tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53201230051316595452024-02-20T02:03:41.140-08:00Inside and OutsideAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-18969856373234621752016-06-17T09:33:00.000-07:002018-12-30T09:18:36.422-08:00This happened, or that, or this!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s our first date. I dressed
up. I even bought you a bunch of lilies, the ones you like. I went an extra
mile figuratively to find out your preference from your friend who doesn’t like
me, and an extra mile physically because I could not find them anywhere closer.
I even put some gel in my hair and carefully hid my receding hairline. I shaved
again and got in my recently serviced car. Before knocking on your door, I once
again looked at myself in rear view mirror, pressed my hair and checked if
something was stuck in my teeth. I took a deep breath and knocked on your door.
Every passing second felt like hours. And then you opened the door, clad in
yellow, looking all perfect as you ever were. I didn’t think you had to go
through all the trouble I had to, for looking this amazing. At the most maybe
you just washed your face and got into this off the rack dress which fits you
like it was custom tailored. I was so nervous around you. Dinner was usual.
Table pre-booked, waiter tipped generously, no eating off other’s plate, hold
the fork in left hand and all other etiquette. I parked the car few blocks
before your home and walked with you. We didn’t talk. We just kissed good
night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I was walking back, it
struck me, why did I have to impress you? What was special about the night?
Every guy does it. Well, maybe not every guy; every guy who has means and has a
willing girl to impress. Why did this impress you? Didn’t you know it’s going
to be like this? Why did you want this so much? It is not as if you would spend
your entire life with a version of me that impresses you. It would mostly be
routine, mundane life wherein I will eat out of a bowl most Saturday nights sitting
on the couch and watching some stupid TV channel oblivious of your presence.
The same presence which makes me forget everything today. The night looks so
amazing today, as if there is an added fragrance to the flowers, or maybe added
brightness to the moon. You are gone inside, but I kept standing there, hoping
that you would come to the window. I felt your hands still holding mine and
taste of your lips still lingering on. I could still hear your laughter, or the
way you said my name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What’s the point? Maybe I dressed
up a little too gaudy for you. I got lilies when your friend actually said daisies;
or she said lilies knowing that you like daisies. After all, she didn’t like
me. I drove an extra mile to save some money. What could I have done? The
vendor was overcharging me. The gel came down my forehead along with the sweat.
I was nervous, I said that already. I cut myself while shaving and forgot to
remove part of the tissue that I used to soak the blood. My car smelled like
garlic and onions, because that’s what I sell for a living. I could not locate
the leaf in my teeth because the rear view mirror was broken. Every passing
second felt like hours because I had to pee so badly. There was no reason for
pre booking the table at McDonalds; there was no need to tip the waiter because
there wasn’t any and there was no need to use the fork either. We ran out of
gas so you offered to walk. We couldn’t talk since it was raining. There is an
added fragrance to flowers after rain stopped and so is the brightness more
since the clouds disappeared. You never came to the window, because there
wasn’t any. Your hands were sweaty, I still feel what it was like to hold them.
I can still feel the taste of your lips because they tasted like the fish
burger you had. Your laughter gives me nightmares and so does your inability to
pronounce my name properly given that you lisp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why did you marry me? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You saw me standing on your door
and waiting impatiently for you to open the door. You liked lilies after all. I
could only get these lilies next town and you knew that I drove extra to get
these for you. I was wiping my forehead and you knew I was nervous around you.
Tissue on my face and leaf in my teeth, you thought it was cute that I was
clumsy. You love garlic and onion smell, who could have thought? Your parent
never took you to McDonalds, fearing you would never fit in that dress. You
thought that I didn’t care whether you will get fat. I wanted to walk with you
in the rain so I pretended that we ran out of gas. Really? Oh my girl, you are
so sweet and innocent. You saw me standing there in front of your door hoping
that there was a window you would see me from. You saw me looking at my hands feeling
your touch. You saw me lick my lips and thought I liked taste of yours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">God is so kind.</span><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-53342076227957822482015-12-20T09:09:00.001-08:002015-12-20T09:11:37.913-08:00Did you say "Choice"?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">The right of choice is taken away from us even before we are born. Did you have any say in what colour, religion, country you were born into? What kind of parents did you want? Did you ask for the rules of the society or the law it abides by? Why do we talk about rights? Why do we wish to maintain this illusion of choice? What if I wanted to make a world of my own and chose my own laws, no matter how weird they sound to you? I understand that such a thing will lead to a chaos, but what if my rules and laws do not encroach on your space? Yes, I will lose the choice to encroach on your space but at least my house will be tidy and organised and most important I will be able to paint it the way I wanted to.</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Our system provides us so many fundamental rights, but does it provide the most basic right – right to have a right? Instead to make us forget that we do not have any significant choice, it offers us a diaspora of options which either appeals to us or keeps us enough occupied not to question who kept the significant ones out of our reach and whether we can get them back. I do not want more choices in burgers, can you instead offer a planet with less global warming, no terrorists, more fresh water and a lot less complications? </span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Some people have been termed as free thinkers. Some fortunate ones were recognised and termed so before their death. I wonder if in their hearts they realised that they have been able to fool the world and led them to think that there is something called free thinking. I wish they had not and smiled their way to the grave thinking that they had defied the rules of the society and bared it’s truth. Look back and try to remember how many times have you heard the word “No” and then at the same time try to remember the word “Yes.” I would like to meet your family and teachers if you heard “Yes” more. Perhaps I will move to your city and live there. </span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">You are not in a habit of asking questions, otherwise you would have asked me “Who the hell wants choices anyways?” I knew that you would not ask and I also know that you are afraid of making choices. Sir, would you have your sandwich in Parmesan oregano, Multigrain or Honey Oatmeal; Grilled or not; cheese or no cheese, some olives Sir? Oh Come on! Can't I order a simple sandwich? Yes Sir, but then you will lose your right to chose. Forget it, I am out of here. Damn that Sandwich guy , can I have a gelato? Sir, Would you like your gelato in cup or cone, nuts or sprinkles, some chocolate syrup sir? </span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">See, you cannot handle even these simple choices, what will happen if I tell you to chose or create your own currency system, your own religion or perhaps the perfect parents you always wanted. No Sir, you want it all on your platter, and that brings us to the beginning and end of a generation who has misunderstood and will forget importance and essence of individuality. </span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">By the way Sir, How do you want your eggs - fried, scrambled or Sunny side up?</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-53632238661233984702015-12-01T09:01:00.001-08:002015-12-01T09:10:14.055-08:00All's well that's in the well...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">We had a well in our house, the kind in which you could not see the
bottom unless sun is shining right above it. As a kid, it always used to captivate me. It was like a
well that they used to show in fairy tales; covered with green climbers and creepers. Ants and bugs of
all kinds climbed up and down transporting their food on head like the labor carrying stones for
making pyramids; only that there was no one forcing them with a whip in their hands. Whenever some
toy or ball or cloth fell in that well, the feelings attached with that object also fell along. I
believed that all those feelings are sitting at the bottom waiting for someone to come down and feel
them all at once. It was like death of a loved one. How wonderful it would be if you can visit the
place where they store all the souls and once again love them, fight with them and hate them? As human
beings we are tuned to crave for things and people when they are gone and not when they are
with us. So naturally, when something fell in the well, I used to stand for hours figuring out
a way to pull it out. I tried to persuade a group of ants to bring it out for me, but of course they had
more important occupation like figuring out how to break a large grain and take it home or
whatever they called it. The well seemed like a large hole in time which took away my future stream of
thoughts and association with an object which I had once planned to keep with myself for my
life. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Have you ever felt that all moments in your life lead to a particular
aperture in time absorbing what you were and after which life was never the same? No, neither I am
talking about change in your thinking after reading a self -help book, nor meeting a spiritual guru
who changed the course of your life. I am also not talking about quitting your job and pursuing
your life-long dream. I am talking about a literal bend in time. Like all moments in my life have
culminated to the single most important which is now. Next six seconds will decide my fate and yet
here I am, thinking about the wells and bends in time.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Unlike childhood where everything spellbound me, my later years were
spent in a small apartment in city where there was hardly anything which aroused my curiosity let
alone fascination or thoughts about the storage for dead souls. I took up a small time job
as a clerk. I had an unassuming personality and seemed to be forgotten by friends and
family. I ached hard to remember the way I was and the way the world was, but guess my thoughts
had left me as well. I preferred to lose myself in long walks to home after work rather than
joining company of self- absorbed ones in their mindless leisureliness.</span></span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Then it happened one day during one of such long walks. I saw him. It
was as if a moment ago he was not there. I thought I have started imagining things; maybe it
was dark and I must have missed him earlier. Generally I chose to ignore people as I walked but
this one was different; not in any mannerism or personality but something felt different about him.
While I was passing him by, he spoke to me. I could not place that voice for my life, and yet
it sounded so familiar. I had such a careful look at his face which would have made anyone
uncomfortable, but not him. He was as relaxed as a pig in dirt on a summer noon. I chuckled at this
analogy in my mind. His nose didn’t resemble with that of pig’s in any manner. It was more of what
you would imagine on face of a doctor or a counselor; a nose that you would trust. His forehead
had no wrinkles as if he never had a thing to worry about in his life and eyes were like he
never lost sleep for even a night.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">“What was it that you said?” I asked. “Do you have a smoke on you?” he
asked again. He didn’t look like someone who smoked but then neither did I. I offered him one.
He took a long pull and started talking to me as if he was an old friend. I had heard that
cigarette brings people together but this was different. It felt that this was not the first time he was
talking to me. He talked at length about issues of living in a city, politics, weather and asked about my
job. I also asked about his job but I don’t think he gave a conclusive
reply. Finally he asked for my number and walked on casually as if it was natural for him to be a part
of life and then walk on. I don’t remember if he offered his number or if I asked for one.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">It rattled my brain to place his voice and his face, but to no avail.
Was he one of my long lost friends; maybe a cousin who I met in childhood and never again? Do you
know the feeling where you keep something hidden so carefully that you are not able to find
when you look for it. Generally it is such an obvious place that you end up missing. Sometimes the
thing you hide is so precious that to protect it you would rather keep it at such place where even
you cannot reach than to let anyone else touch it. Have you heard stories of people who kill their
love only so that no one else can love them? What does a lonely man like me know about love and
jealousy? Do I remember throwing something precious in that well? Can I now climb down the well
like those ants and play with all the things which fell? If a cat fell in it, would it still be
alive? Do cats live for so many years? Maybe if it was a dog, it would have howled and someone would have
pulled him out. Can I howl and someone pull me out of this life? Am I also living in some kind of
a well? Maybe I fell and there was indeed a world in here like I imagined. I need to stop this
train of thought and concentrate on placing who this person was; but then what does it
matter. He was gone and I wasn’t expecting him to call me.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">He called after lunch and asked if we could meet in evening. It puzzled
me to think why it was not weird for him to call me. Why was everything so casual and natural
and comforting about him? We met at the same place and walked together. I asked him where he
lived to which I did not get a conclusive reply. He was very unlike me. He was passionate about
almost everything in life, had an opinion on almost everything and had a story about almost every
day of his life. I was mesmerized and listened to him for hours and it suited me because I had
nothing to say anyways. While leaving, I asked what his name was. To this day I don’t remember
what he said. Meetings became quite regular and he was never at loss of words. After a couple of days, in his casual manner to which I was now
accustomed with, he asked whether he can move in my apartment. Normally, it would be a repelling
idea especially when I don’t know anything about a person apart from the fact that he was an
excellent storyteller. In his case I only nodded in affirmation and next morning he came with one
bag. I don’t know how he had been living or where he was living till now, but one bag was far
too less for a lifetime of belongings. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">After an hour or so he was done unpacking in his room so we
had a hearty breakfast and talked about various things. When I say ‘talked’ I mean that he
talked and I listened. He was perfectly ok with me only nodding in yes or no without any significant
contribution in terms of opinions or stories of my own. I could never understand neither I put
my head to what he does during the day but he was always sitting on the couch, watching
television and eager to tell me more stories when I came back home. The apartment was almost always
untouched and it seemed that he had just walked in before I did.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">With each passing day, something was changing. I could almost swear
that his face was different when I met him but as everything else I could not place the change. Can
you believe that after all this time till date I don’t know his name? I remember he told me his
name, but I cannot remember it. These days, sometimes I had difficulty recalling my name as well or
from where I was. I had trouble recalling incidents of my life and had trouble concentrating on
my job. Only his stories seemed real and everything else appeared artificial. No, I am not
talking metaphorically. I am also not talking about some smitten young girl who cannot see anything
beyond her lover. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">I am not a fan of traveling much but once I visited an old village in
the hills. I don’t remember how I come to know about the place. For all you know, I jumped out of the
train without thinking and walked towards the village. I trekked on narrow lanes in midst of
clouds to reach this dreamlike place where people were simple and houses were modest. No one was in a
hurry to go anywhere. They offered me some tea without me asking for it. They also offered me
shelter without mentioning tariff. The mornings started with rays filtering out of
clouds and days ended with orange and blue painting on the endless canvass. I lost track of days
and dates. Then one day a man who had a beard so white as if he just came out of a snowstorm
asked me “where is your home?” Have you ever had a feeling when someone shook you out of a
dream?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Today morning when he came out of his room, I could not take my eyes
away from his face. No, I am still not smitten. This time I was able to place the change. This
is the face I have been looking at for last thirty years of my life. The face has changed a lot over
this time but the features have not. This is a face which I know the most. This is my own face. He
asked me what was the matter; in my own voice. I could not answer. I just took him by the hand and
stood in front of a mirror. For the first time since we met, I saw a wrinkle on his forehead. He did
not speak for a long time. It could have been seconds, but seemed like a long time. “It was not
supposed to happen so quickly” he said. I was baffled. I shouted on him asking what was not supposed
to happen so quickly. “I am surprised you haven’t realized till now. Haven’t you noticed how
slowly I am turning into you? Haven’t you noticed that how your own life is slipping out of your
hands? You are supposed to be replaced by me” he said casually as if it was a normal thing to happen
like a tooth getting replaced by a new one. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">“Are you here to kill me?” I asked. “How can I kill you? I am you.
There is no you and I anymore. I am all what you thought yourself to be always. I am the one who sat
at the bottom of the well and felt all those feelings. I am the one who played with all those
toys and talked to the souls. I am the one who looked up when you looked down the well. I am the one
the ants carried the food for. Haven’t you felt that ever? But then I am the one who is supposed
to feel.” He said. He got up and opened the door to his room. I followed him. All that ever fell
in the well was neatly arranged on a desk. No wonder he was carrying only a bag full. On a chair nearby
sat an old cat, purring and licking itself and in midst of the room was a well with all the climbers
and creepers and ants.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">“You know it is not necessary that you have to go. We cannot exist
together, but it is your choice. The department of replacing people however has not given us much time
to choose. I will walk away from that door exactly at noon and you can keep living your old
life. Either ways you would not know the difference.” He said without any attempt to influence my
decision. We sat across the table without saying a word. It wasn’t a dream for
however I wish it was. I didn’t try to ask him any questions about whether any such department existed
or who headed that department and whether we can speak with the head and ask for more
time. At exactly 11:59:50 he got up.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was
running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting
in reverse under my breath. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">"Ten, nine, eight, seven..."</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">
</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-63716124706075295252015-11-29T06:09:00.000-08:002015-11-29T06:10:51.361-08:00Your judgement or mine?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Why do I live how I live? You
think there should be a purpose to our lives? Who told you? You read it
somewhere or some spiritually enlightened soul whispered it into your ear? I am
sure it changed your life and what you do now is for achieving a higher goal in
life. You see beyond anger, happiness, love and attachment and are on the path
of achieving which not many achieved – Nirvana. Did it ever occur to you that
these feelings were given so that we can live them and understand our soul? No?
Oh, these are only distractions which were placed in our way to free our souls.
Each one to himself. My life’s purpose is to live through each of these
feelings over and over again till I understand myself. If that means, sitting
in my apartment all day long on my couch watching television, to fully
understand the feeling of laziness and emptiness; probably that’s what I was
going for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Why did I need to love over and
over again? People are not able to find even one love in their entire lives and
here I am, describing the roller coaster I ride each time I love. I am putting
myself out there, fully exposed to the pain, expecting vultures to pierce
through my flesh bit by bit, till I bleed no more and my bones are pecked and played
with by dogs. That’s what we were born
for and that’s how we are supposed to die. It sounded painful to you? That’s why
you closed your doors and windows and chose to remain inside with no intention
of feeding vultures and dogs? So what is the life that you live now? I remember
now, you took another scared soul in and called it love. It isn't love, till
you feel it every moment of your life, till you yearn for it as you would for
water if you were thirsty for years. Love is not about possessing, it is about
seeking. You don’t understand it, do you, but then, not everyone is meant
to. I admire the way you walk with your
eyes closed and the way you have found convenient definitions of life, purpose,
religion, God and love. I wish I could do the same. Meanwhile, someone has to
feed vultures and dogs too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Why do you lose? You will say “I cannot
chose whether I want to succeed or lose. I can just make efforts and hope for
the best.” Then I will say “Oh really?” and give the looks that mean that I can
see through you and am not buying this bullshit. You, my friend, are hiding
behind this comforting wall called failure. You know well that once you cross
this wall, there is no more hiding, no one will protect you under the pretext
that the meek shall inherit the world. You will join the rank where one has to
take responsibility of one’s actions. You find it really cozy where you are, don’t
you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"> I have lot of judgment about how you live, don’t
I. What can I say? You started it. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-51138143644944099482014-12-24T18:23:00.001-08:002014-12-24T18:26:53.839-08:00Remember????<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">He<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“Remember?” A simple question;
asked simply and answered in a “yes”, “no” or a safe “maybe”. “Remember? We
went to that place when we were in college and we had such an awesome burger;
Remember? You stole your Dad’s car and we drove all night and ended up hitting
a tree; Remember? We got so drunk and got married last night.” How hard can it
be to answer this question? A “yes” or a “No” or a “Maybe”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Well, in my case this question
ends up being answered in an unbelieving and un-comfortingly long stare meaning
“Have you gone crazy? When did this happen?” or “I don’t remember it like
that?” It did not start like this. You and I talked for hours about things we
did years back. All those crazy things that we did, things about which you tell
me now that we did them back then, things about which I do not believe that I
did them with you. Believe me, I want to remember. I see your disheartened face,
which you try to hide behind all that excitement of showing me a souvenir,
trying to make me remember the story behind it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like that blue mini surfboard on my desk; you tell me that we bought it as
a memoir, when we went to Miami and I wanted to settle there, teaching sea
surfing to the tourists but could not learn it myself. Like that fountain pen
in the frame on the wall, you tell me that I literally stole it from Mike Tyson
after he gave me an autograph. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Then all those memories started
fading. There was nothing to talk about anymore. I looked at things and wondered
when and where did I get them from. You thought I was kidding with you. I
thought you bought those expensive and thus were trying to convince me that I
got them and not you. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I have not forgotten everything.
I remember seeing you first day in college. I did not like you much and you
tell me that the feeling was mutual. I remember the day I asked you out and you
came even when you were not sure. It was an awesome night. We went out and sat
on the shore; all night long, listening to songs. That is perhaps the most
treasured memory I have with you. But your face; was it really you? What a
curse it is, to know that it was you but not remember you as you are. And yet,
you keep playing those songs again and again so that I do not forget this
single memory I have. Do I have the courage to tell you that I do not think it
was you that night who danced with me in the moon light, that I do not think it
was your lips that I kissed and it was not your eyes I kept looking into? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Sometimes I try to convince
myself that I am suffering from amnesia, which the doctors have neither
confirmed nor denied, but then am forced to think otherwise when you start
acting weird as I ask you about my family and friends. You remember everything
like it happened yesterday and you have all this stories to prove what you
said; but then why do you prove everything when I do not doubt you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no doubt that you love me and that I
once loved you, but then why my handwriting is different in all those love
letters you keep showing me? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">What is written in that notepad
that you keep erasing every night? I hope they are not my memories. But if you
could erase, could you not write new memories for me?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I can ask you these questions.
But then, I may have possibly asked you these questions in past and you may
have answered knowing well that I will not remember what you said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I have all these questions and I
have all these doubts. I have one sweet memory with a face which is not yours. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But above all, I have you.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">She</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Remember? This is the question I
ask you hundred times in a day, knowing well that in answer you will just keep
staring at me in disbelief. So many stories and I must have told them to you
endless times, somewhere knowing deep inside that you will never believe them. I
have become comfortable with this feeling now. I keep talking for hours to you
and you keep sitting staring at me, as if you don’t know me. I know that you
don’t remember me, and why should you. I know that you remember someone else in
your dreams, and I do not blame you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I do not wish to miss out a
single detail while narrating a story, an incident, a memory as I can recall
it. So I keep writing, erasing and re-writing it, while you are asleep.
Sometimes I think that I make my narration so real that it starts sounding
unreal to you. If in my story, it was raining when you first kissed me, then
you should hear the sound of rain drops trickling down my hair. If in my story,
we sat on a shore and hear songs all night long, then you should remember those
songs by heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">You have so many questions, which
I have no answers to. But how can you blame me for that. I barely knew you when
we met. You barely knew yourself when we met. And yet you saved me. I could not
bear loneliness any more. I would have jumped if I did not see you there, lost;
without a clue of who you are and where you live. I brought you home. I failed
in searching for your family. I told you this and you cried all night and yet
when you got up in the morning, you had forgotten all about them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">So what if all the stories I tell
you, I have lived them with someone else? So what if I wish to remember your
face in all my memories? I am recreating my life, why cannot you?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have so many stories to write,
so many memoirs to plant, so many imaginations to prove. I have so many of your
doubts to fight with, many questions to answer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But above all, I have you.</i> </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-12067142121478343282014-08-17T12:31:00.002-07:002014-08-17T12:31:20.977-07:00The perfect painting...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">More often than not, it just
remained in my head and when I decided to bring it out, I worked on it for
hours without eating or sleeping. My paints and brush always said what I wanted
to. Painting is quite different from any other talents like writing or singing,
in which you can edit and reconnect. It is more like making music, where you have
to trust your instincts and believe that you will be able to reproduce what you
outlined in your mind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">There are many artists who will
tell you that they only work for their satisfaction and not for others. While
sitting in this poorly lit room of one of the cheapest accommodations of the city,
it’s easy for me to paint a picture of my dedication towards art and how I never
compromised quality of my work for commercial success, how I never believed in interacting
outside my comfort (which is typically limited to talking to myself) and how I dismiss
shallow beliefs and customs of this baseless social order. I can also tell you
how I despise entertaining spoilt trophy wives and repulsive socialites for making
their portraits to lift their self-esteem. None of this is true though. I have
spent fair share of my life running after success but maybe I see the world and
world see me through very different eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">When I was a kid, I used to watch
painters with awe, working wonders on canvass like Mozart playing a symphony.
Brush strokes up and down, various colours like musical instruments; blue and
white made clouds; pink and orange made faces with black shadows and brown
wrinkles. Today I so wish that I painted badly that day and was not encouraged
to learn it any further. But here I am, after all these years living without
any name or fame.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Bringing you back to the poorly
lit room of the cheapest accommodation of the city; I started travelling
sometime back both in search of work and inspiration. It was not my idea, but I
read somewhere that some artists gained repute by changing their places of
residence and went on to live where their work was much appreciated. Over last
few months I travelled to mountains, beaches and crowded cities but my luck did
not seem to have changed. For the first time I decided to be away from city and
lived in a secluded bungalow in a forest; partly because it was very cheap and
partly because it helped me concentrate on my work, not that I had any. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The night watchman told me that
the bungalow belonged to a government officer. He used to stay with his
daughter. She disappeared one day. Rumours are that he got drunk one day and
accidentally shot her. We all heard the shot but when we reached there, he said
he fired at a hyena. I am sure he buried the body somewhere in the forest.
During his last days, he had confined himself to the room on left corner of the
property. He had given leave to all servants and his body was found days after
he was dead. He indicated at the big lock and said the room was closed and nobody
goes in that room anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I was in deep slumber that night when
I heard the shot. It took me some time to figure out whether I was dreaming or I
actually heard a shot. I ran towards sound of the shot, but there seemed to be
no activity. I woke up the watchman. He had not heard any such sound. Convinced
that I was dreaming, I came back to bed and slept. “I am alone. I am so alone”
somebody was crying. This time I was not dreaming. I sat in the bed and listened
carefully. It was voice of a girl sobbing. I again walked towards the voice,
careful that the watchman does not see me and declare me insane. The sound
increased when I walked towards the left side of the building. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">It was coming from the same room
which watchman had indicated but there was a change. There was no lock anymore.
I hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open. The door opened without
any sound and I stepped in. The sound had stopped. I asked “Who is it?” but no
one answered. The sobbing started again. The room was full of half made
paintings. The painter was desperately trying to make a perfect painting and
was discarding them even on a single mistake. In centre of the room was a
painting which was covered with a sheet. The sobbing sound was coming from behind
it. I walked towards it. I removed the sheet expecting someone to be sitting
under the table on which painting was kept. But what I saw was the single most
horrifying things I ever saw. The painting was alive. It was also the single
most beautiful painting I had ever seen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Those eyes; they kept looking at
me with tears flowing. There was a look of desperation, a wish to get out of
the painting and come alive; a desire to talk to someone, after all this
painting was locked in this room for years. I was not in a position to say
anything. “I am alone. Be with me” she kept saying. I must have passed out. I
was on my bed when I woke up. I asked the watchman whether he brought me here.
He said I was sleeping on the bed itself. I walked towards that room. It was
duly locked from outside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Whole day I waited for the night
to come. The sobbing started and I was in the room again. I looked around me. The
room was full of paintings which had her and an older gentleman. I recognised
him. He was the owner of the bungalow and she was her daughter. But why was he
trying to paint them together. “I am alone. Be with me” she kept saying.
Perhaps the old man believed that they can be together if he could make one
perfect painting of himself with his daughter. He had seen the mysterious manner
in which his daughter was still alive in her painting. I had never seen such a
beautiful girl and such a beautiful painting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I must not be thinking clearly
when I decided to be with her. I was obsessed with a single thought to make
that perfect painting. I spent endless nights in that room telling the girl
that I will be with her by painting her and me together. Unlike the old man, I already
had the talent of bringing things to life on canvass. Slowly it took shape. I
could not afford any mistakes. I had to be with her. And then one night, it was
complete. It was perfect. I showed it to her and asked her how can we be
together?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“Burn me” she said. I burned her
painting. Her eyes were moving in the painting I had made.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How will I be with you?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“You have to die” she said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Next moment I was writhing in
pain, but not for long. Then I saw my body lying lifeless on the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I looked to my right. I was
sitting with her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-67680822602455001242014-07-06T11:21:00.002-07:002014-07-06T11:23:05.094-07:00The man on the other side...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Sipping slowly from a cup of tea,
thinking about nothing in particular and having nothing to do; here I was,
sitting in this diner, looking at the rain pouring down. It was the rain in the
first place, which pulled me to this town, so far from home and so far from
family. I have always felt a connection with these droplets drizzling down and
colouring everything a shade or two darker. This was my favourite place. The owner
shared my passion for the rains and always played the songs I wanted to hear. In
the background, was playing “Rhythm of the rain” by The Cascades. The day could
not have started better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div style="background: rgb(248, 248, 232); line-height: 15pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain<br />
Telling me just what a fool I've been<br />
I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain<br />
And let me be alone again<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: rgb(248, 248, 232); line-height: 15pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Oh, listen to the falling rain<br />
Pitter patter, pitter patter<br />
Oh, oh, oh, listen to the falling rain<br />
Pitter patter, pitter patter<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">If there was one thing, other
than the rain, which pulled to me to this town was that I was absolutely certain
nobody knew me there. I was not running from someone or something. Rather I wanted
to be in a place I didn’t need to think about running from. It was not easy,
disappearing overnight, leaving no trail of where I went. Sometimes I think
about the people I left behind, but that is a matter of past now. It seems like
another life now. Now this was my home, my work and my life. Sitting in this
corner and judging the world from here even though and because nobody cared
about my opinions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I was about to finish my third
cup of tea since morning and had started writing a story on my laptop when I noticed
the man across the diner on the other corner. There was something peculiar
about his face, something very familiar. It was a smirk, a smirk I had only
seen on one other face. Mine! I was told that I always had this on my face
whenever I was on the verge of stumbling upon an idea to write a story. I was
told so many times that I decided to see for myself, and I sat hours before a
mirror while trying to write a story and finally I saw it. That’s why I remember
it so clearly. There was no mistake. There was more that I had not noticed in
first look. He was working on a laptop identical to mine, had a hairstyle same
as mine and wore glasses with same frame as that of mine. In front of him on
the table besides his laptop were three empty cups of tea. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I was getting curious now. I
wanted to look at him closely. So I walked upto the other end of the diner and
picked up newspaper from a table near his. He did not notice me at all. Almost everything
was identical and still he was not me. He wore the same watch from the same
brand, had a birthmark at the same place on his hand as that of mine and he
looked outside the window at the rain every thirty seconds just like I do. I
walked back to my seat. I could not concentrate on the story I was writing now.
I made thumping sound on my table with my hand so that he looks at me, but he
did not seem to notice. After a while, I grew impatient and decided to talk to
him. I looked into my laptop and shut it down and got up to walk towards him.
He wasn’t there anymore. I ran outside trying to figure out where he went. He
could not have walked away so quickly. I stood in the rain trying to absorb
what just happened with me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">So many days have passed since
then, but I am not able to forget that incidence. I come to this diner everyday
but he did not come back. I enquired about him in nearby places. This is a
small town where everybody knows everybody. Any new visitor cannot go
unnoticed, but this one had just vanished in this air. I gave up the search
eventually figuring that it would be a coincidence that the man was wearing the
same things and had same mannerisms as that of mine, in absence of an
alternative logical explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">There was no rain one day. So I did
not feel like going outside. Sometimes you become so comfortable with a place
that staying indoors feel odd. After all this was a place I only used for sleeping.
The rain was back next day and so was I, at the diner. After I had my second
cup of tea, I noticed that there was a person sitting on a table near mine and
was looking at me continuously. When I looked at him and smiled, he gathered
courage and approached me. He asked me whether I was a journalist. I said I was
a suspense writer. He said that then what he was going to tell me next would
excite me a lot. I was all ears expecting some old story I had already heard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“I have noticed you many times
sitting here engrossed in your work. You would not have noticed but even I come
here daily at this time. There are only two seats with windows in this Diner
and both are always occupied. Yesterday you did not come, so it was a good
opportunity for me to sit here. I was enjoying my regular mug of beer enjoying
the view outside and then I saw him. He was sitting across the diner on the
other seat with the window. At first I only noticed his baldness pattern which
was same as mine but then I saw his moustache, his poncho and the bag in which
he was carrying the carpentry tools. They were all same as that of mine. I saw
him up and close. It was as if somebody had made a bad copy of me. Everything
about him reminded me of myself but his face. There was something different
about his face. I wanted to talk to him but he just disappeared. I asked my
mother whether I had a twin brother, but it turns out I don’t. What do you make
of this, Mr Suspense Writer” he said. I did not blink my eyes even for a moment
or at least I don’t remember if I did.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Now was the time to talk to the
owner of the Diner once again. It was too much of a coincidence and the writer
in me was crying for an explanation. The owner was a respectable gentleman. He
requested me not to spread such rumours or people will stop coming there. I
know he was right. “I will not tell anyone but if this is true, then people
will notice anyways one day. Have you thought about it?” I asked him. He said
he does not know anything about this man. I tried to calm him down and asked
him whether he started this diner. He said his father did. His father was alive
and went for a walk everyday and so next morning I was out walking and waiting
for him. He was a sweet gentleman and opened up quickly. He told me how his
father had a modest beginning and opened a small sweet shop on this street. As a
kid he knew everyone in the town and everyone treated like his own. He used to
pass time in other shops everyday and especially in the one adjacent to theirs.
“Which one?” I asked. “Ohh, it is part of our diner now. We bought the place
after the owner died.” He said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“I used to sit in that one for
hours looking at myself” he said. I asked “looking at you in what?” “There was
a large mirror on the wall, as large as the wall itself. I used to get lost in
it. It amazed me to see how mirrors make a place look so large. But it was
broken when we bought the place and diner was opened.” He said. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How did the owner die?” I asked.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“He had a heart attack. He was sitting
in a chair in the corner when we found out he was dead. His eyes were open and
it seemed that he was looking at himself in the mirror.” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-78998915657944543472014-03-22T11:54:00.002-07:002014-03-22T11:54:53.870-07:00Blood on her face..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">When you stay alone, you develop a tendency of talking to yourself.
I also narrate the incidents, frustrations and fears to keep myself
entertained. Cooking for oneself, eating alone and then dragging oneself to bed
night after night becomes an uphill task; and top of all, this rain. As if
staying alone wasn’t scary enough for a girl, the rain and wind has to bang on
doors and windows like ghosts trying to enter from all directions. It’s been a
long time since I have been staying alone. One would think I must have become
accustomed now, but I am as scared as I was the first day I slept alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I took a long time to sleep at
first and then kept waking up with sound of each thunder. When I woke up this
time, the sound was different. It was not thunder and it was not the wind
banging against my door. There was someone outside the door. There was someone
knocking faintly in regular intervals. I asked who it was. Nobody replied. The knocking
increased and with it another sound; as if somebody was scratching the gate. My
first reaction was to ignore the sound and sleep, but I rejected it
immediately. I was as curious as I was scared. With trembling hands I put the
security chain and slowly opened the door. There was no one outside the gate. I
removed the chain and opened the gate, and then I screamed. Something ran into
my home. It was a cat. She adjusted in a corner, licking herself. I gave her
some milk in a bowl and went off to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">Next day morning I had almost
forgotten about the cat, when she startled me by dropping something. She liked
me and kept rubbing her head against my hand. I got surprised when I went to
pour some more milk in her bowl. The bowl was full of milk I gave to her the
last night. I gave her a cookie which she sniffed and rejected immediately. She
kept playing with a ball so I let her be, and then the daily routine kicked in
followed by another lonely night. The only difference was that she was lying
beside me on the bed today. Human mind creates its own image of company and
thus sleeping was a little easier tonight. The night was eerily quiet and yet I
woke up and opened my eyes. My heart skipped a beat and I shuddered with fear.
She was just standing there on bed, very near my face. Her eyes were glowing in
dark. I sat up and took a minute to be normal again. I locked her in another
room and went off to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">The bowl was still full of milk
the following morning. I opened the door of the other room to let her out. I was
a bit shaken when I saw her face. There was blood on it. In a way it solved the
mystery of the bowl full of milk. But where did she find a rat or another
rodent in my house? I had enough on my hands so I forgot the incident and
carried on with routine followed by another night. I really needed to sleep
after two eventful nights. Before sleeping I locked her in another room and
then slept. I was very tired and fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed. But it
was not in my destiny to sleep tonight as well. I heard someone crying. It was
not a sob. It was a wail, women let out when they are being tortured. It was
accompanied with a familiar scratching sound. I must have a very sound heart;
otherwise combination of these two sounds was a perfect recipe for a stroke. The
sounds were coming from the other room. I do not know what I was thinking when I
opened the gate, but the wailing stopped and the cat ran into my room. I
decided to let her out of the home next morning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">If I had any doubt on my decision
of getting rid of her, it was cleared when I saw blood on her mouth the next
morning. So I kicked her out of the gate as she purred and tried to come back. I
was cleaning the house when I noticed a strange thing. There were stains on
blood in the bowl as well. Did she kill a rodent and then like a sophisticated
cat, kept it in her bowl and ate? It was a puzzle on which I did not wish to
spend any more time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the
routine kicked in followed by another lonely night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I knew I will have to get up
again in night, but was only praying the reason was not horrifying. The prayer
was not answered. What happened shook me to the core. I opened my eyes and saw
two glowing eyes. I do not know how she came back, but there she was standing
in front of me. Next few days and nights were horrifying. She kept coming back.
There was wailing sound if I locked her in another room. She always had blood
on her mouth and her bowl every morning. I could not bring myself to kill her.
Leaving her far from home and in animal shelters did not help. She came back
every night and just stood there with demonic eyes tearing through me while I sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I was exhausted and terrified. I
had grown white with fear and weakness. While lying on bed, I saw myself in the
mirror. I was looking all white in white gown and bloodless face. I could not
take it anymore, opening my eyes to find her standing there. So I decided not
to sleep at all. I wanted to see where she comes from. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time seemed to stop. It was an eternity before
she showed up. She slowly walked up to her bowl. Why was she standing there?
There was nothing in the bowl. But she was not looking at it. She was looking
at me. She kept looking into my eyes and I kept looking at her. I noticed some
other movement in the room. I looked into the mirror. I tried to scream but
could not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">In the mirror my white body in
white gown was standing on the floor, before the cat and the bowl. I tore my
hand with my teeth and kept wailing. I was in pain and screamed at top of my voice. The blood dripped into the bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I don’t remember what happened
after that. Then the morning came and with it, the cat with blood on her face. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-62987838435998544892014-03-21T11:25:00.001-07:002014-03-21T11:25:33.122-07:00When I will see her tomorrow..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I was standing on the sidewalk. I
stand here every morning. I prepared myself to gather courage, cross the street
and talk to her. I have been thinking about this moment for a long time now. Any
moment she will open the door and come out. I remember her exactly the same. Everyday
she comes out on the street wearing a hat, smiles and looks up, and my world
just stops there. I watch her walk down the street and I just stand there,
mesmerised. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">My father used to tell stories
about how he used to travel several miles to get a glimpse of my mother. He did
this for months before she finally said yes and they got married. I used to
wonder, what makes a person take so much pain; what makes a person identify his
true love and what makes him sure that he will be able to persuade her
eventually. I used to tell my father that I will never be able to undertake
such burden. I did not see the point. My father always said “trust me son, you
will; and it will all be worth every minute you spent standing in rain and heat,
every step you take in a journey of miles and every tear you drop waiting for
her.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I asked my mother whether my
father’s persistence forced her to say yes. She said that she would have agreed
on the first day they met. She knew that he was the one she would get married
to. I was baffled, why did she wait? She winked at me and said “It’s a girl’s
secret. Ask the girl you would love when she says yes.” I always thought they
were a weird couple. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I first saw her three months
back. I am a shy person, especially when it comes to beautiful girls. I believe
she looked at me. At the risk of sounding like a crazy stalker, I figured out
her address and followed her home. I thought I will ring the doorbell and ask
her out, but could not gather enough courage. I tried many times in office as
well, however her smile makes me forget everything, even what I was about to
say.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">But not today; today I will walk up
to her and ask her out. I had rehearsed what I will say. I had also planned
various responses based on her reaction. I decided not to be too excited if she
says yes, nor too depressed if she refuses. What if she does not recognise me?
Should I then first introduce myself? Will she think I was stalking her? What
if she was already engaged to someone? Am I dressed appropriately? Hope there
is no spinach in my teeth? I cannot get nervous today. I have to do this. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">And then the door opened. My heartbeat
increased every millisecond. And there she was, like I remember her. Why does
she smile so much? I am again forgetting what I had planned to say. I should do
something fast. I started walking towards her. I was only watching her. The
world had stopped around me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">But maybe everything had not
stopped. I failed to notice a speeding truck approaching me. She looked at me.
I thought she had recognised me. And then the truck hit me. I was dead. Again!
I stood, picked up the flowers I brought for her, dusted my coat and walked
back to the sidewalk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">I stood there, waiting for
tomorrow morning when I will see her again. </span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-5171296930012372952014-03-20T09:45:00.002-07:002014-03-20T09:45:43.210-07:00The shadow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Everybody called her ‘shadow’. It
was not her original name, but nobody knows what it was. I used to see everyone
running back to their houses after darkness fell. Some people said that they
had seen her; some said that she was behind them when they were walking towards
home. Sometimes I used to wonder, not a single person had claimed that she had
harmed them or their kids, but still she was the most feared thing for years. There
were varied stories about her; how she got burnt alive in her home or how she
was feared to be a witch and was beaten to death or how she was used to drink
blood of animals and kids to keep herself young. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">I was most curious of them all.
So I snuck out one night and hid behind a rock. I kept waiting but nothing
happened. I came back at midnight and tiptoed in the house. I lit a lamp in my
room and started making my bed. Just when I was about to switch off the lamp, I
saw something that made my spine chill and my forehead bursting with sweat. It
was my shadow, looking at me, or at least it seemed. It was a women’s outline.
I slapped myself thinking that I was dreaming but I wasn’t. I could not scream
or tell my parents with the fear that they will discover my misdeed. Whole
night I kept sitting in a corner trying not to look at the shadow. Irony was
that the shadow needed light to exist and I needed light to not die of fear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Sometime during the night I fell
asleep. I woke up with a start and looked at my shadow. It was my normal shadow.
It was after all a dream. I took a deep breath of relief and carried on as
usual during the day. By the evening I had forgotten about it and by the night I
was planning on sleeping peacefully with no recollection of the incident. Somebody
touched me on the shoulder and woke me up. I was paralyzed with fear and could
not move. Then somebody whispered in my ear and told me to walk out of the
house. I was in a state of trance. While I was walking she kept whispering in
my ear that I am not separate from her; she said that she was a part of me now
and that I was a part of her. She also told me that I will have to go wherever
she goes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">I hid under the bed, went to
temples to pray, kept chanting prayers but she kept coming back every night. Her
existence did not matter on presence of light but yet she was my shadow. It was
as if I was living in a nightmare which didn’t seem to come to an end. One day I
gathered courage and screamed at her. She didn’t seem to notice at all, but yes
next day there were more horror stories of the shadow and its poor victim. I
begged her to leave me but she did not give any response. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">Finally I told my parents. They
were shocked and frightened at the same time. To avoid embarrassment they did
not tell anyone. They tied me to the bed at night so that I cannot go out. But
night came and so did she. I spent entire night on roads again. When I came
back, I expected my parents to be in terror but they were not. They told me
that I had not gone out even for a single minute.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">So I gave up and kept wandering
with her night after night after night. She did not say anything; just kept
roaming. I tried not to look at her face, not that she had a face to look at. She
kept holding my hand, with a hand she did not have. I stopped telling her to
leave me. My parents were happy seeing me in house for entire night when I was
actually treading up and down the roads.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">But something had changed now. I
had started feeling secured with her. I started looking forward to the nights
when we walked on those roads together. I found myself to be most peaceful when
I was with her. And then one day she looked at me again with eyes she did not
have. I knew she was going to leave me now. And then I looked at her. And she
knew I wasn’t going to leave her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #20124d;">I am the shadow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-48518111503775697262014-03-08T10:15:00.003-08:002014-03-08T10:15:44.460-08:00The price I paid....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">She
kept on roaming in the house at night. I tried everything; making her sleep
with me, locking the door to her room, tying her to the bed, giving her mild
sleeping pills, psychiatric sessions; but nothing worked. You may not believe
all this, even I did not at first, but then one night I stood outside the gate
and saw the lock open from inside and she emerging out of the room. She was
always in trance. I was frozen that night for the first time and now every
night I silently look at her while she walks up and down the stairs, jumps on
the couch, opens and closes the refrigerator, stares out of the window and
talks to the cat. She does not sleep and so do I. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">She
is very cheerful during the day, with no recollection of what she does at
night. She never sleeps, but is always fresh. On the other hand, I cannot go
through the torture and horror of watching her every night. How she unties
herself or opens the lock has always been a mystery to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">One
day I noticed that she was talking to someone at the window. It was past
midnight. It was a scary face, the one you imagine that a ghost would have. I
could not hear what they were talking about. I screamed and ran towards the
window. He did not seem to notice me and kept talking to her. I picked her up
and shut the window closed. She kept talking as if he was still there. While I was
shutting the window, I saw his face closely and skipped a heartbeat. My dead
husband was standing outside the window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I
was alone at home next evening when the window opened by itself. I saw the face
and screamed once again. He called me by the name he used to. He kept a figure on
his lips and gestured me to be quiet. Then he spoke. He said that he knows what
was troubling her. He also said that he knows how to cure her, but there is a price
to be paid. He asked whether I was willing to pay the price. Then he left, I do
not remember when and how. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">And
then everything changed. I do not know how, but it did. I could not believe
when I saw her sleeping. I kept watching her entire night and cried with
happiness. Every following night, scared that I was, that things will not be
like this for long, I saw her sleeping. And after a long time, I also started
sleeping again. Life became normal. Weeks passed. I was convinced that she was cured
now. Though I could never understand her powers of opening locks without keys,
but I did not want to think about it. I also wanted to forget that I ever saw
my dead husband. It was all a nightmare and it was over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">One
day, principal of her school called me. She was worried. My daughter was sleeping
in the school. My first thought was that she might be making up for all years
of lost sleep. I started making her sleep early in evening. She had stopped
talking, had dark circles under her eyes and had lost appetite. I started
taking her out to play with other children but she just sat in a corner. She trembled
and shivered when I spoke with her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Once
again I had to take her down to the psychiatrist. She went back to her memories
in a state of trance. She said she did her homework, had dinner and went to her
room to sleep. And then she started trembling, scared to hell and had to be
brought back to her senses. I could not let her go through the nightmare again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">It
took me lot of time to make her comfortable enough to talk to us. I took her in
my arms and asked what is she so afraid of? She said “you”. I told her that I
loved her a lot and will not do anything to hurt her or let anything happen
which will hurt her. I asked her why she was afraid of me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">She
innocently asked – “Why do you keep walking at night?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-41312565490459492792014-01-13T07:37:00.001-08:002014-01-13T07:39:41.355-08:00The chair she sleeps in <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">
It was her favourite corner of
house; gave her adequate sunlight in winters post noon and satisfying breeze in
summers. She used to sleep almost entire day peacefully on her rocking chair. After
my in-laws got killed in an accident, she was the only one we had who we could
call a family. My husband, my four years old daughter and I took turns to sit
with her and tell her what is going on in our respective lives. My daughter
loved her the most. She used to keep scribbling and doodling things we have not
been able to discern from one another. Then she always used to hand over her
art to her beloved grandmother who played along and praised her. My husband, no
matter how tired he was, used to sit with her and pressed her legs till she
slept. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I also did my best to keep her
happy; but I was so jealous of her, jealous of the fact that she could afford
to sleep all day while I slog in kitchen for a daughter and a husband who paid
no attention to me and jealous of the fact that she had the most amazing corner
of the house. However if you ask me what was I most jealous of her; it was her
rocking chair. Sometimes I used to imagine myself sitting in that chair, admiring
myself in mirror on opposite wall and fading into slumber while I oscillate. I
was amazed at how I had never seen her leaving that chair, how she manages to
do her chores even without asking my help and even without leaving that chair.
This is one mystery I could never solve. I had lost all hopes of ever sitting
in that chair; but luck was in my favour.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">She had slept the entire day
without moving from the chair as usual. When my husband was pressing her legs,
he felt they were colder than usual. Thinking that she was unwell, he tried to
wake her up. She never got up. After she was gone, we felt if we had awakened
from a dream. Suddenly we did not know what to do in the spare time which was earlier
spent with her. Next few days were very depressing and uncomfortable for both
of us. Now we had time for each other but nothing to talk about. One day not
long after the grandmother died, I spent one such wordless evening with my
husband and then walked out of the room to look after my daughter. She was as
usual doodling sitting in that corner near the rocking chair. I realised in
last few days, I had forgotten both, my daughter and the chair. I kept looking
at her while she scribbled with absolute concentration, but what she did next
made me shiver. She offered the notebook in the air, as if her grandmother was
still there to praise her. Next few moments she kept chuckling as she used to
do when her grandmother told her jokes about what the doodle appeared to her as.
I lifted her in my arms while she kept pointing at the chair as if her
grandmother was still sitting there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I had not slept properly since
she died. It was a lovely winter afternoon and that corner of house looked
particularly tempting with sun coming in through the blinds. I had waited for
this moment for a very long time. I slowly settled into that chair. As soon as
it started oscillating, I understood why I craved for it so much. It was so
soothing and relaxing. I also knew now how she managed to sleep for entire day,
since only after two minutes my eyes got heavy. I must have slept for hours
when a touch woke me up. My daughter handed over her doodle to me. I looked at
it and she chuckled even when I did not say anything. I tried to get up but
could not. And then it dawned upon me. I looked at my shrivelled hands. I
looked at myself in the mirror only to find reflection of a vacant chair. I
wanted to scream but I could not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">And then something happened which
made it all clear. I came out of the room and kept looking at my daughter. I
seemed frightened watching my daughter chuckling. Is this not the dress I was
wearing yesterday? How can I see myself standing across the room? And then I picked
up my daughter and went into the room while the real I was still sitting on the
chair. Or was she real?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">And then she came back, looked
into my eyes and said – “You wished for my life, I wished for yours”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-4698562044326933562014-01-10T09:51:00.000-08:002014-01-10T09:51:32.048-08:00A story I shouldn't have told...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">Ever since I was a kid, I was
fascinated by demons in my closet. I have spent many nights sleeping with one
eye open, looking at the door, trying to catch hold of the green eyed devil. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends (and none of them was imaginary)
were scared to enter my room; frightened that I will once again switch off the
lights and tell them one of my favourite ghost stories, with voice modulation
and will not let them go till one of them could not control their pee anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">With age, my fascination with the
dark side only increased. Not for a single moment in my life, I ever believed
that it was all fiction. There was perhaps not a single decent ghost story
which I had not read. But the time had come to try and actually be in one. In
teenage, it is easy to beguile people in your impish plans by entering into a
silly bet. The bet was to stay in the graveyard till midnight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">We had decided to meet at the
front gate two hours before midnight. I am sure you would have never
experienced this, but a graveyard is perhaps the most peaceful place at night. Contrary
to what media depicts; there are no screams, no owl hoots, nobody walks with
candles in their hands, nobody vanishes in thin air and there is no scary old
witch. We decided to sit between the graves and see what happens. I decided to
once again see some scared faces and started telling one of the scariest stories
I had ever heard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">The story was a about a kid named
Emily Drew. She was mentally unstable. She used to cut her wrists and cheeks
with blade and kept looking herself in the mirror with her hands covered with
her own blood. She liked to see blood on herself. One day she died. But she
came back and haunted her family till they publically admitted that they had
murdered her because they were too scared of her. My friends were trying to be
brave but I could see that they shivered and shuddered whenever I modulated my
voice for dramatic effects. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">The clock struck midnight. Anyways,
we all got bored in a while and started to leave, but one of us kept sitting. We
all laughed at him that he was so afraid that he could not even get up. When I touched
him on his shoulder, his body just dropped. His face seemed to be disfigured, hands
were all twisted and eyes ready to pop out of their sockets; looking directly
at me as if pointing at me and shouting that I was the murderer. Our faces were
white with fear and without thinking we just ran out of the graveyard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I remained confined to my room
for days to come. The vision of his lifeless body and staring eyes kept
haunting me. I had never been so frightened all my life. I cried for hours. I
had nightmares; those eyes, they followed me everywhere. I did not have the
courage to come out of the house, to hear the news of his death and to give a
reaction which will not give away my horrible part in his dreadful death. I
kept staring at the closet, frightened for the first time that those eyes are
looking at me from behind the door; frightened that the door will open and his
lifeless body will fall out of it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After a point in time, I could
not take anymore and just decided to get out of the house. To avoid any
interactions, I slipped out at night. I kept walking absent-mindedly and to my
horror ended up at the familiar gate of the graveyard. I don’t know what I was
thinking, but I entered. I reached the same place as we were sitting the other
day. Something compelled me to sit at the place my friend was sitting. I kept
sitting for a long time. The clock struck midnight, and then I saw a sight
after which I had no doubt why my friend died. A small girl, with hands and
face covered in blood, was standing in front of me looking into a mirror. Beside
her was a grave with the engraving – Emily Drew.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;">I passed out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-23992104476853287422014-01-05T07:52:00.004-08:002014-01-05T07:52:52.677-08:00Rants of a Writer...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Here I am, sitting again, staring
at a blank sheet of paper. A writer is not scared of dark; he does not wake up
with a start after seeing a dark figure, most of the time it is the white
colour which is a nightmare for him. You may want to test this by showing a
white sheet of paper to a writer and demand a ransom out of him, though I do
not advise this for the risk of him having a heart attack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The question also is whether a
writer should write about a memory from my past, a dream for the future or just
pull out a feather from his imagination. Sometimes I feel that after writing a
paragraph or two, all three of them gets mixed up to an extent that it becomes
new reality for me, a new memory and a new dream. I feel if I could play a
recap of my life, it would be very different from how I remember it now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Another challenge is how writers keep
coming up with innovative and interesting plots and characters. I have been
told that writers keep observing people around them to get inspired for writing
new stories. Well, I am not so sure about it. After all who live around pirates,
secret service agents, conniving politicians, arm dealers, ghosts, wand
wielding kids, dragons, parallel universes, aliens, talking dogs and cats,
vampires and other such plots and characters I have never seen in my ordinary
life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">You must be thinking that if it
is such a scary job then why writers keep coming back and face their worst
fears almost every day. Till the time I did not start writing, I could never
understand the logic for so many people to vent out their thoughts,
imaginations, standpoints on relatively lesser avenues of writing – fiction and
non-fiction further categorised into horror, politics, suspense, thriller,
love, sex, travel, cookery, religion, philosophy, business, education etc. For determining
a definite answer to the question, I advise you to try writing a paragraph on
any subject that first comes to your mind. You will have to establish a line of
thought, one or more characters, an opening and a closing. After writing a couple of lines, I am sure
that you would get your answer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">It is your chance to play God, to
create people out of nowhere, to write and control their destiny, and to feel a
power beyond your comprehension. It will also bring you closer to understanding
the decision God takes while writing stories for your life i.e. if you think
there actually is a God who holds strings to our lives. You would understand
that sometimes there is no logic; sometimes you twist life of one of your
characters just for fun, just because he was not doing anything interesting
enough to be kept alive till the end of novel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Having said that, since God is in
this business for a long time, I believe God has figured out of a way of having
a logic to almost everything which happens to your life – no loose ends.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-91890037522260128722014-01-03T09:46:00.002-08:002014-01-03T09:48:42.967-08:00The world I imagined...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have not travelled this far for nothing. Ever since I was a
kid, I used to imagine a world where I could run endlessly with all colours of
nature – green, orange, blue and hues of red fusing as I sprint past them. I
imagined standing on the corner of the earth, looking at what lay beneath and
above the horizon. As a kid, you are allowed to have a wild imagination. For
some unlucky ones like me, the imagination does not stop with age. The craving
of finding this world grew so much that one day I could no longer continue with
my excitingly mundane occupation. It was time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was not an easy job and a very expensive one. Fortunately or
unfortunately there is no travel agency who plans this sort of adventure. Also I
am sure I was not alone in search for such a place because at all promising
locations I stumbled across people, automotive noise or military. I was looking
for something more extraordinarily secluded untouched and silent. I should have
started this search long back; maybe a thousand years back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was broke; both financially and emotionally. I was getting
desperate. I had heard that seven
hundred miles in west, there is a large piece of private land. It ran into millions
of acres. It was the most suitable place for me to fulfil my dream. I knew I had to break in.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The place was as beautiful as I imagined it to be; green till
you can see topped by a blue, red and orange sky. I had decided. It was the
place. I had to die here, in middle of nowhere, with no one around; but only my
beautiful colours. I have not travelled this far for nothing. I started
running. No matter how much I ran, it seemed that nothing changed; just like I imagined.
I kept running. Despite my lifelong imagination, I had never actually run in my
life. My heart gave out soon. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And here I was lying; just last few moments. All colours were
fusing into one – Black.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">PS: I had imagined a different ending for the story. But I could just not deprive myself of a beautiful death...</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-64965308099280688472013-12-19T09:52:00.004-08:002013-12-20T05:13:56.162-08:00The writer they deserve<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">Sometimes I do not wish to write.
It is a fear of falling short of expectations. Maybe this story is not as good
as the last one, maybe it will not seem real enough; one of the characters
might talk too much or come across as fake; and then there is always a temptation
of twisting the end. But writing is much like life, no matter how much we liked
it today, there will always be a tomorrow, there will always be good and bad
times. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I was happy when I did not
consider myself a writer, for I could write whatever came to my mind, in most uninhibited
and candid manner. But then they said that you are a good writer and ever since
I have to live up to that so called definition of ‘good’. Unlike me, he enjoyed
being a writer. I hated that about him. I asked him once “Why do you not delve
deep into human emotions, write about human misery, anger and happiness?” He
smiled and just answered “I don’t deal in chemical reactions.” His characters
were flowery, pointless, superfluous and pompous. I told him that I had read
books in which animals talk, far better than his work. He simply agreed with me
and said “My friend, it is only natural. Animals make much wiser talk.” It
became my obsession to criticise both his work and his indifference towards its
futility.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I remember that morning more
clearly than I remember what I ate for lunch today. I was standing near the
lake. Rays of sun were reflecting so much that I had to turn around as I waited
with a troubled head. Police kept trying but could not locate his body. We would have
never known about it, if it was not for a kid who had seen him earlier that
morning. The kid said that he walked calmly into the lake and kept walking till
he disappeared. Later that evening I kept sitting beside the lake, imagining
him with his smile; a smile with which he disarmed the world and mocked it with
each word he wrote. What troubled me most is that how can a person who was so nonchalant
about his approach towards world, could take such a grave decision. I had
trouble imagining what kind of agony he must have been going through, which he
used to hide behind his deceptive smile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">The news of his suicide went
viral. People, who had never heard of him, were talking about him in their
business meetings; publishers who did not touch his work were now digging his
grave (not literally) to find an unpublished novel, a half story written by
him. Characters of his story were famous now. They were talk of the town.
People wore costumes described by him to book reading forums and in local
festivals. There was talk about making a movie, on misadventures of a stupid cop,
based on one of his novels. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I kept staring at a blank sheet
of paper and could write nothing, for no matter what I thought of writing, I felt
guilt. Thought of writing something meaningful brought me a pain, a feeling
that I was somehow deceiving him; that he was standing somewhere near and was
mocking me. He had never criticised my work, but now it felt that he had being
doing it all along. He had proved that after all everything is futile, like pretentious
and hollow characters of all his stories. I hated them and I hated him, for taking
away everything I had; my sense of purpose, the characters which I was proud of
and a society which revalidated my beliefs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I received a package today. It
was from him. I kept staring in disbelief. My hands trembled when I opened it.
There was a letter. It said – <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">“My friend, you were right all
along. However you would have understood by now, this society only deserves the
garbage I write. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">PS: Please find my new book under
my new name and in this one, animals talk. Hope you will enjoy it.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-70308575122380331652013-12-06T10:40:00.001-08:002013-12-07T03:50:11.165-08:00A life lived again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Only some minutes more” he
thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he came here first, he
observed that people had a strange habit of looking at the sky every now and
then. He had spent only ten days when he started to look at the sky. He was one
of them now; eyes looking at the scorching sun, a prayer on lips and a growing
anger chewing through the senses. But this was not the first time he was angry,
over time he had learnt to smile. Exactly like his father who always smiled to hide
the pain and the venom building inside him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He was there, when his father won
the title of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rustam-e-hind</i>, the great
wrestler of India. The whole village went to railway station and carried his
father home. There were continuous celebrations for a week in his honour. He
had never seen his father happier. The thing about movies is that they end at
the highest point in a person’s life, but real life is much different. One has
to live and spend each minute of his life. To live a heroes life, is the most
sought after, but he watched his father longing for that attention, that honour
every minute of his life. His father used to look at the newspaper clippings
for hours. The people, who earlier cajoled his father for hearing his story, now
avoided him for they got bored of his self-praise. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He watched his father grew weaker everyday
without a reason to live till one day when he found him dead in bed clutching
the trophy to his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After his father’s death, he moved
to this village, where no ghost of his father’s fame followed him, where he is
free to look like an idiot staring at the sky. It had been a month post monsoon
and there was no sign of clouds. But the rain God was hard to please, the
priests chanted:<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“O Indra, Dancer,
Much-invoked! as thy great power is unsurpassed,<br />
So be thy bounty to the worshipper unchecked.<br />
Most Mighty, most heroic One, for mighty bounty fill thee full.<br />
Though strong, strengthen thyself to win wealth, Maghavan!<br />
O Thunderer, never have our prayers gone forth to any God but thee:<br />
So help us, Maghavan, with thine assistance now.<br />
For, Dancer, verily I find none else for bounty, saving thee,<br />
For splendid wealth and power, thou Lover of the Song.” <sup>1<o:p></o:p></sup></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Rain God was not pleased. “He is
only pleased with true devotion. These, money minded fraud, priests are not
good for swaying the God” they said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His father often came home drunk.
In his half asleep state, he always used to mutter “Don’t live a hero’s life.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He saw Rain God in his dreams
today, or was it his father in a God’s attire. “Help these people” the God
said. “But you always told me not to become a hero” he questioned. The God
smiled and said “No! I told you not to live a hero’s life.” He was fully awake
now. He knew what was to be done. He walked up to the temple and sat in prayer.
At first people did not notice, but when he sat unmoved for hours, people
started gathering around him. They understood that he was praying for the rain.
Finally they had a true devotee. He sat unmoved for days. Men watched him in
amazement and women with tears at his devotion. No one was watching the sky any
longer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He had to be a hero, like his
father. But unlike his father, he had to die a hero’s death; a death, which
will make him immortal for years to come.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Finally the Rain God was pleased.
The sky was filled with dark clouds. “Some minutes more” he thought. When first
lightning struck, he knew it was time. He was walking towards a light and then absolute
dark. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“You did what I could not, my son” his father said with a
trophy in his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He opened his eyes. He had passed out. Somebody held his
head in arms and helped him drink some water. He realised that he was not dead.
People picked him on their shoulders. They danced around him. He was a hero.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I have failed you father” He said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><sup><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">1</span></sup></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Rig Veda, Book 8, Hymn XXIV Indra</span> <o:p></o:p></b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-78579973694549312602013-12-03T10:32:00.000-08:002013-12-03T10:32:05.936-08:00What’s with his smile?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I thought about him for an hour
before I started writing this down. I wanted to find a word that describes him
perfectly. It is then when I realised that perhaps I do not know him too well
for describing him in even one sentence let alone a single word. Infact, I
think nobody knew him well enough to say something about him conclusively. For the
sake of completing my objective and at the same time not being wrong about him,
I would say that he was an elusive man. He is like a person who meets you
everyday, greets you, asks about your health, gives his best wishes and leaves;
without giving you a chance to get interested in his life. Everybody can recall
one such person around them, this incident is about mine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">During my various encounters with
him, I got curious. What troubled me most was his smile. I had never seen him
not smiling. How could a person always be happy? I wanted to find more about
him, but was not sure how to catch him. We were not friends, so obviously
asking straight questions would have been weird. As the days passed, I became
obsessed with finding out what kept him happy. My efforts of following him went
in vain. He kept on greeting and meeting people. It seemed that he did not have
any friends. Each evening after college, he used to leave straight for home
leaving no scope for any social interaction. Just when I was about to give up, one
day I saw him sitting alone in cafeteria. I gathered courage and at the risk of
being snubbed, I walked upto him and asked if could join him. He nodded. After some
niceties, I could not control any longer and asked him about his life. At first
he did not open much, but then I told him my obsession and he agreed to tell me
about his life if I promised not to tell anyone about it. Obviously I agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">He started “I was eight when I lost
my father. He is not dead, it’s just that I don’t know where he is. Not only do
I not know where he is, also that who is my father. I vaguely remember his
face. I don’t remember actually seeing him, so maybe the face I remember is
actually my imagination. I would have asked my mom, and believe me I wanted to
ask many times. But there is no point asking her. It is not as if she would not
tell me, it’s just that she cannot tell me. She has not spoken with me for last
fifteen years; not only with me but with anybody. She lost ability to speak,
the night my father left. Sometimes I feel she wants to tell something but then
she does not. She would have written if she could, but she is paralysed for many
years now. I could have asked other family members but I do not know of any. When
my father left us, she had moved here to get away from everybody and now here I
am, with my mom and nobody else. And that’s why I keep smiling because I know
that it possibly cannot get any worse.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I kept thinking about him and his
life. I was troubled with his smile and now I was cursing myself for thinking
being jealous of his happiness. I knew what I had to do. I was to become the
friend he never had, the brother he never had and the family he never had. But I
decided to take it slow so that he does not feel that I am doing this out of
sympathy for him. So I greeted him with smile whenever I met him, asked him how
he was and wished him well. I kept going to cafeteria several times a day
hoping to find him there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">After seven days and forty visits
to cafeteria, I finally saw him sitting with somebody else. I sat behind him
waiting for the other person to leave so that I can turn and exclaim at what coincidence
it was that we were again meeting in cafeteria. Since it was taking time, I decided
to eavesdrop the conversation. I could not hear what the other person said, but
I cannot forget till day what he answered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">“Ok. I will tell you, but only if
you promise you never to tell anyone else. I was born into a middle class family.
My father had an insane obsession of buying lottery tickets. My mother used to
fight with him a lot on this habit, but only till he got a $1 mn as first
prize. He never bought another lottery ticket. He invested in stock markets and
quadrupled the sum in one year. He then invested in real estate and commodities
and in ten years’ time, he now runs the fifth largest commodity fund in the
country. A year back he gave me $0.1mn and told me to start investing in my
area of interest. One year will be over next week. The sum is $1mn today. I
keep smiling because it cannot get any better”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-89702861633697802772013-11-28T09:45:00.002-08:002013-11-28T09:45:29.829-08:00One gives what one has<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">There are countries where
politics is essentially left to experienced and middle aged population. It
takes a lot of time and effort to grab an office so youth generally loses
interest. However majority of countries are still sitting on verge of
revolution and youth is expected to play a significant role in bringing this
revolution. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Our protagonist is a firebrand
student leader. He entered into the college with his entourage, most of his
followers eager to hear from him, his ideas for strengthening the college
union, national politics, poverty eradication and other social activities. He
looked inspiring, sincere, took every question seriously and tried his best to
come up with a suitable reply. His speech was as moving as his looks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">He addresses them “I firmly
believe that strong primary education will produce great leaders for the
country. We will have to fortify our children so tomorrow they grow to be
leaders who lead this nation to greatness. But who have we trusted with for
this enormous responsibility, useless and incompetent school teachers. Can we
trust our government with lives of innocent kids? No! We will have to take this
responsibility in our own hands. We have to adopt as many public schools as we
can. We will start evening classes for educating both children and adults. Most
of these children do not come to school since they are earning members in their
families. We will have to simultaneously raise funds to ensure that these
children do not have to go to work. I know that this task is difficult but if
we actually wish to change our nation, we will have to start at the
grassroots.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Such was his charisma that people
got mesmerised and motivated at the same time. For a moment, they started
thinking that they can also bring about a change. Every single one of them took
a resolution to adopt schools and teach kids. This was a typical day for him.
He spoke, people got motivated and together they changed some part of the world
for good. They believed in him and that he will become a great national leader
one day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">If there is one thing, political
parties are afraid of is, growing popularity of someone other than their
candidate. First natural choice for them is to make the newbie one of their
own. He was summoned to the party’s office and was explained in detail, the
party’s agenda, its principles, standing and ambitions. He was clear that his
agenda is primary education and if they want him to join the party, they will
have to spare funds to renovate schools and procure supplies. Party gladly
accepted the offer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">It was the final year of college.
He spent more and more time in schools. There was no dearth of funds or
schools, but now he faced scarcity of one thing he had never faced earlier, his
followers. It takes some time for youth to realise realities of life,
importance of money and that dreams are only affordable till you get pocket
money. Most of his followers were either preparing for professional courses or
were trying for getting a job. If he was not so deeply involved in school
activities, he would have noticed that the fund stream has slowed down. One day
it stopped altogether. Without his followers, the party had no need for him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">After four years of pushing him
to take a job, his father had finally disowned him. He spent some days with
couple of friends he still had. He knew that he will have to take up a job. All
the big companies talk about how they nurture leadership but are afraid when a
real life leader comes asking for a job. The social service NGOs wanted people
who could raise funds well and not who can spend well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">One day his evening class with
kids got disturbed by a commotion. A mid aged woman was distributing sweets and
the whole school gathered around her. He was irritated and kept looking at her
with disapproval. She was a celebrity in yesteryears and thus being aware of
her surroundings came naturally to her. She distributed the sweets and sat in
the car. He was about to go back to the class when her driver came and told him
that she has requested to meet him. He walked towards the car. Her driver opened
the door and he sat beside her, wondering what she wanted to talk about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">“You know that they need all the happiness,
no matter how small or insignificant the reason is. Is it not unfair that you
want them to be deprived of one such moment.” She said. He paused for a moment.
He wanted to read her. A lady, sitting in backseat of a BMW, clad in white from
head to toe, speaking with such ownership, as if she was one of them. She
looked at him with no judgement in her eyes, even when she had already judged
him. He said “I looked at you with contempt for one moment and you felt the
need to clarify. These kids will face scorning eyes every minute of their life,
and they will never understand why. You come here to get rid of your guilt and
ride away and come back when the guilt is again too much to bear. I come here because
I cannot live with even one minute of guilt. They need all the happiness, but
as you said, all the happiness.” She smiled. She said “Oh! A righteous man! Hard
to find these days. You have your compassion, I have my money. One gives what
one has.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Days passed. He was now living in
a hostel. Whatever he earned out of private tuitions, he spent on buying books
for kids. He had no regrets, except for the efforts he put in for finding a
meaningless job. He had never expected that this was going to end one day, but
it did. He received a call from the party. They informed him that the funds
were discontinued due to some communication gap and they would be willing to
support him again. It is not hard to find followers and friends when one has
money. He did not repeat the mistake of spending entire money on kids. He knew
better now. He knew that everything has a price, even the principles and the
values, so he paid it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">He was surrounded by his
followers with garlands in their hands. He was running for elections. While he
was standing on the stage delivering one of his fiery speeches, he noticed a
BMW and recognised it. After the speech, he quietly slipped away. He was now
sitting in the backseat of the car with the lady clad in white. “Why did you do
it?” he asked. “This is not the right question. I had told you, one gives what
one has. I see that you have realised that everything comes for a price. The
right question is whether you are willing to pay it?” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He knew, he cannot refuse.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-64195682580096809582013-11-25T09:37:00.001-08:002013-12-06T08:40:37.580-08:00Mystery of the Bandage - Stories in the Chai Shop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Some people are born
storytellers. Thanks to our schools and offices, imagination of people like us
has run dry, but fortunately our elders in villages are still adept in the art
of story-telling. Exchanging stories from an imaginary world over a card game
or a puff of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chillum<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">1</span></sup></i> is
still the best recreation they have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
all the characters in these stories are imaginary, many of them are real life
characters within the village, nearby villages; boys who ran away with a girl of
another caste, girls who meet their boyfriends in fields, priest who drinks
liquor secretly, families heading for partition and so on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">The main character of our story
had recently settled in the village. He took a room on rent in the home of
village’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sarpanch<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">2</span></sup></i>.
Nobody knew what his occupation was, though many people had seen him spending
long hours in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chai<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">3</span></sup></i> shops
with a pen and notebook. Some said he was a government inspector, others said
he was a criminal in hiding. Given the lack of unanimity, nobody approached him
for the fear of getting associated with him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">One day protagonist of our story entered
the chai shop with a bandage over one of his eyes. He ordered for the tea and started
reading the newspaper. Incidentally a group of our storytellers was also sitting
in the shop at the same time. The person who first noticed him and the bandage around
his eyes poked his neighbour who in turn poked his neighbour, so on and so
forth. After some pokes, there was no one remained who was not poked and was
not looking his direction. The last person looked pretty confused as he did not
have anyone to poke, so he just looked at the other members of the group. One
of the experienced story tellers declared that he knew what has happened and
all others gathered around him. The experience story teller once again looked
at the bandage and having assured himself that they were standing on the blind
side, started his story. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">“All you fools are blind. Don’t you
recognise who this guy is? You all have fish’s memory power. This is Madho. I
knew you nincompoops will not be able to recognise him, but I knew when I saw
him first. Don’t you remember the potter who lived near the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">neem<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">4</span></sup></i> tree? This is his son
who ran away ten years back. He was good for nothing; used to roam around with
sarpanch’s daughter all day long. One day the sarpanch caught them coming out
of village’s film theatre and ran after him with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lathi</i><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">5 </span></sup>in his hand. Madho was young and ran very fast
while sarpanch got caught up in his own dhoti. Madho looked back and let out a laughter
and then he ran away. That was the last anybody ever saw him. The same Madho
has come back and was roaming around sarpanch’s daughter. I noticed this and
told the sarpanch and the result is in front of you all.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">The last person to be poked was
even more confused now. He got up and approached the story teller. Then he took
out his slippers and started beating our darling story teller. Others were
still upset with his abusive language so they deemed it fit to let him have
some beating. After a minute, others jumped in and stopped the person with the
slipper and asked him why he was beating the old man. “This donkey has told
this same story to entire village and ruined my name” he said. Somebody asked
him “How has he ruined your name?”. “My name is Madho, son of the potter.” He said.
Everybody looked at each other for a moment and then laughed like there is no
tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">The hero of our story was still sitting there,
undisturbed by the fight and the laughter. Others came and went, till another
group of gossipers assembled in the shop. There was no poking since everybody
had seen him sitting with a bandage. One of the group members gathered courage
and asked “What happened to this city dweller?” Another one, as if waiting for
this opportunity, jumped in and said “Yesterday I was walking towards my fields
when I saw that he was doing exercise in front of sarpanch’s house. I tell you,
he may look lean and thin, but he has muscles rippling out of his arms as if he
has glued some fishes to them. So I paid him a compliment and said why you
don’t participate in village’s wrestling competition. He ridiculed me, saying
that “I am national champion. I don’t waste time with these novices.” You know
our village wrestler, Bheema, happened to pass from there that very moment and
heard him saying so. Only a few know that Bheema himself entered into a
national championship but could not compete because he had, by mistake, got
himself enrolled in ladies wrestling contest. Some of you may consider him as
stupid but I tell you he is very sharp. So instead of challenging him for a
fight, Bheema requested him to teach some tricks. As expected, this single bone
structure did not know any tricks and while jumping on Bheema, got himself hurt
in the eye.” Others were very amused with the story and complimented Bheema on
his cleverness. Two of them even got up and enacted the whole incident again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Village doctor entered the shop
and being considered a very respectable man; others touched his feet and
welcomed him to sit with them. He seemed very disturbed so they offered him tea
and asked what the matter was. He sighed and said that for the first time he is
not able to cure someone. The patient was in bed for last one week and no
medicine was working on him. They asked who he was. The doctor said “Bheema,
and the worst part is that he was supposed to compete in the national championship
this week.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People waited till the
doctor left from shop and then enacted the whole trick teaching scene again,
only that they jumped on the story teller this time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">It was a winter evening and
nothing like a hot cup of tea when one, after toiling for the whole day, wishes
to take a break and share one’s troubles with his brethren. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not today; today they had a new topic to
discuss. They stared at the bandage for so long that the tea got cold and they
had a fight with the shop owner to get it heated again. Sipping the reheated
tea, one of them declared that he knows what has happened and narrated like
this “Last night I got late from work and to reach home quickly, decided to
take the shortcut from graveyard. Normally I would not have taken that route
but yesterday, this shifty eyed was walking in front of me so I got courage and
followed him. We must be halfway when suddenly the wind grew cooler and dogs
started howling. I was so afraid that I wanted to take a leak but for the fear
of losing his sight, I kept walking. I almost froze when I saw, a ghost
appeared out of nowhere in front of him. I jumped in a nearby bush and peeped
from there. I tell you, this person is some kind of wizard or something, he was
not afraid a bit. He caught the ghost by his tail and threw him in my
direction, but the tail struck his eye and thus this bandage. When the ghost
was passing by me, I saw his face. He was that boy, Madho, son of potter who
ran away in the graveyard and got killed by witches. His ghost still roams
remembering his love with sarpanch’s daughter.” He had just finished the story
when a slipper came down hard on his head and then another and yet another. The
slipper holder yelled “For the last time I am telling you dogs. I am Madho, the
son of potter, and I am not a ghost.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">And that was the last group of
the day. Our hero with the bandage on his eyes, having drunk twenty cups of
tea, undisturbed by the on-going events around him, took the last sip of the
day. Then he opened the bandage, put in on the table and rubbed his eyes. He took
out a pen and a notebook and wrote “Madho - son of the potter, Bheema –
wrestler who enrolled in ladies’ national championship, sarpanch who got caught
in his own dhoti, Madho’s ghost with a tail.” Then he kept the pen and notebook
in his pocket and said to himself “Interesting characters for my next story.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">1</span></sup> <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">A <b>chillum</b>, or <b>chilam</b>, is a straight
conical pipe with end-to-end channel, traditionally made of clay and used since
at least the 18th century for smoking tobacco<span style="color: #134f5c;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">
<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">2</span></sup> Head of the village<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">
<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">3</span></sup> Tea<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>4</sup> <span class="st"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Azadirachta indica</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">
<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">5</span></sup> Stick<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-39101772860699390242013-11-23T08:42:00.003-08:002013-11-23T08:43:56.886-08:00So who are you more afraid of- Ghosts or Humans?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">
It is a terrible feeling to be in
a horrifying situation, to see something which chokes your throat and increase
your heart beat enough to be heard without a device. It is equally terrible to
suggest someone that they imagine themselves in such a situation. Nevertheless I
have imagined some situations in which I would surely get a heart attack, and I
am sure you would too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">a)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>You
woke up in middle of the night. This is nothing new for you. Generally you roll
over and go to sleep, but not today. A dog is crying in front of your house. It
is a strange thing since you have not seen a dog in the vicinity for a long
time. You had an eerie feeling but closed your eyes and tried to sleep. You felt
hand of your spouse on your shoulder. When you turned towards your spouse,
he/she was not sleeping. Instead he/she was sitting on bed looking at you. And
believe me it is not love in his/her eyes. There is a demonic look on his/her
face and then he/she speaks out your name slowly but it’s not his/her voice. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; text-align: justify;">
<o:p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></o:p><br />
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">b)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>They
were in your building. It has been ten days since the riots started. There was
a curfew so you sat in your home entire day watching new channels to see how
many died and where. Your home is in one of the most posh colonies so you believed
that you will be safe. But you were wrong. You heard screams of men, women and
children. There was nowhere to hide and only a kitchen knife to defend yourself
and your family with. With each new scream you wanted to run away; you wanted
to stab yourself with that knife but did not enough courage. Your wife and kids
start crying and held you tightly. And then all fears came true. There was a
loud knock on your door and then more knocks. They were kicking on the door
trying to break the same open. And you sat in a corner with your wife and kids,
with a knife in your hands.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">c)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Y</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ou
walk your way from office to home. You worked till late in the office and are
very tired. There is no hurry since you stay alone and thus no one is waiting</span>
for you to come home. But still you are walking fast since you have never liked
this dark gully. It always gives you creeps. There is no reason to be afraid as
you have not countered anyone suspicious till date. But today you saw a man
walking towards you. You hope that he is another one like you and yes he was.
He stopped and asked for a lighter. You handed him one. You saw his face for
the first time when he lit the cigar. There was nothing on his face. Absolutely
nothing, no eyes, no ears, no nose, no hair. You started running like crazy. You
don’t even stop to look back and see if he is following you. Somehow you reach
home and quickly open the door. You wanted to take a long shower to calm
yourself down. So you stood under the shower and let the water run in your hair
and your face. You rubbed your eyes. But there were no eyes. You ran towards
the mirror. There was absolutely nothing on your face.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">d)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>You
and your husband love to take adventure trips. You keep searching for places
far away from population; remote villages, camping on hills, tree house in
forests, sailing far into the sea and so on. You heard about this location from
one of your old friends from college. He said nobody crosses that road for
months. You were very excited. You packed the backpack, picked your husband
from office and started driving. It was a long drive. You camped in middle of nowhere
just before sunset, pour two glasses of Champaign and kept staring as the sun
went down the horizon. It was absolutely dark, except for the lantern. You two
listened to classic love songs and danced till long into the night. While you
were sleeping you heard a sound. You woke up to see blood on chest of your
husband and then you saw the knife deeply stabbed. He trembled and then became
silent for ever. And then you saw five men with lust in their eyes; one of them
your college friend.<o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">e)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>You
drive towards your office and stop at a traffic signal sharp at nine every
morning. Every day without fail, a man turns up on window of your car and stands
there. He has a round box in his hands. He does not say anything to you, just
stands there looking at you. No matter how much you ignore him, he does not go
away. He does not make any effort to approach anybody else till the time you
are standing there. You mention about him to your office colleagues but even
though everybody passes through the same traffic signal, no one recalls seeing
him. So one morning out of curiosity you look into his eyes. You roll down the
windows and ask him “What is the matter with you?” He does not say anything. He
just opens the round box. It is full of currency notes. You tell yourself in
your mind that always you knew that this was about the money. So you drop a
dollar in the box and as you were dropping the dollar, the man holds your hand.
You shout and try to free your hand. Next moment, you are no longer sitting in
the car. You are standing on the road. You are holding the round box in your
hands and you see yourself driving away. The next car comes and you are staring
into its window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So who are you more afraid of,
ghosts or humans? I guess I know the answer.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-54577943401969262752013-11-18T07:53:00.001-08:002013-11-18T08:01:21.100-08:00The dark will come<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">“Bindiya….Bindiya…wake up my
child” a voice said; her mother’s voice. It had been years since she last met
her mother. “You have ruined her with all your senseless affection” her father
said; a father who always considered her as a burden. The voices seemed to be
coming from far away. “Bindiya..Bindiya” it echoed. “You have ruined her…you have
ruined her” sometimes loud, sometimes distant; sometimes real, sometimes hallucination.
She had fever for entire night. Sometimes she felt as if her mother is
caressing her head and then opened her eyes searching for her mother. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">She woke up with sweat on her
forehead. She was not sure if she was actually awake this time. She looked
around to see if the room was still swinging, then slowly got up. Her throat
was parched. She walked up to the pitcher only to find out that there wasn’t a
drop of water left. Her husband knew about her fever however did not consider it
important to leave water for her, let alone bring some from the well. She knew
that in this neighbourhood nobody would give her water. Water was the most
precious possession and lead to arguments, spats and murders. You would not be
able to buy a glass of water with a kilo of gold around here. After all, you
cannot drink gold.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">She looked again in the pitcher.
There was some water left. She dipped a cup and had a gulp. She looked again.
There was still some water left. She again dipped the cup and had another gulp.
The water was still left so she picked up the pitcher and drank to her content.
The water flow did not stop. She found it difficult to breathe under such heavy
water flow. She gasped for air. She woke up again. “Bindiya….Bindiya” her
mother’s voice echoed. She had not slept. She could not tell whether she was
sleeping or not. Why was she feeling so thirsty even after drinking so much water?
She looked into the pitcher. It was as dry as a bone. She once again looked
around to make sure the room was not spinning around her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">She picked up the pitcher and
started walking towards the well. In normal days she took around twenty minutes
to reach the well. The sun was at its best. It seemed that it had descended on
earth itself. There was not a single tree or bush on the way, but yes you could
make friends with some snakes and scorpions. “We should send Bindiya to stay
with my sister in town. She can go to school and study” her mother said. “You
crazy old witch! I have called people to see her next week. I am getting her
married. Don’t fill her head with crazy ideas.” Her father shouted. She sat
down after walking twenty steps. There was a woman coming with a pitcher of
water. She poured water in her hands. She tried to drink water but her hands
could not hold it. Her hands started melting and so did the pitcher and the
woman with the pitcher. “Take this money and run away. This is the address of
my sister in town. Run away my child. This life is not for you” her mother’s
hand trembled. Her face melted with tears. She always wondered how tears always
manage to roll even with so less water to drink. Why was everything melting
around her? A bee sat on her eyes. “Run away…run away…run away” kept echoing in
her ears. She opened her eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">She walked like a ghost, unaware
of the direction and unsure of whether she was actually walking or not. She reached
the well and drank water many times. She would have imagined rain also but
unfortunately she had never seen actual rain. She had only heard about it. Her mother
had told her to run. Her mother gave her some money and a bag. She started
running. She fell and broke the pitcher. Where were the money and the bag that
her mother had given? She had to run. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">She had reached the well. “This
life is not for you” her mother had said. She had never seen a pond. She wanted
to sit in water for so long that her soul got wet. There is only one way. She
jumped. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That night she came back home. “It
is too dark. I cannot run away” She had told her mother. Her mother froze and
could only mutter “This is not dark. The dark will come.”</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-50972640475531629752013-11-15T11:20:00.000-08:002013-11-15T11:20:42.679-08:00My last water bottle <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">My school was not too bad. The
time was different, so if you compare it with today’s schools with air-conditioned
buses and classrooms, then it does not fare well. However I did not know what air-condition
was, so I could not complain. Of course, a fan in the classroom would have been
highly appreciated. Imagine sitting in a class of fifty odd snotty, smelly kids
with sun at forty eight degree Celsius; and me more often than not standing in
a corner facing the wall or standing on the bench, or holding my ears and doing
sit-ups. It wasn’t my fault; I just could not stand the heat. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">The only saving grace was the
cold water in my water bottle that I used to carry from home. I used to wait
till the last drop of moisture in my throat oozed from my body in form of
sweat. Then I opened my bottle and watched the water flowing from the bottle directly
to my throat and in every pour of my body. I have never known a greater
satisfaction to this date. But like all good things, this must also come to an
end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I lost my first water bottle when
I was in second standard. Then I lost my second and third water bottle in third
and fourth standard respectively. I have always believed myself to be a thinker
with massive attention deficit. Earlier nobody noticed it including me, but now
I know it for sure, with constant thrashing from my wife each time I am so
focused on television and not listen to her. Several times I nod and later
cannot even recall that the conversation ever happened. Since I did not know
any such thing to exist, I could never give any valid excuse for such negligence.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">The forth bottle I was given was
not insulated so I lost the luxury of having cold water. I tried to drink all
the water as soon with the fear that if I kept it any longer it would evaporate
and rain somewhere else on planet. That time it was a real fear in my mind
since I had recently learnt about clouds and rain. As the luck would have it, I
forgot the bottle in class and when I went back it wasn’t there. I controlled
my tears since I still have to spend half an hour with my classmates on bus to
home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I was sure that this time I am
going to get a sound thrashing. So I decided to run away. When the bus dropped
me outside the building, I started walking along the road. In next five minutes
I contemplated on various things I can do to earn a livelihood. It included
delivering newspapers, working at roadside eateries and working in television
serials in that order. Also I had to run away till a point where it was easy for
my family to find me and take me back to home; something to do with an
advertisement I had seen in childhood wherein nobody says anything bad to a kid
who had run away from home and later found at the railway station. After almost
five minutes of walking, I realised that I was too hungry and thirsty to walk. I
decided to be practical, I started walking back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">As soon as I reached my
apartment, the fear sneaked in once again. So rather than going in, I went to
the roof with a resolution to jump from there and end this agony. I walked to
the edge and looked down. It was very high. I had fallen from bed last week and
it still hurt. Recently I had seen the superman movie where he catches a girl
falling from a building mid-air. The only problem was that my building was not
high enough; he will be late for sure. Maybe he is catching some girls in some
other parts of the world and what If he only catches girls?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">My stomach growled once again. I
decide to take a chance. I sneaked into my apartment. My mother told me to wash
my face and change clothes. I quickly did that. I decided to have last meal and
last glass of cold water of my life after which I will have to think of another
way to die before my father comes home. After crossing a particular barrier on
hunger and thirst, it is difficult for mind to tell when to stop, especially
when I was also watching my life’s last cartoon film. The problem with summer
afternoons is that after having a sumptuous meal all you can do is sleep. So I quickly
fell asleep. When I woke up, my father was about to reach home. I pretended to
sleep till long after he came home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">My father was watching
television. I gathered my courage which was boosted by the fact that my mother had
not noticed that I had lost the bottle. I got up and stood behind my father. My
mother had finished her work in the kitchen and joined us. For some time no one
spoke. My father was very engrossed watching news and my mother was knitting a
sweater for me. I always thought it was weird that she knitted sweater in
summers and I always outgrew it till winters came. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Then all my fears came alive when
my mother complaint to my father that I had lost the water bottle again. Next I
expected was a slap or at least a sound scolding. But to my surprise, no
reaction came. Now I understand where I acquired my attention deficit from. My
father only nodded and continued watching news. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That may have been the last water
bottle I ever had, but I was perfectly fine with it. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-61111741931004234272013-11-15T09:26:00.000-08:002013-11-15T09:26:51.430-08:00The Lodge: Night and the Nightmares<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">It was Christmas Eve and we
decided to visit my parent’s house. It was half a day drive so we started
around noon so that we reach before dinner. My wife, as usual, kept her frown
and my five year old son, as usual, was excited. Everything was going well and
we must have covered half the distance, when we got a flat tyre. No problem, I
had a spare. Or, I thought so. It turned out that even the spare was flat. I
told my wife and son to wait in car while I go get help. I waited near the road
to get a lift. Lucky for me, I got a ride which dropped me to a gas station in
about an hour. I got the tyre fixed. It was getting dark when I reached back.
So finally we started moving. I must have driven for two hours, when the fog
got very dense. I was also very tired due to extra travel and needed a rest.
But there wasn’t a place to stop by. After driving for another half an hour, I
saw a man walking down the road. It was weird since I had not seen any place to
stay. I stopped and asked for a lodge. The man had a deep voice. He said
something that I could not understand. It was very cold outside and he wasn’t
able to articulate properly. He gestured asking whether he could come in. I
reluctantly let him in. For the first time I noticed him. He had a scar across
the face. He said that he is also heading towards a lodge, which is only place
to stay nearby. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">As soon as I laid my eyes on the
lodge, I knew it was a bad idea. There was nowhere else to go, so we entered
the lodge, three of us. I did not notice when the man disappeared, not that he
mattered now. While I casually looked around for the man, my son screamed. My
wife and I ran inside the lodge. My son saw the lodge owner and got startled.
The lodge owner was a living impression of the witches you hear about in fairy tales.
She chuckled seeing my son frightened. She opened a room for us and fixed some
dinner for us. My wife and I had not spoken a single word till now. This was
obviously worse for her than going to my parent’s house. My son had not
recovered from his fear yet. I tried to soothe him but he was not able to
sleep. I gave him my camera so that he could look at the photographs from our
earlier trips. I was very tired and fell asleep quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I heard a sound of a woman
crying; not crying, sobbing probably. Then some screams, more like suppressed
screams. I opened my eyes; there was nothing so I slept again. I heard a deep
voice, like that of the man on the road. “Where did he go?” I thought in my
sleep. I saw him near the door. I opened my eyes, but he wasn’t there. This has
happened with me before, when I was a kid. In dark, the mind makes the images
that you are afraid of. I slept again. I felt stabbing pain in the chest and
woke up. I was sweating. I drank some water and felt normal. When I was about
to sleep, I saw that my wife was sitting near my son’s bed. I asked her if
there was anything wrong. She did not reply. I thought she had fallen asleep
while sitting there, so I got up and touched her shoulder. She was not
sleeping, but she did not look back either. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I called out her name; it was as
if she was in some kind of trance. I was already trembling having seen the
images earlier. My tongue twisted when I called out her name again. She did not
respond. I could hear her breath getting heavier. From where I was standing, I
could not see her face and I did not have courage to take a step further. There
was a mirror on my side. I looked into it and was able to see half her face. My
knees lost their strength and I dropped on the floor. That scar. The scream; so
loud that I had to put my hands on my ears. She held my son in the air. Blood
was dripping from her face. It was like her face was eaten. Her body was
fighting with itself. The old woman chuckled. She wasn’t there. My son had
woken and was chuckling like the old woman. I had lost all control over my
legs. The stabbing pain was increasing every second. In this entire struggle I
could reach a knife. Amidst all that fear, I thought it was very convenient
that I could reach for a knife in this situation. I threw myself at her and
with all my strength stabbed the knife in her back. She let out a scream in a
manly voice. At the same time, I saw a scar building up on my son’s face. He
was chuckling. He jumped on me and i raised my hand with the knife. This was
probably the longest nightmare I had that night. My heart was pounding heavily
when I got up. My wife and son were sleeping peacefully. A little too
peacefully I thought. I decided to give it one more chance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">My head was swinging. Sunlight
was burning my eyes. I took half a minute to be able to see. The old woman was
standing on the door screaming at top of her voice. The man with the scar came
running. The next thing I saw was blood on my bed. It was my wife’s blood. She
was stabbed to death and so was my son. I kept shouting to police that the
Scarface and the old witch had killed them, but they did not listen. I came to
know the reason why they were not taken in custody later at the court hearing.
The judge directed people to go out of the court. A video submitted by the
police was to be played in the court and apparently it was so gore that it was
prudent to not let people see it. Apparently my son was playing with buttons
and left the camera on recording mode. Again very convenient, I thought. The
video started playing. We three were sleeping when I got up, picked a knife and
first stabbed my wife and then my son. I shouted that I did not do it. They
were convinced that I was lying and by now I was convinced that I was mentally
disturbed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">I requested the judge to allow me
to attend the funeral, before going to the prison. I was handcuffed and was
taken to the cemetery. I wanted to see the faces once before burial. They
opened the coffins for me. My eyes got wide as I saw the faces. I started
screaming “The scar, the scar”. But ofcourse no one else could not see it.</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5320123005131659545.post-72028089403402427992013-11-12T10:02:00.002-08:002013-11-12T10:03:05.097-08:00She was with him and then she wasn’t!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He opened his wallet and looked
at the picture. Whenever he got time, he used to sit with a beer in one hand
and his wallet in the other one. It was his wife’s picture. They were in love. After
three years of relationship, they had finally decided to get married. She was
the most cheerful girl he had ever met. He was in love with her since they
first met. He remembered how her face gleamed when he asked her out. They did
not know what to talk about, but then they did not need to. They were young and
youth possess ability to talk through eyes; eyes which are not convoluted by ego,
self-awareness and morals. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">His chain of thoughts was broken
by the firing which kept on starting every few minutes. He quickly kept the
wallet in his pocket, picked up the rifle and started shooting. It had been two
years, since his battalion was fighting the enemy; so far from his home, so far
from his country and so far from his life. She could not believe when he told
her that he had to leave for the war. She argued and shouted at him, then tried
to persuade him not to go. He knew that she was doing this out of love. She
knew that he will not stay. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During all these two years, her
picture was the only thing which assured him that he has a heart with feelings,
that he was still a human, that he has someone to go back to. He had spoken
with her only thrice in last two years, last call was four months back. She spoke
less cried more. Her tears worked as a reassurance for him that she still loved
him. Sometimes he dreamt that he went back and it did not matter to her
anymore. He had written her letters, but had not received any replies, but then
no mail was delivered for a long time now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Like all horrible dreams, the war
also ended. He was tired and broken. He hallucinated that he was already at
home in her arms. It was like starting a new relationship altogether, as if he
did not know her from before. His heart pounded when he was finally standing in
front of the door. What if his dreams (more like nightmares) came true? He
knocked. There was no answer. She was not home. He had no idea how she spent
her time, so he decided to wait on the bench outside. He must have waited half
an hour when a woman from the neighbourhood approached. He recognised her and
greeted. She did not say anything and started sobbing. He knew something had
gone wrong. With great pain in her eyes, she told him that his wife was no
more. His wife was suffering from acute depression after he was gone and one
night she killed herself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Moments like these are when there
are no thoughts, but it is only silence before storm. Only if he had the rifle
in his hands right now, he could have joined his wife at this moment. She told
him that his wife was buried in Highgate Cemetery. He went there and looked for
her wife’s grave. It said “Ashley Hudson – May her soul rest in peace.” He kept
his head on the grave. He kept crying. After a point he could not cry. He had
no awareness of the fact that he was sitting in a graveyard for entire night.
He did not know when he fell asleep. He had nowhere to go. The home was no
longer home to him. He spent almost entire day sitting beside the grave. He
knew that her soul was not at peace. He kept telling her stories from the war,
how he survived by just looking at her picture, how it was not easy for him too,
that she should have waited for him and that he still loved her a lot. He knew
that she was listening to him. He felt that he had not lost her. He could feel
her listening inside the grave. He could feel her sitting with him when he was
narrating all those stories and feelings. He had decided to spend his life with
her, sitting in this graveyard near his beloved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">It has been almost five years now. He did not
miss her anymore. He kept talking to her. He no longer felt that she was not
with him. Today morning he decided to pick up white lilies for her. He had
carried white lilies for her when he first took her out. It was her birthday
today, her thirtieth birthday. He dusted the grave and kept the lilies. Somebody
touched his shoulder. He looked back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man
in his late twenties was staring at him. “Thanks for taking care of her grave.
I usually do not stay in the country so am not able to come very often. It’s
very nice of you to buy her flowers. How do you know these were her favourite?
Did you know her?” the other person said. He was puzzled. “Who are you?” he
asked. “Oh. Excuse me. Where are my manners? I am Thomas Hudson. Her Son.”</span> </span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09008487710855943673noreply@blogger.com0