Posted in Fiction, Life, short story, thème

Midnight

He had only a few minutes left, for the clocks to strike 12
and he wouldnt remain the same,
pumpkin carriage would be no more,
he would no longer be the prince charming,
and as he feared, no longer the apple of her eye.
His mind seemed to be in a hurry, and yet he was’nt.
His midnight never arrived,
He was never let free,
Thus continued his eternal wait,
for his
midnight.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème

Leftovers

From where I sit, the place looks a little pale, one of those café’s which has kind of lost its race with its neon glittering, over crowded counterparts. I assume, the place must have had its loyalists, but today not many seem to be around. May be it had to do with the hour of the day. The grand clock on the wall, showed a little past 10. It was that time of the day, when it was well past breakfast but a little away from lunch. Not many people hang around the old time café’s during this hour of the day, unless they are one of those who hang out buried in a book or a laptop. But today I can see none around, it is just me.

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain. 

A sudden gush of wind caught me off guard, turning a few pages backwards, taking me along.

I can see an young man, may be in his late teens. The impatience of the youth eminent in the rhythmic noise his cell phone made, with its every touch, to slightly damp surface of the table he sat at. The morning dew formed a layer of tiny droplets, giving a fresh and bubbly look to the otherwise worn out table of the yesteryear’s. I guess he was waiting for a text or a call, he made it a point to flip open his cell phone, in case his mobile forgot to signal him, when whoever he was waiting for, made a contact. He spent a really tough 90 minutes here, occasionally sipping a cuppa, or a vigorously tapping of his legs firmly onto the ground for a few minutes and then getting back to his monotonous and frustrating wait. Finally, after about what it seemed like an infinite wait, his phone is ringing. 

I am being an eavesdrop today and picking up the eager voice the guy is sporting, 

“I think today is the day, I ought to tell her, I need to come out of the hiding, its been weeks since I have been leaving her gifts, things I am sure she has enjoyed, leaving her with words which she cherishes the most, I have been giving her clues to find a way to me. This has got to end today, in fact this should have ended by know, its well past her time here, and here I am waiting, with no trace of her”

Ah the wind yet again, as though it does not want me to revisit the whole of it. Taking me forward, well past the lunch, right into the time of the day I love the most, the dusk.

I see her, a lady well past her prime, hair crowned with a bunch of gray wisdom. There is something about her eyes, burning red in color, and swollen out of their sockets, indicating sleepless nights or hours of crying. Her face looks void of emotions though. She does not look like a regular here at all, this was not the time the or the place for a person of her age. I surprisingly see a sense of fitting in, as though she has accepted this. I see her reaching to her bag pulling out a plastic bag, it seems to be loaded with things which I cannot see from where I sit. I wait in hope that she pulls things out one by one, just when she is about to get the first item out, I see a young girl approaching her. I guess she must have been here to meet her young friend, I prognosticate.

Now that I can here their conversation, I let myself flow to into her voice

“Oh I am not sad at all, I know she left us happily, after years of struggling, I had given up the hope that I would see her smiling again, but something changed in the last few days, she seemed to be happy, may be it had something to do with this bag I found below her bed, may be this is where she hid  all her happiness, I guess I met you at the right time, I would be really happy to see her last bit of happiness being spread across the numerous children at the orphanage which you guys used to visit, I guess she left us with no regrets.”

The powerful wind at its work again, behaving as though it exactly knew the cue when to turn the pages over, and interrupt my narration. 

I lay there, on an empty coffee table, with fresh stains of leftovers around me, living me with a feeling, that may be I am one too, a stain, a leftover stain.

Posted in Fiction, Life, mèmè, short story

A White Canvas

As a kid, people always found Kush interesting, they found him a little different, and in a way Kush loved it. He always wanted that bit of uniqueness to be tagged to him, and needless to say he consciously worked on it.  

Kush, one day had an interesting project for himself, his signature, he wanted to develop one which he would use on cheques and letters when he grew up, he wanted his signature to stand out, something out of the ordinary you know, he started practicing, he came up with many forms, but thought they were ordinary. he wanted that extra special twist, and finally he framed an artistic K, with two dots below, something no one can come up with, something his very own.

Teenage and peer pressures hardly had an effect on him, in fact it did, but in the reverse way, it made him choose paths unthinkable to his peers. When there was a mad rush to get into professional courses, scoring as much to get into a good college, he chose a lesser known path, painting. He began painting as an hobby, and soon it began taking all his time. He loved how much he contributed to his own creativity, and how different and unique it felt when compared to other paintings around him. He began investing more time, and thought of making this career, and infact he did not care if painting counted as a career, but he had found what he wanted to do.
 
Kush who had started as an amateur painter, began developing skills which he never imagined, the paintings started to express things in a spectacular way, with colors no one used, with depictions hardly ever seen. Something which made his style of painting extra ordinary. People began liking his edge and even suggested him to arrange an exhibition. At 19, he had his first exhibition,  something which  was conceived and planned totally by him, everything about the exhibition stood out, the huge dark gloomy welcome signs, or the single exhibit concept he came up with, where a big room would have a single piece waiting to be explored by the onlooker behind the closed doors. He was an instant hit, his paintings sold within seconds, with bids raking in huge moolah. 

Kush, over months became a revelation in the art world, his unique use of colors and moods made his paintings stand out everywhere. Anybody could recognize his work without any tags, but still he did not let his old effort go waste, he began to sign his paintings with the interesting K he had come up with. It had become his signature, in a true sense.

His quest for uniqueness didn’t stop at his profession, his personal life too was filled with ideas and plans, to make his life more interesting and unique, Kush never believed in marriage, or any social norms, he wanted to be the outlaw, he first fell in love with a single mother about ten years older to him, within no time, they decided to move in together, he truly loved her, and she was in love too. He knew the topic of marriage would come up some day, and in a way he expected that it would be soon. He was surprised it took more than five years for the topic to come up, the stern guy he was with his ideologies, he refused, she was left with no choice but to move out. For the first time Kush felt real rage in his life.
 
He wanted to bring this out on canvas, he took a white canvas, and started venting his rage on to the painting, at the end of three hours he had a red canvas, a canvas with shades of red, In a way showing every frustration he had had over time, the things he was angry with himself for, every silly move of his which had come back to trouble him on days he had been alone. He had a look at the piece, and felt this was his worst work till date, nothing more than the mixing palette he had in his hands. He couldn’t believe he had created something so common. He wanted the piece to be out of sight, he took the painting and threw it behind the stack of old canvases up in the attic.

 Kush was back being single, and he enjoyed his new single status in every possible way he could, dinner dates, and sleepovers was now common, I guess he never considered what he had lost, or more importantly what he wanted. Days passed by, he developed a habit of going on long evening walks. He would walk down the beachside, or even busy streets for hours, just thinking and enjoying his company. One day he came across a children’s park, and he loved the sight. He entered the park and sat on a park bench, observing kids. It soon became part of his evening routine, where he would just visit and look at kids. Once when he was in a the middle of a painting, suddenly his thoughts drifted to those days back with her, the greener pastures from the days gone buy, the kids in the park, the greenery, and without him realizing the canvas turned into an absolute green one, shades of green just like his mind. It had him in splits, did it indicate his envy, or the calmness. He did not want to think, nor wanted it to affect his usual style. So he found the best place for it, the attic. Right behind the red one he had painted few years back.

 Years flew past, woman after another, painting after painting, life just flew in front of his own eyes. Only two things survived the years, his paintings and his long walks. Today as he walks past with his stick to his side, and almost the same attitude he once possessed, one can almost see the stubbornness. I guess one can choose to call it as his determination too. He walked past a beautiful sunset, the sky had turned orange in the twilight, just like the vibrant orange he had used in numerous of his paintings, for a second he could frame a canvas through his eyes onto the sky. He had no clue, that the sight would somehow find his way into his canvas the very next day. An Orange canvas, with shades ranging from the dull and pale, to the vibrant and shocking streaks. 

 This time he wanted to analyze, he wanted to find out what the  painting stood for, why he had painted something so common, something which has none of his style, something he would never want to claim as his own. Suddenly he remembered the other two sitting somewhere on the attic, he got his servant to bring them down, and there had all three of them, side by side, shades of red, Green and Orange.  Standing there, looking at these paintings Kush felt an amazing uniqueness and satisfaction which he had never felt before, he had finally come up with the subject for his masterpiece. 

 He took out his canvas, and began painting every possible incident he could remember about his life, people he loved, people he missed, things he chose to ignore, thinks he loved. Every thing he could think of. It almost took him an year to fill the canvas until, he had nothing more left that he would want to fill. Finally he took a long clean brush, and painted over the filled canvas, a sheer white. There he had his masterpiece, a perfectly white one, the way he wanted his life to be, the way he wanted his painting to be.

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Prats over at Retrospections! Emotional ecology……Tagged me here . I was supposed to come with a story with color I like, and I chose not one but many which I like.

Posted in "Theory of pursuit", Fiction, Moi, thème, Thoughts, thoughts to think

Paradox

Now
that your
love
came
naturally,
My,
hatred,
just,
followed.
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I guess was trying to play a game of hide and seek here..this was a sort of continuation of the death series which I posted some time back..This was about the natural love called “youth” which is always followed by a sort of helpless hated twenties. Quarter life crisis anybody?

btw a little more on “you” and “me”..youth to many of us is something which we never realize..even as I type this I don’t realize how precious time this is where we get to do what we want, with not much to worry about, with enough energy to wake up on our own when we fall down, both physically and financially. So its never “me” its always “you” who has given this without us realizing it.
The hatred is something where “I” am totally responsible for.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème, Thoughts, thoughts to think, Uncategorized

I am a flower

I lay there on the sidewalk just a little away from the curb, I look fresh enough to attract any damsel on this earth, I could end up in hands of a love struck fella of any corner of this earth , who is in a bid to woe a women of his dreams, or I could end up of just above the left ear of the graceful lady who leaves a few blocks away, or I could end up next to the photo frame of a old person hung on the blue wall of the room right above the tree I fell from.

I sometimes marvel at the prospects of my own future, and my friends call me an eternal optimist.

It’s was a lovely morning, the gentle breeze kept trying to knock on windows of people, as though inviting them for an early morning bliss. The loveliness lasted until the satanic side of the otherwise gentle wind decided to play its little trick on me. Luring me with a prospective freshness, swept me off my feet, making me fall with my just blossomed fresh petals. Life can change your path in just a sniff, I had heard many people walking below my tree tell this, I never thought I would fall for that sniff.

I had a reputation to live upto, I had to be the eternal optimist, well I wasn’t trying to be one, I really was an optimist. As the morning joggers began to jog along, with their ipods attached to their ears, I knew it was just matter of time, before I am in palms of one of the guys, or an object of admiration resting in the hairs of an young hazel eyed beauty. I might have fallen, but I still had my grace intact.

The young joggers seem to be in a bad mood of sorts today, none seem to be looking down, all seemed to have an unfinished business up above, they continued to jog with their head upwards. I never noticed this, did they always jog like this?, as if they have no business down below?, may be the old person who rested below my tree was right, they do learn a little late.

It was time for the old people who began their day with a painful walk around to the park. I sometimes pity them, after their long walk of restless days, now in their twilight, when they can hardly walk, they huff/puff around with a painful face, and even more painful knees. I was sure, the old lady with a slight hunch would spot me, and I would be the focus of her devotion, getting the pleasure to grace her deity. I was sure that the old man who would no longer spend money on materialistic means to spirituality like me, I was sure he would pick me up and take me home. The old lady seem to have an excessively painful knee today, still she did come for her morning ritual, her walk, she seem to walk past me with her eye fixed to her feet, may be I never get to see where eyes are focused, from my position on the tree. The old guy seems to have lost his eyesight in all those days spent providing. I realized one thing that moment, when I sit on my tree, amidst those supporting branches of mine, I hardly get the view of things which I was getting today down below.

My optimism, even though tainted a little, was still going strong, I knew its just a matter of time, and its still a long day to go.

[24 hours gone by]

Its that gentle breeze yet again, carrying a faint aroma of the baker down the street, the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee, coming from the neighboring kitchen, freshening me up.

I still lay on the sidewalk, I agree that some of my petals have darkened, and my fragrance seem to have lost a little, but today is a new day, and it’s a matter of few more minutes and my young joggers will be in just a bit time.

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The topic over at skittles today is “flower”, Inspired by the book “my name is red”, here’s my attempt of trying something in first person narrative.

Posted in Fiction, short story, thème

Flashes

He sat there on his chair pulled up right close to the wall, just besides the open window. Two large portraits hung on the wall just above the window. As he looked outside the window, with his face pressed to it, he could almost smell the rusty odor of the iron bars across the wooden window. His room was dark, with his tube lights off, a faint light from the nearby street light fell on his slightly pale face, the droopy old bald guy seem to have a glowing face with eyes behind a pair of almost thick glasses. The light coming into the room cast a shadow of diagonal parallel bars on his otherwise straight face. He sat there in the darkness of his own room.

“Amit” his mom screamed, “Will you open that stupid window of yours, it stinks in here, where will the air come from if you always keep the windows closed?, I hate to enter your room!”.
Amit shouted back at her “Who asks you to come in, you need not. You can leave all my stuff at the door, and I shall pick up, this is my room”
Amit’s mom walks back still continuing to vent her frustration for her highly disobedient son.

As he sat there gazing upon the far horizon, with a face as calm as an innocent lamb, scenes from his youth flashed before his eyes.

His line of sight slowly lowered, and fell upon the people walking by on a not so busy street. He saw people of all ages, making their journeys through life. Some animated self talkers, some calm and slow sloggers, some who seem to have hit the jackpot of happiness, and others who seem to consider themselves to be the personification of sorrow if there ever was one. He was having an amazing time, letting his imagination go crazy, with the possible stories of anyone who walked passed the street, Even with all the excitement, he sat there almost expression less.

“Amit, Why do you keep yourself shut in that dingy room of yours?, and why do you hate socializing so much?, you got to get out, meet people, if not outside house atleast the ones who come visit us”, You could see that Amit’s mom was really angry this time around, the green vein showed up on her forehead.

Amit had never been a people person, no he was not an introvert, nor did he suffer from anthropophobia, but still he never enjoyed meeting people, the earlier days where he preferred himself to other people, flashed before his eyes, as he continued to enjoy the one way interaction with thousand of faces, and a lovely imagery journey his mind was undergoing at the moment.

The power cut which seemed to have caused the darkness in the room ended, and the lights came on, he could see a shadow of his wife walking up to his room, with a cup of coffee in her hand. He took the coffee from her hand, and began to sip it. A little cold, a little too sweat, and a little too light to his taste, he sipped along as he remembered his days from youth where he would have shouted at his mom for making the coffee just the way he didn’t like. Amit finished his coffee, stood up and walked out to his usual walk.

Posted in "Fifty Five Words ", Fiction, Personal, poetry

Kiss

It was never meant,
to be this way.
A feeling of guilt,
Is here to stay.
You said, its gonna be
Just another kiss
A pair of closed eyes, and,
A moment of bliss.
I knew you were wrong,
I just went along.
Moments like these are
seldom un-meaningful,
A “kiss”
never unfaithful

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I promise that this shall be the last of my romantic poems .. 🙂

The prompt today over at writersisland is “unfaithful”. Should I add that here’s my “fictional” piece on the prompt 😀

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The movie prompt over there this week is “fantasy”, I did this some time back, thought will add the link here

My Fantasy

She

Posted in Fiction, short story

Traffic Signal

The highway was empty as far as he could he see, he held the steering wheel as firmly as he could, with his eyes gazing upon the imaginary horizon made by the long highway. A light could be spotted at a far distance, it appeared to be a coming from a traffic signal. His eyes were darkish in color, they seem to be reminiscent of the sleepless nights he had had. He had no tears in his eyes, it did not seem to have dried up, he had his usual numb face on, but one could see the disappointment, one could spot the signs of anger, one could see the emotion waiting to burst open. Still with a numb face on. The speed to which his car was reaching, must the highest he would have touched in years, he was driving as though there was no tomorrow.

The images from the showdown he had with Tina were flashing before his eyes. It was not new to him, they had fought about the same issue many a times, and today was not much different. He seem to be drawing blank reliving the scene, and he could feel his throat drying up, as he remembered the exact words that were exchanged. Coming from Tina, the only person who mattered to him, made the matters worse.

Tina had said No, yet again, she had refused to marry him yet again, he had done everything he could to make her think over her decision, with a lot of hope that she would reconsider his request. Tina had moved in with him three years back, their relationship had made many a heads turn, and both were proud of the dignified way in which they had carried off their relationship so far. Tina was adamant as ever, she did not want to marry, and he failed to understand her reason behind this. Tina knew him very well, she must have had absolutely no worry about her independence being hampered, she needn’t worry about her career either, he was a thorough gentleman who respected a woman the way she should be, he did not have any family either, so she had no fears of in-laws as well. He was exhausted trying to come up with possible reasons as to why said no. It was beyond his imagination.

Tina shared her every feeling with him, every emotion she felt was shared with him, and they could read each others mind in most of the circumstances, but for this situation. Tina seem to be hiding some fear, some doubt, some insecurity, some hidden secret, forcing herself to say no. Tina had been a hard working, career woman for long wanting to reach levels of success which always eluded her. She had let him know at times how much she feared loosing her career, losing the legacy which she had struggled to build up, fears she had about how her routine would change about work, and kids she feared the most. Every time she had come out with this fear, like any responsible person he had tried to reason out how normal family life is, and trying to let her know of the cold feet she has been having, but nothing seem to satisfy her.

He really did not need this he thought, he did think about the break up, wanting to look outside and see if he can get what he is looking for, a little more commitment, and the sanctity of marriage he now seemed to be obsessed with. He also knew the breakup would leave both of them devastated, its not something time pass the two shared, they really cared for each other.

Every time he had these sessions with himself, post the heavy showdown with Tina he went through three phases, He always began with telling himself, it was time for him to take an action, to ask her to move out, spare himself of all these pains he has to go through often, for once get rid of this never ending saga of heartbreaks. He never considered himself to be wrong in asking for the next step in their relationship. He would then move on to a second phase where he thought, may be she was right, may be their careers would get affected, may be they were best this way, with no tags attached, loving each other the way they were. May be they were meant to be this way, together.

The traffic signal which seemed way distant from him, was now just yards away, as though life had given him the signal he was looking for. He was close to his usual third phase, where he would take action as always. The traffic junction came by, and at the junction he spun his car around for a U turn and headed back to his place, back to his Tina

Posted in "Fifty Five Words ", Fiction, poésie, poetry

Mutate.

Reading, watching TV, or just lazing around,
Shopping, Cooking, or just pampering self,
Dinners, Evenings, or just plain nights,

Every waking moment, she lived memories,
Sweet memories,
of “him”.

Cigarette burns on her limbs,
Deep cuts on her thighs,
For every memory,
She left herself a souvenir.

A desperate effort
Effort to turn memories
“Torrid”

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It took a long time for me to think of something on the topic “Torrid”, writer’s island is becoming very challenging.. or may be I am turning dull day by day 

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