He was fed up of writing about the skies and the stars, the sun and its rays, the stars and their shine, the night and its solemnity, the morning and its gaiety, the birds and their chirping, the rivers and their gushing, life and its perpetuity.
He was somehow fed up of writing about Life & the living. How could he betray himself when he actually held conviction contrary to what he wrote ! He didn’t wish to stay a hypocrite anymore and the truth was life had exhausted him to an extent that he , in reality, was a weary, wretched person. Life had sucked the marrow out of him.
His words were like mere show pieces…embellished…like filthy trinkets… Others read him and derived a certain pleasure….they reckoned him to be a ‘literary prodigy’. They praised his writes … they said how flawless he was, how fluid his writing was while in reality, he was the only one to know how much he had to struggle, how much he had to shred his soul , how much he had to articulate those ghastly lies to his conscience to come up with an embellished deception that THEY so ardently exalted!
While he mystically and radiantly lauded life in his inscriptions, the one inside him believed Life to be a shroud covering a despicable dead body of his.
But how long could he confine the rebel in him… The one that wanted to break open this catacomb of myth that he had been creating in his pieces ? He ardently waited for the day when he could no longer take the weight of his own lies. He waited for the grand mutiny to happen.
And the obvious did happen.
Once he picked up his pen to begin writing a new piece of mendacity. The pen revolted. The ink dried and so did his soul that could bear the anguish no more. The bitterness of his rotten inside swelled up in the form of the saline tears in his eyes. The drops trickled from his eyes, tumbled down his cheeks to reach his lips and he tasted them.
He tasted his own bitterness, his own excrement, his very own venom and he dropped dead on the paper ! The mutineer in him bellowed, broke open the vault of the carcass and came out with one sudden spurt of his breath through his mouth. He moaned shrilly and closed his eyes.
Who could stop the rebel? It smirked at the dead carcass. It knew it was liberated. It flew away promptly to a region beyond the understanding of an ignorant Euclidean brain.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
When parenthood needs a child like nurture
Neera’s eyes were glued to her son’s cherubic countenance. Anirban, her son, was engrossed with his sand castle… He diligently mounded sand, tried to give it a castle like shape... With his little hands, he kept heaping sand to make it larger and bigger.
Neera thought how guileless he was. Anirban , didn’t know that his castle was ephemeral. He had no clue that the slightest wave of the sea would demolish it, leaving not even the smallest trace of it. He thought it would last forever and that he would visit it everyday and heap more sand to it to make it larger than before.
For a moment, Neera felt if she could stop the sea , raise a wall to protect her son’s castle from its waves. She knew, how disappointed Anirban would be to see the sea devouring his prized belonging. She didn’t want to see a tear in his eyes. She wanted to take him away, before a wave could perish his creation.
Anirban, caught his mother’s sight. He smiled at her and resumed his work again. She felt a warmth in her heart to see her child smiling. She wanted time to stop forever for she never wanted him to grow up. She wanted to treasure that very moment, she wished if he could continue building the castle and she could keep watching him, happily engrossed in his work forever. She wanted his innocence never to fade away... She wanted him in her bosom at that very moment… She wanted him to stay far, far away from the cudgels of time, from the brutalities of the world, from the harsh realities of life. She wanted to savor that very moment when life’s race appeared to take halt and everything was as tranquil as the sea.
While she thought about such things that were beyond the scope of practicality, she heard him calling her.
“Mumma , mumma, how does my castle look?”
She fervently exclaimed, “Beautiful!”
She went to him, stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks.
He felt rewarded. He thought his efforts have been paid. He hugged his mother tightly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sea, seemed to look at the castle, with a devouring hunger. Its waves, like raven claws, relentlessly endeavored to pounce on it. It continued to eat away the castle little by little and then the sea, with one lashing wave, annihilated the entire structure. The sand heap fell decapitated and was entirely pulverized. The sinister wave, after satiating its evil hunger, retracted, as if its contrivance had been successfully executed.
Anirban, witnessed it all and so did Neera. She felt her heart torn asunder. She saw a tear drop trickling from her son’s eyes. He rubbed it soon, however.
“Lets go Ani”, she said in a mellowed voice.
“Why are you sad, Mamma? I would make you a stronger castle tomorrow.”
Pointing with his little fingers at a place where the waves were not creeping in, he remarked “I shall make it there and the waves won’t be able to touch it.”
He smiled at her consolingly, reassured her that nothing had been lost.
She kept gazing at him. She wondered, “Perhaps, he is growing up. Perhaps, it’s me who is relying on him. Perhaps, time doesn’t always decay things.”
He took her hands and she grabbed his little fingers.
She found herself guided by him all the way to their home.
Neera thought how guileless he was. Anirban , didn’t know that his castle was ephemeral. He had no clue that the slightest wave of the sea would demolish it, leaving not even the smallest trace of it. He thought it would last forever and that he would visit it everyday and heap more sand to it to make it larger than before.
For a moment, Neera felt if she could stop the sea , raise a wall to protect her son’s castle from its waves. She knew, how disappointed Anirban would be to see the sea devouring his prized belonging. She didn’t want to see a tear in his eyes. She wanted to take him away, before a wave could perish his creation.
Anirban, caught his mother’s sight. He smiled at her and resumed his work again. She felt a warmth in her heart to see her child smiling. She wanted time to stop forever for she never wanted him to grow up. She wanted to treasure that very moment, she wished if he could continue building the castle and she could keep watching him, happily engrossed in his work forever. She wanted his innocence never to fade away... She wanted him in her bosom at that very moment… She wanted him to stay far, far away from the cudgels of time, from the brutalities of the world, from the harsh realities of life. She wanted to savor that very moment when life’s race appeared to take halt and everything was as tranquil as the sea.
While she thought about such things that were beyond the scope of practicality, she heard him calling her.
“Mumma , mumma, how does my castle look?”
She fervently exclaimed, “Beautiful!”
She went to him, stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks.
He felt rewarded. He thought his efforts have been paid. He hugged his mother tightly.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sea, seemed to look at the castle, with a devouring hunger. Its waves, like raven claws, relentlessly endeavored to pounce on it. It continued to eat away the castle little by little and then the sea, with one lashing wave, annihilated the entire structure. The sand heap fell decapitated and was entirely pulverized. The sinister wave, after satiating its evil hunger, retracted, as if its contrivance had been successfully executed.
Anirban, witnessed it all and so did Neera. She felt her heart torn asunder. She saw a tear drop trickling from her son’s eyes. He rubbed it soon, however.
“Lets go Ani”, she said in a mellowed voice.
“Why are you sad, Mamma? I would make you a stronger castle tomorrow.”
Pointing with his little fingers at a place where the waves were not creeping in, he remarked “I shall make it there and the waves won’t be able to touch it.”
He smiled at her consolingly, reassured her that nothing had been lost.
She kept gazing at him. She wondered, “Perhaps, he is growing up. Perhaps, it’s me who is relying on him. Perhaps, time doesn’t always decay things.”
He took her hands and she grabbed his little fingers.
She found herself guided by him all the way to their home.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
After a long hiatus
Hey Word!
Its been long since we last had our clandestine tryst. I won’t say that I missed you… You never were a necessity as such but you lend me a meaning and make a part of me complete. The intercourses that we have had have always left me wanting for more. You have always implanted in me a lust that I had to satiate somehow. Today, after days of practicing celibacy, I could resist myself no more and here I am once again, to have a grand communion with you.
During your absence, I read , I reflected, I meditated, I principled and even transgressed those principles. I continuously underwent the change. The learning and unlearning in me kept happening. Some life changing events happened during this course. I got a ‘job’ that the world hankers after. I sometimes wonder, I got something that I know no value of. I tried to be happy.
I was happy when I thought about my loved ones. I wasn’t quite happy (wasn’t sad either) when I thought of me. Did I actually want this? I am yet to find an answer.
Mind and its perpetual quandary. May I release myself for a while from this cage of confusion? Yes, I must for life is way beyond the crossroads that it puts us at or the TWO choices that it presents before us.
I have been reading ‘Walden’ by Thoreau. Every sentence that I understand, my consciousness voices that ‘This is how a perfect life is built.’ Thoreau was a man of true genius and he devised his way to a perfect transcendental life.
Thoreau and Nature are one and the same. Nature being unable to vociferate her feelings, Thoreau voices them. Thoreau is Nature’s vocal cord.
I want to visit Walden once to let Thoreau seep in me through every pore in my body. Walden or any other place of such exemplary beauty, of such panoramic landscape , of such virgin purity, of such reflective divinity. Through the book, I have pictured Walden in my mind. A Walden where solitude speaks, where silence reverberates, where a mind is at its most active state, where happiness is tangible, where life metamorphoses into eternity, where time takes a halt, where age and senility never cast their dark somber clouds.
I want a cottage as Thoreau’s. A cottage where necessity and space complement each other perfectly, a dwelling where Sun’s and Nature’s infringement is highly welcomed, a place where energy is never exhausted and it gets replenished at every moment.
I cannot lead a life as ascetic as that of Thoreau but still I can replicate a meager percentage and imbibe some of his values to improve my life.
Quoting Thoreau , “Most of the luxuries and the so called comforts are not only not indispensible but also a hindrance in the elevation of mankind.” A man can NEVER find solace in property and status. Freedom lies in much simpler items that money cannot buy, that status or power cannot achieve.
When I read Thoreau, I find no pretense in him, no urge in his writes to be read. Those are some prized reflections, something that Thoreau recounts from his experience, from his learning. They are so honest, so rustic and so fresh.
I can well interpret how clear headed Thoreau was. While you read Walden, never for a moment you shall feel dull or depressed. You’ll feel recharged every time. That is Thoreau’s magic. He infuses in the soul a reinvigorated spirit to live, to see life through a different prism.
Walden is a poem, a Nature’s melody that can never become a monotone. A melody that drives you to depths of your inner self or that elevates you to heights unfathomable. Thoreau is a pearl that his book Walden safely caches. While you read Walden, it isn’t necessary that you shall get the Pearl. Thoreau isn’t easy to access , isn’t retrievable but is ever shining. You will be left bedazzled by the Pearl while you explore the Walden. For certain!
Its been long since we last had our clandestine tryst. I won’t say that I missed you… You never were a necessity as such but you lend me a meaning and make a part of me complete. The intercourses that we have had have always left me wanting for more. You have always implanted in me a lust that I had to satiate somehow. Today, after days of practicing celibacy, I could resist myself no more and here I am once again, to have a grand communion with you.
During your absence, I read , I reflected, I meditated, I principled and even transgressed those principles. I continuously underwent the change. The learning and unlearning in me kept happening. Some life changing events happened during this course. I got a ‘job’ that the world hankers after. I sometimes wonder, I got something that I know no value of. I tried to be happy.
I was happy when I thought about my loved ones. I wasn’t quite happy (wasn’t sad either) when I thought of me. Did I actually want this? I am yet to find an answer.
Mind and its perpetual quandary. May I release myself for a while from this cage of confusion? Yes, I must for life is way beyond the crossroads that it puts us at or the TWO choices that it presents before us.
I have been reading ‘Walden’ by Thoreau. Every sentence that I understand, my consciousness voices that ‘This is how a perfect life is built.’ Thoreau was a man of true genius and he devised his way to a perfect transcendental life.
Thoreau and Nature are one and the same. Nature being unable to vociferate her feelings, Thoreau voices them. Thoreau is Nature’s vocal cord.
I want to visit Walden once to let Thoreau seep in me through every pore in my body. Walden or any other place of such exemplary beauty, of such panoramic landscape , of such virgin purity, of such reflective divinity. Through the book, I have pictured Walden in my mind. A Walden where solitude speaks, where silence reverberates, where a mind is at its most active state, where happiness is tangible, where life metamorphoses into eternity, where time takes a halt, where age and senility never cast their dark somber clouds.
I want a cottage as Thoreau’s. A cottage where necessity and space complement each other perfectly, a dwelling where Sun’s and Nature’s infringement is highly welcomed, a place where energy is never exhausted and it gets replenished at every moment.
I cannot lead a life as ascetic as that of Thoreau but still I can replicate a meager percentage and imbibe some of his values to improve my life.
Quoting Thoreau , “Most of the luxuries and the so called comforts are not only not indispensible but also a hindrance in the elevation of mankind.” A man can NEVER find solace in property and status. Freedom lies in much simpler items that money cannot buy, that status or power cannot achieve.
When I read Thoreau, I find no pretense in him, no urge in his writes to be read. Those are some prized reflections, something that Thoreau recounts from his experience, from his learning. They are so honest, so rustic and so fresh.
I can well interpret how clear headed Thoreau was. While you read Walden, never for a moment you shall feel dull or depressed. You’ll feel recharged every time. That is Thoreau’s magic. He infuses in the soul a reinvigorated spirit to live, to see life through a different prism.
Walden is a poem, a Nature’s melody that can never become a monotone. A melody that drives you to depths of your inner self or that elevates you to heights unfathomable. Thoreau is a pearl that his book Walden safely caches. While you read Walden, it isn’t necessary that you shall get the Pearl. Thoreau isn’t easy to access , isn’t retrievable but is ever shining. You will be left bedazzled by the Pearl while you explore the Walden. For certain!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Did I make sense?
You know, people, on general, are the worst things to get addicted to… they never stay…as a matter of fact, nothing has its permanence in the world… Even if it has, what purpose shall it serve? Above all, even we are not permanent…we are all a collective mass of transience. We are transitory and this world is shaped through our perceptions.
So that implies, even our perceptions about the world are momentary. With us, they too shall fleet away. May be, the perceptions of a few greats among us will remain…they might hold a somewhat firm ground through books, through literature, through handed down philosophies.
No matter how much we philosophize about life and its transience, about attachments and their futilities, we still can’t convince our mind that “we” actually doesn’t exist…its all “I” that is of paramount importance. I am not talking about being selfish…it’s the individual existence that counts… Only! People who we love or rely too much upon shall leave one day… Death is one of the reasons… there are several other reasons too…
Man is a social animal… He is gregarious in nature and he can’t live for long in isolation… But, is there any guarantee that if a man lives in association, he shall stay happier? Is there any validation? No, I suppose…
I have seen or heard about or read about men who hurt themselves equally when in association. There are attachments that man unknowingly forms and attachments do not always work in expected ways… They work unexpectedly ..
Unexpected things may not be always pleasant.
Why do we hold on to memories? Memories are the remains of something long dead…they are barely some redundant remnants of a whole that had its presence in the past. Clinging to memories is another futile activity that we subject ourselves to. However, can we live devoid of memories? Can we live entirely for “the present” and let the bygone things be matters of the oblivion? No, I suppose.
Unknowingly, there are some futile things that we do to impart meanings to our life. Sometimes, these insignificant things form the basic foundation of life. Does being “Pragmatic” always make sense? To see practically, is it always wise to be wise, to be prudent, to be pragmatic? Had it been so, we would have never clung to memories or held on to people who were deemed to leave us … But, we still do no matter how much pragmatism we may advocate.
“Blues and Melancholy” drove me to such a dismal stupor… I blabbered something that I have no idea about… I retched… I am relieved!
So that implies, even our perceptions about the world are momentary. With us, they too shall fleet away. May be, the perceptions of a few greats among us will remain…they might hold a somewhat firm ground through books, through literature, through handed down philosophies.
No matter how much we philosophize about life and its transience, about attachments and their futilities, we still can’t convince our mind that “we” actually doesn’t exist…its all “I” that is of paramount importance. I am not talking about being selfish…it’s the individual existence that counts… Only! People who we love or rely too much upon shall leave one day… Death is one of the reasons… there are several other reasons too…
Man is a social animal… He is gregarious in nature and he can’t live for long in isolation… But, is there any guarantee that if a man lives in association, he shall stay happier? Is there any validation? No, I suppose…
I have seen or heard about or read about men who hurt themselves equally when in association. There are attachments that man unknowingly forms and attachments do not always work in expected ways… They work unexpectedly ..
Unexpected things may not be always pleasant.
Why do we hold on to memories? Memories are the remains of something long dead…they are barely some redundant remnants of a whole that had its presence in the past. Clinging to memories is another futile activity that we subject ourselves to. However, can we live devoid of memories? Can we live entirely for “the present” and let the bygone things be matters of the oblivion? No, I suppose.
Unknowingly, there are some futile things that we do to impart meanings to our life. Sometimes, these insignificant things form the basic foundation of life. Does being “Pragmatic” always make sense? To see practically, is it always wise to be wise, to be prudent, to be pragmatic? Had it been so, we would have never clung to memories or held on to people who were deemed to leave us … But, we still do no matter how much pragmatism we may advocate.
“Blues and Melancholy” drove me to such a dismal stupor… I blabbered something that I have no idea about… I retched… I am relieved!
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
The curtain falls....
An existence is a mere shadow
on a background curtain
called Life.
A shadow, we are, that grows,
attains its peak
and then fades away.
The curtain keeps wavering,
the shadow also wavers
along with it.
And then the curtain falls,
the shadow vanishes
somewhere in the oblivion.
on a background curtain
called Life.
A shadow, we are, that grows,
attains its peak
and then fades away.
The curtain keeps wavering,
the shadow also wavers
along with it.
And then the curtain falls,
the shadow vanishes
somewhere in the oblivion.
Self analysis....
When I am home, I find some way or the other to keep myself engaged. A movie, is always palatable. I have a hunger for good cinema. If not a movie, then a good book.A good book that entails some hours of contemplation. I analyse.I over analyse, to be precise... Then, if I have nothing to do, I flip through my old diary...
I flip through its stained pages, through those scribblings that once made so much sense, a few newspaper cuttings that lie in between the pages, a few excerpts, quotations that were then my "pearls of wisdom"...
Sometimes, I wonder with awe "have I written this diary?"
While I go through the writes, it appears as if its a stroll down an oblivion lane, where memories are lying comatose. Memories that haven't withered but drooped with time... I sprinkle some water on them in the form of my recollections and they flower once again...
I intently observe my handwriting... I used to write so lavishly... my words were expansive, voluminous...they took ample space... Only 5-6 words could fit in one broad line.. I generously used space...
My letters were so legible, so very cursive. My "t"s slashed elegantly, the tail of my "y"s coiled perfectly... like a long prehensile tail of a chameleon, my capital "A"s drawn with an artistic , reckless yet perfect flair, my "S"s shaped finely etcetera... It looks as if I took special care to perfect my letters, as if I had no dearth of time, as if my letters were my ballerinas and they danced to my tunes...
Now, I see my handwriting...Its dismal... so business like... There's a certain hurriedness in it, a chaotic disorder... words left incomplete... words acronymed, shortened and thus killed... No one can savor their taste or smell... Letters seem to scuttle throughout on the pages... They go off the line, here there... somehow just scribbled... Now, i don't squander space. I write my letters small, my words compacted to fit in 9-10 or even more in one average lengthed line...
Well, that was a too intricate, an analysis...
Getting back to my old diary... I saw few solitary signatures... One page that is completely given to a proud signature of mine... A megalomaniac's signature... A sign swelling with pride,with recklessness and with an artistic elegance... Ceative signatures,those were!
I come across certain "words of wisdom" mostly penned down by me and a few borrowed from the greats like Einstein, Gandhi and Ford... I wondered if I could still imbibe wisdom from those... They didn't ring the same way in my ears as they used to do then...
I came across this little piece, that I still admire (though not THAT fervently as I used to, but still)
"Sometimes, you want to masquerade behind a veil. Sometimes, you want to assume an unknown identity to hide."
what made me write this?.. I have never encouraged pretension but this "veil" for a while, didn't bother me...
Then, I saw a few incoherent doodlings on my diary...at some lone corners... They were not bad..
Coming on to the pieces that I wrote... those writes were screaming their lungs out to say "See, I might lack on content...But my vocabulary is undeniably awesome!" wrds were forcefully stuffed and the theme died right in its incipient stages... Behind a self proclaiming vocabulary, the content lacked..Completely... Things that could be said in a line or two were stretched longer to an extent that they lost their crispness, their elasticity. They sagged...
Some contents made sense...they were quite readable...especially the "lovelorn thoughts" ... The romantic lines, on the other hand, were nauseating and sheer balder-dash!
I came across this write (that I think is "somewhat" better from the rest):-
"Like the hearth that burns
and consumes splinters of wood
in its pyro maniacal joy,
a similar fire burns in me!
A vengeful fire,
set ablaze to burn you,
is burning me from within.
I harbour fatal injuries,
unseen blisters.
I choke,
I am ash."
I have been good at such gothic themes...Gore, death and darkness have always enticed me...
Another good piece that I wrote then,
"A shroud called Life,
covers an otherwise dead me"
I find it quite creative... I envy the creativity that went behind this... but then, I have penned it! Why am I envying me? :P
Things that I used to and I still write about are very abstract... They follow a certain stream of consciousness... I endeavor to dissect out my sub conscious whenever I write a piece...
The conscious mind is disgustingly superficial... The sub conscious is deep, is unfathomable, in fact...
Yes, I found out a few unaddressed love letters too.. They were an interesting read but somewhat "over the top"... Very maudlin! :D
Then there was an unabashed post on "Periods"... Haha! That's my personal favorite...I shall post it on my blog someday...
Okay, I have been drumming myfingers for a while to type down this retarded post..I need rest...
See you, in my next
I flip through its stained pages, through those scribblings that once made so much sense, a few newspaper cuttings that lie in between the pages, a few excerpts, quotations that were then my "pearls of wisdom"...
Sometimes, I wonder with awe "have I written this diary?"
While I go through the writes, it appears as if its a stroll down an oblivion lane, where memories are lying comatose. Memories that haven't withered but drooped with time... I sprinkle some water on them in the form of my recollections and they flower once again...
I intently observe my handwriting... I used to write so lavishly... my words were expansive, voluminous...they took ample space... Only 5-6 words could fit in one broad line.. I generously used space...
My letters were so legible, so very cursive. My "t"s slashed elegantly, the tail of my "y"s coiled perfectly... like a long prehensile tail of a chameleon, my capital "A"s drawn with an artistic , reckless yet perfect flair, my "S"s shaped finely etcetera... It looks as if I took special care to perfect my letters, as if I had no dearth of time, as if my letters were my ballerinas and they danced to my tunes...
Now, I see my handwriting...Its dismal... so business like... There's a certain hurriedness in it, a chaotic disorder... words left incomplete... words acronymed, shortened and thus killed... No one can savor their taste or smell... Letters seem to scuttle throughout on the pages... They go off the line, here there... somehow just scribbled... Now, i don't squander space. I write my letters small, my words compacted to fit in 9-10 or even more in one average lengthed line...
Well, that was a too intricate, an analysis...
Getting back to my old diary... I saw few solitary signatures... One page that is completely given to a proud signature of mine... A megalomaniac's signature... A sign swelling with pride,with recklessness and with an artistic elegance... Ceative signatures,those were!
I come across certain "words of wisdom" mostly penned down by me and a few borrowed from the greats like Einstein, Gandhi and Ford... I wondered if I could still imbibe wisdom from those... They didn't ring the same way in my ears as they used to do then...
I came across this little piece, that I still admire (though not THAT fervently as I used to, but still)
"Sometimes, you want to masquerade behind a veil. Sometimes, you want to assume an unknown identity to hide."
what made me write this?.. I have never encouraged pretension but this "veil" for a while, didn't bother me...
Then, I saw a few incoherent doodlings on my diary...at some lone corners... They were not bad..
Coming on to the pieces that I wrote... those writes were screaming their lungs out to say "See, I might lack on content...But my vocabulary is undeniably awesome!" wrds were forcefully stuffed and the theme died right in its incipient stages... Behind a self proclaiming vocabulary, the content lacked..Completely... Things that could be said in a line or two were stretched longer to an extent that they lost their crispness, their elasticity. They sagged...
Some contents made sense...they were quite readable...especially the "lovelorn thoughts" ... The romantic lines, on the other hand, were nauseating and sheer balder-dash!
I came across this write (that I think is "somewhat" better from the rest):-
"Like the hearth that burns
and consumes splinters of wood
in its pyro maniacal joy,
a similar fire burns in me!
A vengeful fire,
set ablaze to burn you,
is burning me from within.
I harbour fatal injuries,
unseen blisters.
I choke,
I am ash."
I have been good at such gothic themes...
Another good piece that I wrote then,
"A shroud called Life,
covers an otherwise dead me"
I find it quite creative... I envy the creativity that went behind this... but then, I have penned it! Why am I envying me? :P
Things that I used to and I still write about are very abstract... They follow a certain stream of consciousness... I endeavor to dissect out my sub conscious whenever I write a piece...
The conscious mind is disgustingly superficial... The sub conscious is deep, is unfathomable, in fact...
Yes, I found out a few unaddressed love letters too.. They were an interesting read but somewhat "over the top"... Very maudlin! :D
Then there was an unabashed post on "Periods"... Haha! That's my personal favorite...I shall post it on my blog someday...
Okay, I have been drumming myfingers for a while to type down this retarded post..I need rest...
See you, in my next
Monday, 10 October 2011
Inseparable souls
She knew her husband wouldn’t come out alive. She knew he was gone forever. Still, when the doctors came and told her that they weren’t successful at saving him, she felt her stomach sinking, her head dizzying, her body sweating profusely, the pupils of her eyes dilating , her heart palpitating as if it shall break open and come out of her chest cavity.
She sat down on the hospital chair with a thud and demanded for a cold glass of water. Her brain, for a moment, was dead. She couldn’t collect herself and closed her eyes. She drank the water like an animal quenching its long disturbing thirst. After a while, she asked herself “Didn’t I know that this was destined to happen? Didn’t I see the same scene repeated so many times in my nightmares? Didn’t I train my heart and mind for the worst? Then why is my body revolting? Why is my body behaving untrained?” She collected herself, regained her composure and with a weary face and a haggard soul less body, she went into the operation theatre.
The theatre was dimly lit and smelled sharply of something acidic. She approached his bed slowly with diffident steps. His body was covered with a white shroud and with trembling hands she uncovered his face. A shudder ran down her spine and she wondered that this body belongs to the same person, she was madly in love with and now she dreads to see him lying under that shroud! She saw his face, a smooth wrinkleless face that wore a sense of comfort, a sense of painless beatific pleasure. After so many months, she saw that expression in his face that she had longed to see while he was alive and struggling with Liver Cirrhosis. She thought how much he might have struggled in his last few hours, how much pain he might have been through.
She kept staring at him and said to herself “How comfortably he sleeps! Death has done him a favor. ” She smiled looking at that face and tears kept rolling down her eyes incessantly. She sat down on the chair by the bed and closed her eyes.
A train of his memories passed by her eyes. Their 5 years of marriage. Although it was an arranged marriage and they had no clue that they shall grow so very fond of each other. She recollected those moments when they fought, when they argued over things and reconciled within no time, when they discussed Philosophy together, shared common interests in music, literature and cinema. Moments when he read her his favorite excerpts from Thoreau’s Walden, from Sartre’s Age of Reason, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. Times when they watched Casablanca for the nth time and watched it with rapt attention …dumbstruck…
Times when she would read Pablo Neruda to him with so much passion and amore, times when they would make love to each other through their eyes, times when he would worry about her and take care of her when she would be ill, times when he made failed attempts at kitchen just to please her, times when they planned to have children but dropped the idea very soon.
And then, her thoughts strayed to the bitter times…when he discovered that he has contracted a severe jaundice, times when she looked after him like a devoted wife, times when he would show slight improvement and raise her hopes but in the very next day, his condition would deteriorate further, the time, when he came to know that his liver had contracted cirrhosis and not jaundice. Times, when he would strengthen her hopes and still read his favorite excerpts, his favorite poems on life and death. He would often say “Death is but a long eternal holiday. Life on the other side of death is painless, is eternal. I shall never let these mortal pains, this goddamned Cirrhosis or whatever, to dampen my spirit. My spirit shall bask in its eternal sheen.”
Such words of his would make her cry and he would console her, strengthen her and infuse in her a reinvigorated spirit. He would often cough blood and the doctors would scribble prescriptions anew and every time when he saw his changed medication plan, he would laugh at the absurdity of life.
He asked her to continue reading Neruda to him and she read her favorite “Carnal apple, woman filled, burning moon” . For sometime, when he would see her love for him in her eyes, he would feel painless , he would feel a renewed vigor to live and again his strife against death would start anew.
He was soon admitted in the hospital and his condition worsened further. He could barely speak. Once he wrote on a paper to her, “Its you who is making me suffer.. I can’t die because you’ve so firmly held the cords of my life. Release them, my dear. For once! I promise, I won’t go anywhere but shall stay with you forever. Believe me, can you? Let not this fucking ailment bother me anymore. Release me to let me come afresh and rejuvenated.”
The next day, the doctors declared that surgery was the only option left and she quietly signed the documents and completed all the formalities. She sat by him and she kept staring at him for a long time as if she bade him an adieu. He smiled and wiped away her tears. He looked at her with an uninterrupted sight for a long time as if he accepted her farewell graciously. While he was being shifted to the surgery ward, he handed over a book of poems of R.W Emerson to her. She saw a bookmark inside and opened that page. It was his favorite poem “Goodbye World!” She knew she was not going to see him anymore. Seeing her for one last time, he heaved a long penetrating sigh.
She opened her eyes soon and found her encircled by her relatives. Everyone was crying and she quietly left the room. His body was taken to the cremation ground, in one of the burning ghats. Her vision stayed affixed to his face. He was soon, laid on the funeral pyre and the pyre was set ablaze. She saw large clouds of smoke forming. She saw the fire consuming his body with an infernal joy. She saw him getting reduced to ashes and within no time, he was but a handful of ashes. She stood frozen and her relatives took her home.
That night she had slept as if she had been unloaded from a heavy burden on her shoulders. She had slept after months. She saw him in her dreams. He had come to her in white immaculate clothes, smiling. He looked upbeat, in the pink of his health. He walked towards her with his same old dignity, with his elegant panache and his handsome face dazzling .He was radiating bliss, self belief and victory.
She heard him say, “I told you, I shall come to you. See , I have come… Afresh! I am sorry , I left you alone for sometime but it was necessary. I couldn’t do with that stale , diseased body anymore. I had to go.”
She saw herself having joyous tears in her eyes, nodding vehemently and saying “Yes, I know. You had to go and don’t be sorry.”
She saw herself embracing him.
“I shall come with you. My life is nothing without you” she said.
“Who said you’re without me? I am always with you, though formless but still there and dear, I was not tired of living. I still want to live through you. I want to see the world through your eyes, I want to feel everything through your senses. I want to stay alive in your spirit. The books I haven’t read, I shall read through you. The music, that still remains untouched to my ears, I’ll hear through you. How can you come with me? You have to live for me and I shall live in you.”
With these words, she saw him being consumed by a milky white light. Her eyes were blinded by that dazzle and she saw that blinding light illuminating her. She felt a transcendental bliss, an arrant pleasure, a divine intervention.
She opened her eyes and smiled. She knew, this world still awaits her. She knew she had left her work half done, she had goals to accomplish, successes to be glorified in and a life irrigated by his memories and his unconditional love to enjoy.
She knew she had to live for both…for her and for him!
She sat down on the hospital chair with a thud and demanded for a cold glass of water. Her brain, for a moment, was dead. She couldn’t collect herself and closed her eyes. She drank the water like an animal quenching its long disturbing thirst. After a while, she asked herself “Didn’t I know that this was destined to happen? Didn’t I see the same scene repeated so many times in my nightmares? Didn’t I train my heart and mind for the worst? Then why is my body revolting? Why is my body behaving untrained?” She collected herself, regained her composure and with a weary face and a haggard soul less body, she went into the operation theatre.
The theatre was dimly lit and smelled sharply of something acidic. She approached his bed slowly with diffident steps. His body was covered with a white shroud and with trembling hands she uncovered his face. A shudder ran down her spine and she wondered that this body belongs to the same person, she was madly in love with and now she dreads to see him lying under that shroud! She saw his face, a smooth wrinkleless face that wore a sense of comfort, a sense of painless beatific pleasure. After so many months, she saw that expression in his face that she had longed to see while he was alive and struggling with Liver Cirrhosis. She thought how much he might have struggled in his last few hours, how much pain he might have been through.
She kept staring at him and said to herself “How comfortably he sleeps! Death has done him a favor. ” She smiled looking at that face and tears kept rolling down her eyes incessantly. She sat down on the chair by the bed and closed her eyes.
A train of his memories passed by her eyes. Their 5 years of marriage. Although it was an arranged marriage and they had no clue that they shall grow so very fond of each other. She recollected those moments when they fought, when they argued over things and reconciled within no time, when they discussed Philosophy together, shared common interests in music, literature and cinema. Moments when he read her his favorite excerpts from Thoreau’s Walden, from Sartre’s Age of Reason, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. Times when they watched Casablanca for the nth time and watched it with rapt attention …dumbstruck…
Times when she would read Pablo Neruda to him with so much passion and amore, times when they would make love to each other through their eyes, times when he would worry about her and take care of her when she would be ill, times when he made failed attempts at kitchen just to please her, times when they planned to have children but dropped the idea very soon.
And then, her thoughts strayed to the bitter times…when he discovered that he has contracted a severe jaundice, times when she looked after him like a devoted wife, times when he would show slight improvement and raise her hopes but in the very next day, his condition would deteriorate further, the time, when he came to know that his liver had contracted cirrhosis and not jaundice. Times, when he would strengthen her hopes and still read his favorite excerpts, his favorite poems on life and death. He would often say “Death is but a long eternal holiday. Life on the other side of death is painless, is eternal. I shall never let these mortal pains, this goddamned Cirrhosis or whatever, to dampen my spirit. My spirit shall bask in its eternal sheen.”
Such words of his would make her cry and he would console her, strengthen her and infuse in her a reinvigorated spirit. He would often cough blood and the doctors would scribble prescriptions anew and every time when he saw his changed medication plan, he would laugh at the absurdity of life.
He asked her to continue reading Neruda to him and she read her favorite “Carnal apple, woman filled, burning moon” . For sometime, when he would see her love for him in her eyes, he would feel painless , he would feel a renewed vigor to live and again his strife against death would start anew.
He was soon admitted in the hospital and his condition worsened further. He could barely speak. Once he wrote on a paper to her, “Its you who is making me suffer.. I can’t die because you’ve so firmly held the cords of my life. Release them, my dear. For once! I promise, I won’t go anywhere but shall stay with you forever. Believe me, can you? Let not this fucking ailment bother me anymore. Release me to let me come afresh and rejuvenated.”
The next day, the doctors declared that surgery was the only option left and she quietly signed the documents and completed all the formalities. She sat by him and she kept staring at him for a long time as if she bade him an adieu. He smiled and wiped away her tears. He looked at her with an uninterrupted sight for a long time as if he accepted her farewell graciously. While he was being shifted to the surgery ward, he handed over a book of poems of R.W Emerson to her. She saw a bookmark inside and opened that page. It was his favorite poem “Goodbye World!” She knew she was not going to see him anymore. Seeing her for one last time, he heaved a long penetrating sigh.
She opened her eyes soon and found her encircled by her relatives. Everyone was crying and she quietly left the room. His body was taken to the cremation ground, in one of the burning ghats. Her vision stayed affixed to his face. He was soon, laid on the funeral pyre and the pyre was set ablaze. She saw large clouds of smoke forming. She saw the fire consuming his body with an infernal joy. She saw him getting reduced to ashes and within no time, he was but a handful of ashes. She stood frozen and her relatives took her home.
That night she had slept as if she had been unloaded from a heavy burden on her shoulders. She had slept after months. She saw him in her dreams. He had come to her in white immaculate clothes, smiling. He looked upbeat, in the pink of his health. He walked towards her with his same old dignity, with his elegant panache and his handsome face dazzling .He was radiating bliss, self belief and victory.
She heard him say, “I told you, I shall come to you. See , I have come… Afresh! I am sorry , I left you alone for sometime but it was necessary. I couldn’t do with that stale , diseased body anymore. I had to go.”
She saw herself having joyous tears in her eyes, nodding vehemently and saying “Yes, I know. You had to go and don’t be sorry.”
She saw herself embracing him.
“I shall come with you. My life is nothing without you” she said.
“Who said you’re without me? I am always with you, though formless but still there and dear, I was not tired of living. I still want to live through you. I want to see the world through your eyes, I want to feel everything through your senses. I want to stay alive in your spirit. The books I haven’t read, I shall read through you. The music, that still remains untouched to my ears, I’ll hear through you. How can you come with me? You have to live for me and I shall live in you.”
With these words, she saw him being consumed by a milky white light. Her eyes were blinded by that dazzle and she saw that blinding light illuminating her. She felt a transcendental bliss, an arrant pleasure, a divine intervention.
She opened her eyes and smiled. She knew, this world still awaits her. She knew she had left her work half done, she had goals to accomplish, successes to be glorified in and a life irrigated by his memories and his unconditional love to enjoy.
She knew she had to live for both…for her and for him!
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