Change.

I’ve shifted my blog to www.dreadedblackice.blogspot.com

Blogspot > WordPress. xD

As I walked way from that door, the tiny blob of matter in my chest died. It had been trying to pump blood to my veins, but all that circulated was him. Up and down, left and right. And everywhere. It was due to lack of blood, I’d say. And with surprising similarity, both of them changed colors. From a fiery red to a dreary black. Gangrene, perhaps?

“Oh, it’s you.”
That moment onwards, it didn’t take him much. Only a few touches here and there, some soft words and a white powder. Softer than I’d like, if you ask me. But strangely enough, it didn’t seem as if I had a choice. From a woman to a soft breed of sheep, it only took me a quarter of an hour.

Do not misunderstand me, Dear reader. Magnificent, he was. But ah, the seemingly shapeless mass resting in my bony skull begs to differ. It tells me – the shapeless mass, that is – that the sparks beneath my hair shouldn’t be confused with the rest of their kind. As much as I might listen to it, now, I know I had hushed it away a few hours ago. I had been touched, I told it. In more places than one.
(Oh, and unlike me, it knows that he’d probably be escorting another woman at the said time.)

With him still circulating in my veins (and blocking my lungs, much to my displeasure), I struggled to walk back home. Nauseous flashes blocked my view (oh, no, not those, dear) as I moved those two legs I had been given. One step. Two steps. Three.

I entered my house and heard,
“You are a characterless woman.”
As my gangrene-affected heart sank, I figured it wasn’t my mother, but the good ol’ television.
Nevertheless, I walked on, and heard my mother say, this time :
“Do you have any idea what you have been doing?”

Yes, mother, I do have an idea. But it wasn’t me.
I forgave her.
Afterall, we’re all but women.

____________

It’s not connected to me. So, don’t get any ideas or something.

What do you do when you’ve got a sinking feeling in your stomach?
I? I sink with it.

Oh, we’re sinking like stones,
All that we fought for,
All those places we’ve gone,
All of us are done for.

Wouldn’t you, now?

I think you’d like it.
Served to you on a silver platter,
some mispronounced swear words,
and a hasty note.
Insincere apologies scribbled in an undecipherable handwriting,
Self-contradictory insanity out of a shaker,
and some vulnerability.
Served to you on a silver platter,
I think you’d like it.

You.

I am,
you.
I am,
who you were,
and who you wish you could be.
I am,
what runs through your veins,
what circles your thoughts,
and what pours out of your lips.
I am,
the words you hear.
And I am,
the things you see.
I am,
what deceives you.
And I am,
what believes in you.
I am,
what destroys you.
And I am,
what makes you strong.
I am,
your answer.
And I am,
a question.
A question which asks you,
to be me,
and let me be you.

All the talking fools.

I think it’s six in the morning. I’m not so sure, but mother said when one hand goes up and the other goes down, it’s time for tea. I struggle a bit as a familiar figure tries to pull me out of bed. She says I’ve got to go to school. What is it? I think I’ve heard that word somewhere, but not even Cartoon Network can stir me out of this. I ask my mom what the time is. 10? I don’t really believe her.

__

It’s my favorite side of the car, I get to see my dad’s face in the mirror that looks at me. And the funny thing is, so can dad. I watch as the world passes by, and I see people sleeping on the streets. I ask my mom if we can take them home (I’d like some company), but she says no, so I start looking out again. Suddenly, our car starts jumping up and down. I’m not very fond of it, so I ask my dad to get a new car. He says it’s got nothing to do with the car, it’s the road. I don’t really believe him.

__

It’s a big white building and I see things running here and there. Suddenly, a bell rings and everybody rushes in. Normally, I would’ve asked a question about this, too, but then I’m too scared to go anywhere near those things. My mother says we have to go in and talk to the Teacher. I wonder how so many women can have the same name. ‘Teacher.’ Mother leaves me in a room with those things. She said she’ll be back soon. I don’t really believe her.

__

It’s time to go to bed.
I now close my mind to world and enter my surreal self.
It does not ask; only answers.
It does not look; only observes.
It does not doubt; only believes.
It does not speak; only talks.
… Also, it’s got a better vocabulary.

An old bookstore

An old bookstore.

Dull, to some. Intriguing, to the others.
Piled with books, to some. Full of life, to the rest.
The books, here.
Adorned with cobwebs and dust,
Resting in peace,
having lived their lives.

This book, here. Nursery rhymes.
A child held it, once.
In his hands : Tiny, and pure.

Another one. It speaks of Anatomy.
A student held it, once.
In his hands : Strong, and determined.

Malgudi Days.
An old man held it, once.
In his hands : Wrinkled, and frail.

But here lies another book.
It seems untouched, though dusty.
It speaks of the store’s forgotten history.
I hold it, now.
In my hands : Young, and curious.

I walk out with the book in my hands.
Turn around, and see.

An old bookstore.

Tree?

Don’t have much to say about this. Except I like the way the tree branches out.

Out into the sky,
Out into the open.
Reaching out? To nothingness.
Trying to cover the vast expanse of the sky, perhaps.
The blue. Is it endless? An endless home to imagination.
And me.

The Glass Window

The terrace. And some Coke.
The wind, and a teenager.
Oh, yeah. Study. Yes, of course. Study. Study what? Nothing. Study anything. Must. Study. Must. Study.

A glass window with fungus covered edges.

On the window sill, A feathered family. Them things. They have beady little eyes.
The feathered family. The little ones weep. They cling to the mother. Was it a kite? Or was it a notorious kid? Hurt, is what she is. And soon, her beady little eyes close.
The little ones seem devastated. They snuggle up next to her and caress her with their tiny beaks. The Father is trying to be strong. And failing. They circle her. And mourn.

Beyond the glass window.
A white room. An old man lying on the bed. Relatives surrounding him as he says his last words. Lived his life? Maybe. Maybe not. The little ones don’t know what’s going on. They just look around, and try to pass their time. Their faces say – Must. Avoid. Adults. In the corner, two women. A smirk. Suppressed laughter. Focus. Time for some lip-reading. ‘Thank God!’, one of them says. ‘Oh, he was a burden. He lived his life.’

__

‘Where were you?’
‘Terrace.’
‘What for? I asked you to study.’
‘I did.’

Mother. A baffled face. A shrug and a few indecipherable words.
Daughter.
…
Wordpress.

Noon.

A house stands in the midst of a town. People walk past its black gates, paying no attention whatsoever to this old building which once gave shelter to a family.

The rusty black gates crackle, as if unwilling to open, unwilling to let a stranger in. The front yard’s overgrown. There are no fresh flowers; only dead plants. As dead as the house itself. Seems forgotten. The verandah is as dull as the garden. Sunlight falls on it, only in patches. A beaten down chair sits on the right – the kind that you would expect your grandfather to sit on and sip tea at 5 in the morning, when the rest of the house is fast asleep.

Inside the Mansion, the Drawing Room gets to be the first one. The once-welcoming walls are now devoid of all paint, and provide a home to spiders. Signs of life. Spider life. A swift glance to the left, and a poster shows itself. A poster of a garden. Full of flowers. Once Vibrant. Full of life. Presently – dead.

Then there’s the hall, and of course, the open space. The Kitchen’s there, too. But there are webs in front of the entrance. The Spider Life seems to be possessive about their place. A step into the sunlit verandah, and the tears threaten to fall. Thoughts. About everything – the festivals, the starry nights, the stupid stories, Mami’s cooking, the numerous cousins, the life. Old memories rush in.

And here I stand, in the old house and take a look around. The Last Glance. At the rooms, the walls, the ceiling and everything that’s left. And then, it was as if the house feels. It felt me standing there, felt the nature of my visit. The Last Visit. And now, on the floor, lies a family picture. All of us. Well and alive. With the verandah in the background. Alive, too. And there. I have my souvenir, now. Been quite a journey.

I walk through the rusty black gates once again, they don’t crackle. I am not a stranger anymore. Instead, it seems as if they are waving goodbye. The Last Goodbye.

—-

Evening.

“Who cares, ’twas too old anyway’, says the man operating the crane. Click, aim, swing and a sharp hit. The walls are gone. And there’s rubble. There’s nothing now, the house is finally gone, the Spider Life, too. It gives way for a new building. A new life.