition one by one. Every evening a concerned call from his mother asking him of his future and after a couple of years of avoiding he succumbed to her mother’s undeterred resolution. Thence started the unfailing search of an Indian mother to find a suitable mate for her son. He felt as though he had failed yet another test but it’s just a bit too embarrassing.

In this eclectic mix of emotions there still somewhere lies that girl from the bus continuously mixing a subtle flavour in his insipid life. Some part of his sub-conscience is still attracting the part of the world in which she exists.

PART 2/4: https://me2248.wordpress.com/?p=890

(Please let me know what you think of this in comments.)

A Letter Dedicated to the Lost Self.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Dear,

I’m trying to talk back the conversations we had in my head, but I couldn’t recollect how you sound anymore. Your voice is fading inside my head. Your face is like a dream, so beautiful but a haze. I am clawing to save even a drizzle of the torrent you bestowed upon me. I ache. I know it’s selfish, but do you feel the same?

I remember how you feel. First time I held your hand. I had shivers ran across my body. I remember the first time I said I love you, I have never been so honest to myself my whole life as I’ve been in that moment.

You are the spring of my life that has never come around the same twice. It’s the agony, not that of you leaving me but for the fact that I have never came around even with you. Love for you is still buried deep in my heart only I wish that I could return it to you; its rightful owner. All I wish no evil befall you. I wish no misfortune come past you. All the happiness have you given me may come to you a hundred folds. I wish, the road you tread brings you all the best world beholds. May the glimmer in your eyes never fade. And I wish you find it in your heart to forgive me.

P.S.
If fate brings us together again sometime, I promise you I’ll be a changed man.
Yours loved.

Man in the Shadows.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

No one could remember his face; all they could summon was only but his plebeian attributes. They say though he was not from around here but talked like he had been living here for decades. Only thing separated him from the others was his complexion, but asking from the other regulars from the bar they say they never saw a man befitting this description. Asking the ones who talked to him said they had the most natural talk, what they usually talk about, but the inquisitiveness died down from first when they saw him. They never even got his name. Among seekers, he was famous as the Nameless and the Faceless. All of them were following the same legend with little different tweaks.

The legend goes like this: “he walks among the legions, dine amongst myriads. He has the knowledge of the world, but the world knows of him none.”

The story behind the this legend is the man collects the deepest and darkest secrets of the dying, no one knows how but somehow command their soul after their death.

Some say that he can mend the hurting soul. Some say he’s the evil with all power at his disposal. Some say he brings solace to those hurting of bereavement, but all these stories are the pile each seeker carries. Ask one for his face and all of them have different opinions. Some describe their Gods in his reverence. Some recite the evil of him. It is not the face that matters it’s the stories that matter and only those that have a definite origin. Among the seekers, he’s famous as the “man with shadows”. Many have died seeking for him, leaving all that they could become and all they have been. It’s just the stories that tore them from their roots to follow the unknown. For them, it’s the same lust as finding for God. You don’t know what the frustration can do to the dying minds of these seekers who spent their life generously looking for someone but couldn’t say if they find even the wind that touched that mythical. No one understands the insatiable thrust of humans that if not quenched can create disasters. So they write their ending and die with the fact that they were the last ones who heard of him and known him. Their immense imagination and vivid memories created memoirs so intoxicating that the next generation is following the same doom. They are following the same corrupt notion that they could find someone who is said to walk with the first of humans and have elements that they themselves carry. They have invested so heavily in him that they forgot about themselves and became the same stories they were heavily amassing.

No one knows if he’s actually a myth or mystical but have survived to remain ever-elusive. I am also a seeker but I am the “seeker of thyself” and this is my memoir for those who seek the ever mystical within themselves.

NEW LOVE.


In the room full of people, she stood out to him but the clank and clatter of the sumptuous cutlery and the wandering stares almost made him invisible. She, huddled by the people looked around the room devouring his presence and almost insulting his longing eyes that were eager to look into hers and mine the thoughts that have even the hint of his existence. Invited by his concerned friends who were just minor employees of this gigantic company added  little weight to his presence, people seems to be looking past him. He was an caricature artist in a daily, so despite always having his name around in people’s life; no one seems to care.

Hours have passed and people started to thin out around her but now she doesn’t attract much of his attention, one can blame it on the lowered cognitive ability due to his inebriated condition. He started to doodle on a piece of napkin lying around. He drew himself regorging in a toilet bowl with his thought boxed as: “God, why am I so sexy?”

What he hadn’t noticed that the girl across the room happen to be the one of the friends of his friend and when they finally came to meet him he was passed out. She saw his doodle laying and started to laugh incessantly. She laughed till the brink of tears and belly’s ache. His friend tried to wake him but failed to do so.

Next morning when he opened up his mobile was bustling with notifications about the story he was tagged in. When he opened up the post he saw a close up of a doodle and a girl holding that napkin and a passed out fella. Few moment later memories started flooding in and he held his head when he realized that the girl holding the napkin was the same girl from the party.

Between all those notifications he found a friend request from the same girl who swept him off his feet.  Same dewy eyed girl who he thought as a blazing star that one can only marvel at but always a distant dream.

Sweet and Slumber

CHAPTER 1:

“It is very open here.” The land owner said looking out in the open at the lush green moors. There was a sullen look on his face although Kavish was mesmerized by the sheer beauty of nature. He was the first from his family to visit abroad. His family was modest and well to do middle-class family from India but the circumstances and four children kept their pockets empty and their dreams reasonable.

If any country knows the meaning of space, it’s India. If people could find space between the molecules they would squeeze out of there. So in a country like England, where weather is reasonably cold and the land is like nature has put a green velvet. It had a very soothing effect for his eyes filled with images of half baked cities.

He had moved here, with a well-paid job at an architectural firm which is very impressed by his imagination and is very comfortable of him moving far outside the city. His fascination with the European countryside was very well known along with his accent. His incessant but rather intelligent rant about the movies based in the nineteenth century is something to pay for.

His move through the ranks with one after the other project successes made him known and here’s how he came to know Cynthia, an art curator at some fancy French-sounding gallery whose name he could hardly pronounce and if he tried, even the dead French people would turn in their graves. But somehow Cynthia was enamoured by him; some guess love is deaf too.

She was a beautiful girl in all definitions. He was the talk of the party whenever she accompanied him; his bosses were always pressuring him to bring her along as it might help influence the clients. Disgusted by this weird obsession to show off girlfriends and wives to get clients is one of the reasons he wanted to move to a faraway place.

Hence Maldon district, Essex. A refreshing forty miles drive from London and nature was just great. Cynthia was surprisingly okay with his decision, he thought it would take a ring to convince her but she was just fine with it. So he was left with the ring that he had bought in case she needed some coercion. He now thought that the house might be more convincing than the lazy ring.

More about Kavish and Cynthia.

He met her at a housewarming party that one of his team leaders had thrown after they had moved into a new house which everyone knew about but pretended it was a surprise. He was invited out of courtesy, being a new member of the team.

It was nothing like anyone was interested in his story. He was warming the sofas of the house after cheerfully smiling at everyone, hoping to strike a conversation. He was sipping on his soda, looking out at the room and then again at it, sipping. But in his brief in and out of his line-of-sight he caught a gaze looking directly at him.

He slowly blew in his drink with the straw still in his mouth. He furrowed his eyebrows, wrinkled his forehead while gently stroking his hairs just to see a group of legs across the sofa. When he finally got the courage to look in that direction the gaze was gone.

He looked around to find people slowly unwinding and the crowd was getting thin. He wanted to go home and get a head start on the new project but couldn’t find his boss and still everyone from his team was there. He found it rude to leave without informing the hosts. Smooth music was playing in the background, it had set a rhythm in the room, everyone was moving with the combined effects of inebriation and heavy bowels.   As he was standing to go and say his goodbye to his hosts, he saw his boss coming his way, he straightened his dress and smiled and before he could say something the boss says “Kavish! I was coming to find you. Here, meet Cynthia.” [She smiled in the back] “Hello.” He said smiling to Cynthia.

“Kavish, Cynthia is an art curator at the Musee d’Orsay and very valuable potential client. So can you please safely drop her wherever she wants?” he said with fake politeness. He looked at the back and saw an angel. She was looking directly at him with wide eyes like a puppy wanting treats. He couldn’t make what his boss said when he turned to talk to her, Kavish was still starry-eyed.

[Both sitting in the car.]

There was a soft sound of air conditioner and maybe some occasional deep breaths like someone gathering air to break this palpable awkwardness.

She was sitting erect as one sits at the dinner table, fidgeting with her phone cover.

Being an Indian man and the staring stereotypes about his people were well known to him so he was looking straight to salvage some respect for his community. She sat there fidgeting with his phone, wishing for her place to drop down in the middle of the road.

Finally, she spoke as she knew that it would take at least twenty minutes at this speed and it has only been four minutes.

“Terry said you are new to his office.” She immediately hated the starter.

“Terry? Who?” he said, confused.

“Terry… Terry Crews, your boss?” she cleared.

“Oh! Mr Crews. Yes… yes he’s my boss, I have joined recently. He’s a gentleman.” Kavish said approvingly.

“Gentlemen? Come on, you think so? He wasn’t polite while asking you to drop me? He didn’t even ask you if you’re going in the same direction? Hell he didn’t ask if you’re ready to leave?” she said vehemently.

“It’s okay I guess. I’m new here and when I saw how he’s used to talking to people in the office, I thought maybe he’s a strict boss. But I can’t complain. This job pays well.” He deflected the questions.

He was not sure if he should tell her that after leaving her to her place he had to go back in the opposite direction at least one hour and it’s already midnight.

“But you didn’t tell me if you were going in the same direction?” she pressed him.

She seemed embarrassed. She should’ve never listened to Terry, it would’ve been best if she hadn’t taken any more favours from him. She was already very much cornered by the fact that he is her father.

“Yeah, it’s on my way? Don’t worry.” He faked a smile in the end.

She reached out her hand said, “show me your license.”

He was taken aback a little bit but accepted that he’s not going to get away with it. For a moment he thought what she might think to know that he came all the way here when he could’ve easily tapped in his junior who lives on the same route.

He reluctantly absolved himself with the truth and told her that he has to go one hour back.

She looked agitated. She took deep breaths silently and said “you know you could stay the night at my place. It’s not big but you can take the couch if you want to?”

“Oh no, that would be a terrible nuisance having a strange person in your house.” He said perspiring at the thought of staying the night with her alone in her house.

And like every man he also didn’t bother if she knew the lady or not, don’t know why but women never seems the serial murderer kind. He was sweating imagining the scenario of getting some action which he apparently never had.

“Don’t worry it’ll be a plutonic one night stand.” She said smoothly.

As soon as he heard he started laughing hysterically and then both started laughing looking at each other.

[Twenty minutes passed, both naked in her bed, soaked in sweat, breathing heavily]

“Plutonic, huh?” he said collecting his breath.

She stood up gathering her dishevelled hair with one hand, clinching bed sheet with the other around her chest, said: “I’m going to get a shower; you can take the couch and get some clean sheets from the drawers.”

He could never understand this quirk in girls, you can never hear a man say this to a woman after having sex with her and if he says this then he’ll immediately be called a misogynist.

As a woman would feel, he also felt used. But his brief contempt for the situation was overwhelmed by the ultimate pleasure of getting a sexual relief. He had never thought it would be this good. With a naughty smile stuck to his face, he took the couch and slept like a baby.

She came back and saw him sleeping on the couch and blanket on the floor. She went close to see if he’s fast asleep and saw a smile stuck to his face snuggled in the corner. She tucked him in and smiled like she hasn’t in a while.