rhyme sans reason

He was lying on the base of the mountain. His whole body was bruised and battered, the broken knee cap was sending searing shooters of pain across his whole leg, but his mind was elsewhere.

Thinking about her...he could hear the sounds from up the slope. She was falling too. Tumbling down the slope, like him, a few minutes ago. Her screams were dopplering down to him, in waves. That hurt him more than the leg.

What did they do wrong? They were kids, god-damn it!

All they wanted was some water. In their parched land, it had to be drawn from the last remaining well at the top of the hill. He had tripped on his way up...and now this.

All for a pail of water...

His lasts thoughts were crazy as he was delirious with pain.

He imagined kids like them, millions of them, singing about their fates. Singing like mad demented idiots.

Jack smiled through his pain and lost consciousness. and did not hear Jill's final scream echoing off the hills...

[i was inspired by a random post in a blog which i sadly do not remember...the writer had done a better work (much much better work) than me on the "johnny johnny.." one. sadly, i do not remember who it was. damn, teaches me to fav a site as soon as i decide i like it!!]

black

[this was a tag from pavi who wanted me to write a story based on my favorite color. black is what it is. i have borrowed heavily from myths and maybe twisted a few facts here and there due to ignorance or to fit the story, my apologies]

Shyama was his name.Literally meant black. And so was he.

Born of wealthy if vaishya traders who have been entrenched in their business of precious silks and diamonds since the time of King Raghu. His dad Rakhtahasa was a boisterous man who, legend has it, rode along with King Dasharatha in many of his wars. The king, and certainly lady luck, had heaped fortunes upon him. Only one worry nagged at his soul, of his son Shyama.

Shyama was black and not the fiery and subtle shade of a cloud like their Prince who was in exile ( as told by the bards who always referred to him as dark as a cloud) but literally black as an asura. In a society that measured virtue a lot by the appearance of the person, that meant that he was generally an outcast. Alienated, even though a eleven year old.

Just because he was black.

On that day of Ashadha, he was at the stables, grooming Markasha, his dad's favorite stallion. The horse was his only companion and his adoloescent mind often wondered why black was so prized in a horse while he was shunned for the same. Ah, the quirks of grown-ups!

Shunned would be harsh as the people around him, the dasis, the stable hands and usual coterie of clerks and servants could hardly be disrespectful the young master. Atleast not in an obvious way. But on and off, an ill placed snigger and snatches of conversation reminded him of his color.

"by Indra! is it true Durasta missed him while he was on his way to light the lamps?"
"our master, shines like lord Surya in the month of Phalguna but look at his son..."
"looks...a..Asura"

They called him an Asura or a demon. That's what irked him the most. More than the fact that his dad never used to act least bit bothered even though he was sure to be tuned to the sea of rumors. Not even during that ghastly episode during the Madira orgy where a rival trader openly questioned his mother's chastity. Rage had boiled inside Shyama but he was an unwelcome visitor feasting on savories from under the table. He was amazed at the self restraint shown by his father.

All because he was black.

He was tired of all this and he sought means to end it all. He had heard about the ill effects of Kartaraasa, the medicine for colic-ridden horses and which was kept in the apothecary's room.

A sudden roar like the ones never heard before interrupted his reverie. He was aware that it was coming from the main street of Ayodhya, which his house overlooked. He left his grooming tools in the stables and ran into the house. There was a generous amount of chaos inside the house and all along, a feverishbluster.

People were running to the front door or to any of the balconies over looking the streets as it seemed to be the cynosure of all activity.

"he's back"
"oh my lord, he has returned to be with us"
"...ruler of all.."
"Ravana is dead?"
"even Vanaras..."
"14 years...so long"

he could not make any sense of anything and he made his way to the main balcony. Surprisingly, it was crowded too, with an array of dasis waiting with thalis laden with flower petals and lamps. He tried in vain to push through the line blocking his view but settled for an audio commentary.

Soon, there was a hush among the crowd. More than a general sense of quiet, Shyama could feel the anticipation building in everyone around him and the air was heavy with it.

A loud collective cheer broke it like a thunder clap and shouts thronged the air.

"Jai ShriRam! Jai Jai ShriRam"

The dasis were showering flowers on the street and there were cries from the older ones in the balcony.

"It has been 14 years, oh god, I thought he would never come back", cried old Duvarya. One of the younger ones interjected,"but, he...he is so...I mean...------"

Shyama, who did not hear the uttered word, wondered what she could find incongruous in the prince.

"be careful about what you speak of, you young imbecile. he is the lord, reincarnate of the Lord Vishnu, heir to the Suryavamsha and true King of Ayodhya. You dare say that about him? So is our young master, isn't he?"

It was evident that they hadn't seen him yet. Else they would not be speaking about him. Still, he wondered what he had in common with the prince that drew that interjection from the dasis.

Curiosity welled up inside him as he resolutely pushed away at the line and finally got a glimpse of the road.

There were throngs of ministers, soldiers, generals, vassals, courtiers and noble men along with the Regent-King Bharata standing in front of the small party of three. The crowd all around them was chanting Rama's name and as in his balcony, all around the street, flower petals were being showered upon him. All the houses were lit up with millions of oil lamps and the whole seen shimmered like an unreal vision of Swarga.

All for Rama, the prince who came back.

Rama, who was as black as him.

He never thought about the Apothecary's room ever.

the one you feed

One evening an old Cherokee Indian told his grandson about a "battle" that goes on inside people.
He said, "My son, the battle is between 2 "wolves" inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather:
"Which wolf wins?"
The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

tamasoma

asathoma sadgamaya...

he could hear his mother shouting outside. her voice sounded tinny and eerily metallic bringing to mind one of the half-robot characters of the animation show he never missed. she was shouting at him because he was getting late for school. he had to get dressed soon in the crisp green and white uniform, have the buttery toast and tie his shoes. but before all that he had to take bath and be clean. clean? how could he? he was now rubbing the soap over his tiny body all over again. rubbing it hard and rough. the shards of water drops stinging his eyes and rolling down his cheeks with his tears, leaving eyes the misty red of an autumn sunset.

----------------

"...and the samosas! you wouldn't believe how big they are! much larger than the one in old sorabji's shop", extolled viraj. sorabji was hated, though quite unreasonably by the kids in st agnes, because according to them the way he treated the 12 year old customers was not in the strictest sense of good shop keeping and was mean in calling in debts too early.

amay listened to viraj's excited chatter languorously. the languor having come from a hard but fruitful day in the life of the 12 year old which included well aimed potshots with folded paper strips at the girls side during lunch and an entertaining football match which, much to the joy of the players involved, turned into a minor brawl and rumble.

they were walking down the road from the school gate. amay was a bit apprehensive about walking so far when the bus was about to leave in 15 minutes. but viraj was insistent."viru, if we miss the bus it will be your fault entirely. it’s getting late buddy!". viraj ignored his friend’s comments and entered the bakery with the large facade that said "fun 'n bake"

mrithyorma amithangamaya...

mother was banging at the door now. amay shuddered and picked up the soap again and started to rub it with more vigor. over his hands and the hard to reach back. lather was formed and washed away with the shower. still he wasn't feeling clean. not clean enough. he looked at his hand. wasn't there a film of sliming covering it? giving a dull glow? he was marked and he could see it. so could others! he rubbed the half dissolved bar on his hands, feeling the slight sting of soap touching the innards through raw skin.

----------------

he was amar. amar bhaiyya as he was called. he was funny, had a collection of amusing anecdote and was miles apart from the perpetually cross and sour sorabji. most important of al, he was a patient listener to the oft ill-treated (as they think) 12 year olds at the thresholds of teenage and puberty. it seemed to fascinate amay that there were grown ups in this world who did not smirk in a superior fashion when you talked to them about the meanness of teachers and the ache that they felt when a girl looked at them. the second was never uttered to any one.

he soon became a regular visitor there and always managed to sneak in time even during the lunch hour to pay a quick visit. it was on sports day that fate played spoilsport on him. the multitude of students, visitors, parents and guests were too much for the school transport to handle at one go and it was decided that they would run shuttles. amay was happy that he got an extra one hour in which he could show the football trophy he had won.

he sat on the edge of amar bhaiya's bed in the attic of the shop, which was closed for the sunday, showing him the trophy. amar bhaiya ran his hands over the trophy and remarked "it’s nice, congrats!". his hands traced a line from the top of the shield to the base nested on amay's thighs. his hands did not stop there as they slowly ran down his thighs, past the seams of his sports shorts. dirty sports shorts.

tamasoma jyothirgamaya...

his eyes fell on a small piece of marble that had broken off from the side of the tub. his hands and the whole flesh of his body were raw with the soap and constant rubbing. he didn’t feel clean. something seemed to be still stuck to him. an all pervading mist of slime, sin and dirt. try as he might, he wasn't able to remove it. maybe the rough jagged edge of the stone would help? his hands shuddered when he gasped the stone. like he had shuddered when he was bound helpless and with a rag in his mouth. gagged to fear while he was being violated.

----------------

his father found him sprawled on the floor, whimpering. the skin on his torso and hands torn. the blood mixed with the soap and the clogged water near the drain to form a pink and white ensemble that seemed painful. he was grasping the marble piece still in his hands.

----------------

[ as adults, we have some ways to oppose harassment. whether we do or not, is a different matter. but we can yell, scream, try to fight back physically and attempt to raise awareness about it. but what does a child do? their inherent trust in adults, their fear to question their motives and actions, and their own inability to distinguish between right and wrong often leaves them powerless ]

lazy friday chat

1500 HRS (IST), Company IM
gary: had ur lunch?
olivia: yup
gary: i had just now
gary: what are u doing this weekend
olivia: hmm…nothing specific. might jus meet some frins..
gary: with paula?
olivia: gosh...we both have lotsa othr frinds other than each other…hehe
gary: :)
gary: if you want, we can watch a movie
olivia: if i want????
gary: yes, which one do you want to?
olivia: when did i say i wantd 2?
gary: ok, when is ur birthday
gary: mine is 26^th nov
gary: urs
gary: ?
olivia: 8^th march
gary: wow, my mom's b’day
olivia: sorry, 8^th july i mean
gary: hey, that’s my cousin's b’day
olivia: on which day are there no b’days?
gary: what?

(laughter)
well, this guy needs a serious shakedown on basic rules of hitting-on someone!!

leaf's departure is because of wind's pursuit or because the tree did not ask her to stay

[ what is love? it's when you shed tears and still you care for them, it's when they ignore you and still you long for them. it's when they begin to love another and yet you smile and say, "i'm happy for you." if love fails, set yourself free, let your heart spread its wings and fly again. remember you may find love and lose it, but when love dies, you never have to die with it ]

tree

people call me "tree".

i had dated so many girls in college. there is one girl who i love a lot but never dared to go after. she didn't have a pretty face, good figure or an outstanding charm. she was just a very ordinary girl. i liked her. i really liked her. i liked her innocence, her frankness, her intelligence and her fragility. reason for not going after her was that i felt somebody so ordinary like her was not a good match for me. i was also afraid that after we were together all the feelings would vanish. i was also afraid other's gossip would hurt her. i was also afraid to lose what we had. we had something precious, friendship beyond boundaries. also, stupid as i was, i thought that if our destinies were intertwined, she would be mine without any sacrifices. she was with me for 3 years. she was my soulmate for 3 years. she watched me chase other girls, and i have made her heart cry for 3 years.she was a good actor, and me a demanding director. she once bumped into us when me and my second girlfriend were making out. she was embarrassed but smiled & said, "go on!" before running off. the next day, her eyes were swollen like a walnut. i did not want to know what caused her to cry. later that day, i saw her sitting in a classroom and crying her heart out. i wanted to go there and hold her tight, but i did not, i could not. my fourth girlfriend did not like her. i could see that the feeling was mutual. they had a blazing row once and i knew that it was not her fault. she was never a person who would pick up a fight. still, i shouted at her, ignored her feelings and walked off with my girlfriend. the next day, she was laughing and joking with me like nothing happened. i know she was hurt but she did not know deep down inside i was hurt too. hurt because i hurt her. does not make sense, does it?when i broke up with my fifth girlfriend, i asked her out. later that day, i told her i had something to tell her. i told her about my break up and about my feelings for her. coincidentally, she has something to tell me too, about her getting together. i knew who the person was. his pursuit for her had been the talk of the college. i did not show her my heartache, just smiles & best wishes. once i reached home, i could not breathe. tears rolled and i, the man made of ice, broke down. how many times have i seen her cry for the man who did not acknowledge her presence? how many times have i made her heart ache with the agonies of hell? now i knew how it felt. now i knew how it was when each cell in your body yearns for something and you don’t get it. i had no right on what was mine.

leaf

people call me leaf.

i was close with a guy during three years of my college. i was thinking it to be a purely platonic relationship. however, when he had his first girlfriend, i learnt a feeling i never should have learnt – jealousy. jealousy to the extreme. they were only together for 2 months. when they broke up, i was happy. happy so much that words could not begin to describe it.

but after a month, he got together with another girl.i liked him and i knew he liked me. but why doesn’t he say anything? we talk for hours together. know each other inside out. why doesn't he make the first move? whenever he had a new girlfriend, my heart would break. i would experience realms of pain which i thought was never possible. after a while, i began to suspect that this was one-sided love. he did not feel the same way for me the way i felt for him. but my mind couldn’t accept it. it searched for reasons. if he didn't like me, why did he treat me so well? it's beyond what you will normally do for a friend. i know his likes, his habits. but his feelings towards me i can never figure out. you can't expect me a girl, to ask him. despite everything, i wanted to be with him. share his sorrows, enjoy his passions, watch the wind ruffle through his hair; see the twinkle in his eyes when he was pleased. i loved the way he made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, and made me helpless in his love.

at the end final year, another guy, from different department asked me out. everyday he talked to me. he wanted to be with me. he was like a cool and gentle wind, trying to blow off a leaf from a tree. in the end, i realized that i wanted to give this wind a small footing in my heart. i know the wind will bring the leaf to a better land. finally, leaf left the tree, but the tree only smiled and didn't ask me to stay.

wind

i liked a girl called leaf. i hated the fact that she was dependent on a tree. too much dependent. i wanted to be a gentle gust of wind that would carry her off away from the cruel tree. caress her, hold her and gently put her in a safe ground.

when i first met her, it was 1 month after i joined college. i saw a petite person watching a group of guys playing cricket. during breaks, she will always be sitting there. sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends, always looking at him. when he talks with girls, there's jealousy in her eyes. when he talks to her and hugs her i can see her come alive with passion and energy. i hated him for the power he had on her. hate? no, jealousy would be a better word. i also wanted her to be free of the chains of love which she had bound her self in.

i used to sit there too. daily, watching her from the distance. watching the golden slanting rays of the sun caressing her before they disappeared. they were like me. wanting to hold her but unable to do so.

one day, she didn't appear. i felt something amiss. i can't explain the feeling except it's a kind of uneasiness. the senior was also not there as well. i went to their classroom, hid outside and saw him arguing with her. tears were in her eyes while he left. the next day, i saw her at her usual place, looking at him. i walked over and smiled to her and gave her a note. she was surprised. she looked at me, smiled and accepted the note. the next day, when she came to the stadium, she approached me and passed me a note before she assumed her usual place. it read, "leaf's heart is too heavy and wind couldn't blow her away."

"it's not that leaf heart is too heavy. it because leaf never wants to leave tree." i replied with this statement and slowly she started talking to me. she started accepting my presence and my phone calls. i knew that she did not love me. she loved someone else. but i had this hope that someday she would be mine. within four months of knowing her i had declared my ove for her no less than 20 times. every time, she would gently move away from the topic. i promised myself that i would never give up.

one day, i asked her the same question over the phone. she did not avoid the topic but strangely i was met with silence “what happened?” i asked her “why aren’t you saying anything?” she said, "i'm nodding my head". “what?” i couldn’t believe my ears. "i'm nodding my head" she replied loudly. i hung up the phone, changed and rode my bike like a madman and reached her place.i rang the bell and she opened the door. words were not necessary. i hugged her tightly…for ever….

[this is purely a work of fiction and not in anyway connected to me. any resemblance to people or incidents is purely coincidental.any attempt to pass this off as incidents from my life will be construed as an act of aggression and severely dealt with. it is taken from a haiku couplet which i have used as the title]