Her Name Was Sadness

Speed written with minimal editing.

Sad child,
you know they will never be happy.
The world is not going to become a better place -
it will rip itself apart
piece by piece,
and you will just stand aside and smirk
and say I told-you-so.
You will see the brave falling -
those foolish idealists
who thought they could make a difference
if they tried,
if they cared.
The egotists.
The nihilists.
Death takes all.
And you will stand by its side
smiling your sad smile
watching them go -
pass through the gate,
or into the white light,
or into non existence,
or whatever they believe in.
You will see
the wrenched scream,
the bleated plea,
the silent prayer,
the brave smile,
all with the same indifference.
You tried telling them.
They did not listen.
They scorned you.
They tried to ignore you.
But today you do not laugh at them.
You do not preach
or taunt.
You know that they have something
that you never had.
You know that they had life.
You smile
not with victory,
but with sadness.

Wish You Were Here

The world ebbs and flows
as time trickles
like sand between my toes.
Moments softly crushed underfoot.
Forgotten.

Wish you were here
to share this now
breathe the wind
and feel the noise.
Your skin glistens in the sun
like something beautiful.

The wind whips away
the unsaid words.
Hush. Just breathe. Live. Be.
Becoming can wait,
and so can tomorrow.
The fisherfolk are heading out to sea;
today, they cast their nets
for happiness.

Wish you were here
to steal this moment and
hide it away in the folds of memory.
It will shine through your smile
and in my eyes
and this moment will never be
crushed under the weight of time and
forgotten.

Her Name Was Happiness

Sunshine pours out her eyes
and loops ’round her feet.
Madness like a cur follows
at her heel – yapping and nipping
at the dirty rainbow -
stained with the laughter of an old friend -
trailing from her shoulders.
Its frayed edge unravels
leaving small puddles of memories.

Dreamless and lost.

She wanders the streets of the world,
looking into the eyes of strangers,
a bowl loudly clanging by her side -
empty but for a few smiles,
a left over piece of love.

A crow caws his hoarse song
and stars appear – like hand prints
across the faded wallpaper of the sky.
Her eyes dart about quickly -
no one is looking.
Her heavy hips sway and her blistered feet
move to the music only she can hear.
She dances softly into the twilight.

Courage.

She knew.

Her body had rotted from the inside.
The disease – the medicines – the doctors -
had done all they could.
The smell of disinfectant peels off the floor
and creeps up the faded green walls.
The heat sits heavily -
swirling with the fumes of melancholia
and the pity of strangers that trickles in
through the half opened door.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

A moan scrabbles at the back of her throat.
The tasteless food claws its way back up
out of a body throbbing with defeat.
She lies on the sterile white sheets
like a piece of crumpled paper
that has been folded the wrong way
too many times.

Her eyes – glazed with acceptance
flicker – towards the door.
Her granddaughter carries a bunch of fake
flowers and worried guilt
like a stone around her neck.
The woman smiles at the girl.
Her face – crinkling, wrinkling, folding -
“It’s going to be alright” she says.

It – Those things we don’t talk about.

It sidles behind a metaphor.
There it goes –
twitching beneath that symbol
cowering under that image.
Only an angry eye
blinks from the darkness.
I drag it out and pin it down
with the sharp edge
of my ball point pen.

I will never be the person I could be because
my mouth is stuffed with fear.
I blame my family, for who I am.
I am angry with them.
I do not believe in the religion I was born into.
I do not see myself as a woman.
I am denied certain rights because I am a girl.

It shrinks,
in the fresh air
and under the bright lights.
It slinks away –
naked and ashamed,
leaving only a trail of angry
words on an empty page.

The Ice Cream Men

Dedicated to Deepika Vaishnavi. You know why

WARNING: Strangeness lies ahead!

In the labyrinth under the far away forest, cut off from the desire and dreams of humanity, lived the ice cream men. It was hard work, mining ice cream. You see, the ice cream was all swirled in together, golden butterscotch spiraled around the luscious strawberry and the dark chocolate circled glistening blackcurrant. In the darkness, the ice cream would glow with a soft light all its own. Starting an hour before dawn, the ice cream men would carve each flavour out, chiseling out the little gems of frozen fruit and chocolate chips with delicately designed pick axes. Just before packing the ice cream in the little plastic boxes, they would add the secret ingredient – a drop from the Tiny Vial of Happieness. At night, as they neatly stacked the boxes inside the portable freezers, they would dream of the smiles and the warmth that their ice cream would bring the other world.

The ice cream men were perfectionists. They worked inch by inch, their minds wrapped within the bubble of their art. They were so engrossed in it, that they did not notice that the layers of ice cream coating the walls of the labyrinth were getting thinner and thinner… and beneath the last layer of raspberry sorbet hidden away in the last dead end of the labyrinth, there was nothing but rock. So it was with astonishment that they woke up one day to find that there was no more ice cream to mine. They looked at each other and shuffled their feet. They had been mining ice cream together for as long as they could remember. This was their world. And all of a sudden, it had come to a screeching halt. It had run itself out.

“So, what do we do now?” one of them asked uneasily.

Their eyes met for a brief instant, and they looked away hurriedly. They never really had to look at each other while at work. It was all very awkward and strange.

“It’s a pity we have so much Happieness left,” the other said, fiddling with the vial in his hand.

There was a long pause.

The roof of the labyrinth started to reverberate and clouds of dust fell like choice seasoning on the ice cream men. They looked upwards. It was the pick up truck that came every month to collect the packed ice cream and deliver fresh plastic boxes. They looked at each other, weighing their options. Being locked up with nothing to do was too terrifying. And all that they remembered of the outside world was the beaten track by which the pick up truck would arrive, the dappled sunlight on the forest floor, and the moist southern breeze. Nostalgia combined with the lack of better options made them curious, maybe even excited. They told each other that they had always yearned to explore the outside world, except that there was so much work to be done, they had always been putting it off, and they had never quite gotten around to doing it. They convinced each other so well, they almost believed it.

So they braved the dark journey up the steep, narrow staircase. They used a rudimentary mining lift for shifting the ice cream to the outer world, but this was the kind of solemn occasion that needed the use of a crumbling, ancient staircase. The key turned in the lock and the door to a brave, new world opened to them. Sunlight streamed onto their triumphant and caked-with-dirt faces. They felt invincible.

They loaded up the last shipment of ice cream and clambered onto the back of the truck. All they took from the ice cream mine was the Tiny Vial of Happieness that was stored away in the only soft pocket without a hole. They bounced along on the back of the truck, through the forest, across the green country side, and over the rocky hills. They watched pink stain the blue, blue sky as the sun sank low over the horizon and saw the eagles spinning high at dawn. For the first time they saw the starlit sky. They sang. They laughed at each other’s songs. They lay on their backs and watched the universe spin around them. They did not need language, listening to music of the wind and the sound of steady breathing was enough.

At last, they reached the city on the other side of the hills. They stood in round-eyed awe of the gray structures towering into the watery winter sky. The smoke filled, honking mess of the urban jungle terrified them. They were moved by its discordant harmony. They were impressed that nature could let just a ghastly thing exist. They saw and smelt things that at once terrified and thrilled. The other world swirled around them, drifting in and out of focus with every curiosity seen, a snippet of conversation heard. They were carried along the streams of humanity flowing along the pavement and found themselves deposited in strange places. They were shoved, touched, fondled, hated, pitied, ignored. They saw a girl sitting with her head in her hands, and knew that she was sad. They offered her a drop of the Tiny Vial of Happieness, but she just screamed something they did not understand and walked away, brushing the tears from her eyes. This new world seemed to have no place for them. They wandered down the narrow alleys, hand in hand, listening to each other’s heartbeats.

They came upon a park with an ancient tree in the centre. The tree reminded them of home – a left over relic of some distant cousin of their previous life. They sat on the little bench under those ancient branches and watched the children play. Laughter rang through the park, and the ice cream men smiled. Just then, a colourful truck pulled up, and all the kids started to run in its direction with shrieks of joy. The ice-cream men wandered over to the truck apprehensively. The screaming children frightened them a little. Their nervousness gave way to a particular strain of idiotic happieness when they saw the colourful spheres balanced on the biscuit cones. Here was the reality of all those dreams they had on those long, tired nights when they would imagine the joy their meticulous work would bring the world. They smiled in a friendly way at the children. They even offered to add extra drop of from the Tiny Vial of Happieness to each of their cones.

A little girl screamed.

The ice cream men smiled even broader.

More children started screaming.

“FREAK!” someone screamed.

It became like a horrible screeching anthem “Freak! Freak! Freak!” they chanted.

Big, round eyes narrowed and filled with tears. The petite bodies became rigid with hatred. Their mouth gaped open with screams. But beneath the hatred of the unknown, there lurked another darker animal instinct. They drooled. They looked more like a herd of demons than a group of little children. It was the stuff of nightmares. The ice cream men turned and fled.

They collapsed in a dark alley, breathless. The sun was sinking, and grey clouds gathered on the horizon. The ice cream men looked around in the darkness. A small distance away, a young man and a young woman were wrapped around each other. The light of the dying sun caught in their eyes and sparkled. Its warmth played across their skin. Sweet smiles splayed across their faces and their limbs were entwined. They seemed more alive than anything else the world had seen. They kissed softly, they needed no words. The universe swirled around them, it existed only for them. They did not care, they had each other, they asked for nothing more. Time waited for them. They were immortal in that moment.

The ice cream men were filled with a desperate yearning. A slow drizzle peppered the earth. Their eyes met. They realized that they were lying in a tangle of limbs, sweat stained their bodies. They smelt the fragrance of home on each other – the dizzying scent of all the different flavours whirled in together. Their yearning to go back joined in a frenzied dance with desire and hunger. Their hearts raced. Wave upon wave of sensation broke inside their minds. With excruciating slowness they explored through their fingertips – their hands wandered over hair, face, limbs. The hunger inside them strained against its leash. They let it loose. They kissed. Their senses exploded. They ravenously explored each other – pushing deeper and deeper with their tongues. They licked noses, fingertips, eyelashes. They began to bite, playfully, it tasted quite nice. They tore out great chunks from each other. They slurped and drooled until there was very little left.

The rain came down hard.

The Tiny Vial of Happieness rolled along the gutter and into an open drain.

A dog lapped up the small puddle of ice cream that was left.

This new world of desire and dreams seemed to have no place for them.

Plastic Christmas Tree

Why do I put up the Christmas tree even if I don’t believe in Christmas? A fake one with its bright lights and fake snow? Plastic branches heavy with old decorations – those clumsy things you made from glitter and glue when you were just a child. The kind that you can’t be bothered to make any more. Now, all I get is a little peck on the cheek as you walk in through the door like a stranger. There is no one to decorate the tree but me now. But every year I still do it, and every year I’ll put it up just a little earlier… And every Christmas day you’ll admire how neatly it’s been done, and we’ll laugh at one of your childish cardboard snowmen and in the afternoon you’ll wave to me from the car as you drive away to another party. A reunion. An office. I don’t know where you go. I’ve never asked. And then I’ll switch off the pretty lights and turn on the telly and just watch. And laugh at some moronic lovable character. I laugh so hard there are tears in my eyes. And then I suddenly realize that the tears are not of laughter, but of desperation. The next one liner pops, and I’m laughing again.

Christmas is like a disease – with all its cloying sentiment of love and hope and all that. It seems to have infected everyone. Even the folks at the TV station. They seem so much more annoyingly chirpy than usual. But there seems to be nothing else that I can do. Recently, I have developed a new addiction – so called intellectual forums on the internet that discuss religion, thermodynamics and literature. There will always be one idiot to take out my frustration on. I read… sometimes. But my mind refuses to stay on one track – it always wanders, and it enjoys sliding downhill. It’s been three years now since I gave up writing. It feels like I’ve run out of meaningful things to say.

Sometimes I bake – and the smell of chocolate fills the entire apartment, and I turn on the music and for a while I’m happy. I’ll hear the kids who live upstairs go on their routine thump-thump-thump up the stairs, and there’ll be a small pause, and then they’ll go thump-thump-thump up the next fleet of stairs. Every time they do that, I think I should invite them in for a piece. They are good kids. Instead I just take out the cling film and a big enough box and pack it and send it to you. You always dutifully called back to say how wonderful it was. Its a rehearsed script that both of us have become very good at.

On lonely nights like this one, I remember that night – the night you said you wanted to start afresh – a different course, a different college, maybe even a different name. And we all just laughed. I didn’t believe you, none of us did. We snickered when you screamed “THERE IS AWAYS A CHOICE,” at the top of your high pitched adolescent voice and ran out and slammed the front door. We snickered when you came back. But we didn’t laugh when we saw the new application forms in your hand. I saw you re-build yourself, block by block. We fought you at every step along the way. I saw you change before my eyes. Something broke that night – something very fragile. That was a long time ago, but on lonely nights like this one, I wish I had your strength.

I can see you before me now – the new you, with that pointed eyebrow cocked high. You roll your eyes. Maybe you are right. Maybe I have become that crazy old woman, staring at the plastic tree, two months before Christmas. Maybe even envious of her own daughter. Your sharp eyes admonish me. You expect the world to have the same strength as you. No, you say, vehemently shaking your head. There is always a choice.

The sun is beating down on the city outside; the fumes are pouring in through the cracks in the windows. The kids are running up and down the stairs again. I listen for the second thump-thump-thump. Instead, I hear some very robust, albeit off-tune, carol singing. The kids had decided that since I wasn’t offering any cake, they may as well devise subtle ways of asking. But I didn’t open the door. Instead, I picked up the phone. I knew your number by heart, though I had never dialed it before.

Illusion

A glass of water
through which the vision bends -
a prism that swirls
light and perceptions
into another world
of magic and possibilities.
Fragments of reality
shatter across the tiled floor
as a careless elbow tips
the illusion over.

The Communication Lines Have Gone Down.

The communication lines have gone down.
They hang limp – cut and abandoned,
overgrown with the roots of ancestors
tangled in my hair. They had wrenched
the cables apart, snapped by the pressure
of hankering traditions and foolish dreams.
The ghosts of conversations collect
in little puddles, on the ground
between intention and reality.
Weeds of frustration grow,
as do coarse flowers of understanding
that lean towards each other
across the irrevocable distance.

Opening of the Nanowrimo Novel 2008

I have no idea if I’m going to finish this. But I just can’t keep myself from trying. Here it goes.

The stone walls of the old temple smudged out the stars that glittered through the finely woven fabric of night sky. The trees whispered to each other, remembering the beginning of the battle. Only the trees knew its beginning, and only they would be present for the end. The story would travel, from leaf to leaf, carried by the gossipy south wind. Then she would waft through open windows and into the dreams of a young writer… and then the story would become legend. But that, is a story for another time.

The sand whispered beneath her feet as she paced the invisible circle… she knew it was there, just as the rakshasa did. They were destined to keep chasing each other – hunter and hunted. The border between the two often becoming blurred, and the roles reversed. She looked into its fiery red eyes, and instinctively adjusted the rope wound around her arm. The rakshasa’s feet padded on the sand, ancient and solid; as though made of chunks of flesh from Earth herself. It growled, eyes flickering from the rope to her face. Gut knotted, heart pounding, eyes gleaming, she snarled. Her teeth gleamed like a lightning flash, charging the air with its intensity. She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her head, her body straining like a wild animal on a leash. She could hear the voices screaming in her head; urging her to escape when there was still a chance. They sounded like they were coming from across a distance – as though through a bad telephone line. Made it all the more easier to ignore them. A sudden cold wind blew, sending shivers down her taunt body. She took a deep breath… today will be the day it will end. She didn’t have the strength to keep fighting anymore. She pulled the rope taunt between her hands, and rushed towards the hulk of dark muscle towering in front of her. The rakshasa looked at her cocking its head to one side. It had a quizzical gleam in its eye.

“That’s not allowed,” it said quite matter-of-factly.

“Let’s finish this!” she said through her clenched teeth. She pulled the rope into a tight loop around its neck.

“No, really. You’re not allowed to actually kill me.”

She felt distinctly stupid. The rope fell limply onto the sand.

“Oh.”

This annoyed her. She did not like being made to feel stupid. The adrenaline was slowly fading from her mind, and the wind was getting a little too chilly. She made an attempt to pool together all that undirected rage.

“What’s the point in the whole battle thing then?”

Her voice sounded petulant even to her own ears.

“Battle ends when you actually confront me,” the demon said shrugging. It settled on a near by rock and made a small blue fire that hovered a foot above the fine beach sand. It waved a stout hand in a vague, inviting action towards the fire. “How do you know I’m real anyhow?” it added.

“Same way I know I’m real I guess.”

“Are you?”

The amused look in the demon’s eye annoyed her even more. Just when she was about to open her mouth and let the river of anger flow, a sudden thought struck her. She was arguing with a rakshasa she had been trying to strangle a few moments earlier. She definitely must be dreaming.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked.

“Depends on whether you are real enough to have dreams or not.” The rakshasa smiled, tending to the fire that was coughing out wispy gray smoke. She eyed demon and fire dubiously for a moment. It looked like a long night ahead, and she was showing no signs of waking up. May as well make herself comfortable. For the first time she looked at the landscape she was standing in the center off. An empty beach sprawled as far as the eye could see on both directions. The ocean aggressive invaded its pale shores over and over, only to be repulsed and fade back into the darkness. The moon sat upon the waves like a fat dowager, casting its pale, tired, light over the scene. The air was heavy with the smell of salt. An old temple stood a short distance away, half submerged in the high tide. She looked around curiously – no smell of fish, no crabs, no small insects, not even a hint of ever-prevalent garbage. This place was completely bare, as though life itself had suddenly decided to pick up its bags and abandon the place.

“So, where are we?” She said, humoring the figment of her imagination. She had never had a conversation with this creature from a nightmare before and she figured it would make excellent time pass till she finally woke up.

The rakshasa looked around and shrugged, “on a beach with a temple.” It fished out a lump of some vile looking substance from under its amour and began roasting it over the fire. ”One of those places that refuse to be named.”

She took a few tentative steps towards the fire while working out the correct words in her head. “I know I’m dreaming. You’ve been appearing in my nightmares since I was a kid. So we’re obviously somewhere inside my head. And if you are inside my mind, then how could you be real?” she asked.

The demon looked up from its slurping for a moment. It looked like it was going to contradict her, then stopped itself. “There are more ways of understanding reality than just one,” it said, taking a bite out of the lump. “And maybe more than just one reality.” A dark liquid oozed out and dribbled down the demon’s chin. A long red tongued licked up the truant droplets. ”Enough questions,” it added, in between gulps.

“But you said rules. What rules?”

The rakshasa held up a hand, silencing her.

She plowed on, determined to fish out the answers. “If this is inside my mind, why is someone else making the rules?”

The rakshasa slowly rose to its feet. “Do you know what this is?” it asked holding up the lump. She shook her head mutely. Her stomach started squirming as an idea crept within her head. The demon watched her expression change with an amused smile. “Yes,” it said, seeing the horror on her face. The stench made her eyes blur, and her knees buckled beneath her.

“It is a heart,” the demon said simply. The half eaten mass was still beating weakly against the coarse walls of the huge palm. “Pity that it should have so much bitterness in it,” the demon said as it tilted its head back, and slipped the rest down the cavernous mouth. The chiseled teeth stained brown in the faint light of the moon.

“I am a demon little one, and you would do well to listen to me. There are things in the universe that are far more powerful than your puny mind. This is my home. We are not inside your mind, it is you who is trespassing.”

She looked into its eyes, and did not see the old furnace, but the worst of herself – her hatred, regrets, phobias, rage, evil, frustration, bitterness, all amplified a thousand times over. She could feel her mind pushing against the edges of her skull, revolting at the sight of how disgusting she was. The stench was crawling up her nose, invading her throat, forcing her stomach to retch. Her eyes blurred with tears.

“Please…” she gasped.

She sank to her knees and rolled herself into a tight ball, cradling her head. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, muttering gibberish. The rakshasa stood over her a moment with a curious expression in its eyes. The demon’s hand twitched – the only sign that it was unsure about what to do. Dropping a soft blanket of silence over her, it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

********************************

Shakti woke up, uncurling herself from the tangle of sheets. She looked at the alarm clock. She groaned. Today was jut going to be one of those days. She looked at the hard bound book resting near her pillow and idly picked it up. She flipped it open to the first page – it had ‘DREAM JOURNAL’ written in a fancy cursive font. And underneath, in smaller, more practical letters was written ‘vol 4 sept 2008 – ‘ Shakti stared stupidly at the page for a moment before picking up one of the reynolds black ball pens that littered her bed. Deliberately she scored out the ‘DREAM’ and scribbled ‘Alternate Reality’. Then she made a silent wish that no one would ever look inside the book. But then everyone thought she was crazy anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal.