Snap!

Snap!
Fingers and tips. Lips brushing and breathing.
Smiling. Teeth reflecting, widening gaze.
Hair in your hands. Head on shoulder.
Breathing deeply the artificial fragrance.
Imagine the real one. Laughter and etiquette.
Setting sun, ancient bricks. Orange light on you, in fog.
Like stripping a new dress off it's tag.

Snap!
Lost in the quilt. With my loneliness,
And your anticipation. Rushing back are memories.
Of many a times. Repeating and stuck.
One after another after another after another.
Conversing and smiling like before him and him
And him. Still your voice,
Like rejuvenation of a t-shirt spilling over memories.

Snap!
Running back. Away from another Him.
Hatred and suppression. Slowly killed and dried butterflies.
Corpses within, piling over one another.
Giggles and blushes paled out. Heart refusing
Indulging in pain, not cure. Tired arms, hands and lips.
Another procession, another funeral
Like the wardrobe of perfect costumes set on fire.

Snap!
Fingers and tips. Lips brushing and breathing.
Smiling. Teeth reflecting, widening gaze.
Hair in your hands. Head on shoulder.
Breathing deeply the artificial fragrance.
Imagine the real one. Laughter and etiquette.
Setting sun, ancient bricks. Orange light on you, in fog.
Like stripping a new dress off it's tag.

Snap!


Snap!


Snap!

A Bridge.

There is mist in the room

 Unsure of what that meant, Cara sat back and stared at the sentence on MS Word 2007 doc sheet. White, bland and plain, like something so dull could ever be inspirational. That is probably why she had an absurd painting hanging over the computer screen. Musing over the fact that she still owned a PC and not a laptop made her think why. Why was it that she wanted to keep this virtual space separated from the weary fragrant rawness of her bed. The cotton sheets on which every night she twisted and turned, forcing at times and at times effortlessly surrendering to warmth. Of course she wanted these two universes separate. Further musing, Cara thought that there were two sorts of people in the world (grinning at the exhaustive use of this line), those who could use laptops and those who couldn't. Period.

A figure emerged from this hazy white light, which blurred in stagnant vapors made him hard to see who it really was.

Why were women easier to write about, Cara wondered as she stared back at the sentence. Unsure of how does one get rid of their block, she kept gaping back forth. Between the two worlds that stood three feet away from each other. Bodies were beautiful she thought, and maybe that’s why women were easier to write for her. For her a woman’s contours and a lover’s conduct towards them stripped their beings naked. Voices weren’t as sincere as movements. And she had seen many men and women sustain through these tests of sincerity in her very bed, transforming it into something sanctified for its silence.

He rubbed his eyes, hoping it was a dream as rooms didn't have mists in real. But after the time he accompanied James to the bridge, reality had blurred its necessary rigidness. James was dearest friend of his. They went to school together and despite years of tribulations, both made sure their dreams were followed if not fulfilled. He thought how deep the difference between ‘pursue’ and ‘achieve’ was. And if done with the right person each could be equally meaningful and satisfying. He thought of James and walked towards the figure.

Cara looked around; she hadn't had a visitor for weeks now. And she hadn't been writing as well. Maybe one needed to be put in the spot to be able to reciprocate loud enough. Ruth was the last one to visit and stay. She stayed with her little English bulldog. Cara had always wondered about how could so small a dog have so large an appetite. But he made Ruth happy, and that clearly was good enough for her as well. Cara stared at her hands now; these rings were gifted to her by Ruth. She liked collecting them, and with every collectable brought one for Cara. She wore four right now, equal to the number of weeks since Ruth had left. Ruth, a word English language understood only in absence.

He moved very slowly as slowly as they did in their last walk. While moving he commanded himself to not startle, irrespective of what was there. Not scream or faint, fear came very easily to him and so did surrender. He thought of how James dealt with it. Like that time when they got stuck in an elevator. James had held him, not too tight or soft. Just made sure his presence felt secure and assuring. He had told him the funniest story from his childhood, making him laugh when he thought he would pass-out of the claustrophobia. He thought of James, smiled and walked forward.

She couldn't believe it took her an hour to actually write this. There was a time when a page of prose didn't take longer than thirty minutes. Words like flew towards her and all she had to do was catch them at the right moment, as to not miss out on an expression. Drifting further into thought, Cara began reminiscing Ruth’s body. How it felt on her fingers, and also how their conduct and contours flowed in perfect harmony. Neither guilty nor free, their bodies communicated in an honesty that was devoid of judgment. She began to miss it. Miss her and her hair. Her laughter that was at times an inspiration and mostly an accessory to the place Cara inhabited so silently. Ruth could never read what Cara wrote about her; even the poem that Ruth loved lost its stature after knowing the inspiration. It was some of these many words that made her leave, Cara thought. It was some of these many different, brilliant and cruel words that made her leave.

Assured and safe within his thoughts, he walked towards the image. That being made incongruous by fog and dim light. A thought rushed to his head about perception. How a probably normal man/woman was so distorted in this haze. This difference between reality and perception was consequential of many incidents that evoked malice in his mind. Like the time James and he visited a park near college, where they would walk hand in hand. But one morning they got late and went when crowds of ‘proper’ men and women filled the space. The eyes that caught them scrutinized, questioned and  almost assaulted their love. Like the time they kissed for the first time, and how happiness didn't come as a rush but an impulse trained and restricted before reaching expression. James was the one who maintained he peace in their relationship, he had a magical way of blocking out the terrible and bringing in only the profound. He had been missing James since the time they last saw each other on the bridge.
He was close to the being, almost able to make who it was, when the shock hit him.

Staring back at her words Cara thought who she was writing out in this couple, a story or a confession. Feeling guilty of using Ruth again to get out of a fix. The stagnancy was suffocating her, and needed Ruth to make it breathe again. It was strange how memories had the power of constructing a being all over again, it was also strange that their love to her always felt unreal. And that’s exactly what it had become now, not-real.

He stood still with tears flowing softly over his cheeks. That being was James’ shape and his presence there made him breakdown. Because days had been painful, tiresome and confusing since the bridge. He had needed James more than ever. And now in this dingy room that oozed fantasy, he found him. They crossed arms around each other, locked in embrace they forgot of everything. The bridge, why they went there and how exhausted they had been before. They whispered laughter and sighs into each other’s ears excited to begin a new life in this new place. James told him he loved him and he sobbed like a lost child comforted in his mother’s embrace.

Cara sighed and smiled at what she had written. A happy ending, couples in words deserved them more than the one writing them, she thought. Staring back at her rings, bed and the unwashed bowl in which Ruth fed her dog, her eyes glanced at the morning’s paper. She had read only the front page, as its headline almost forced her to move into the universe of fiction. She read it again,

“TWO MEN JUMPED OFF CITY BRIDGE LAST WEEK, WITNESSES CONFIRM. BODIES STILL NOT FOUND.”

Fluorescence.

When you are almost 30,

You could tell that confirmed best-friend over scotch,

Whose golden tint you had learned to respect,

Under whose caress we are all abled.

You could him that I was a mistake,

A quintessential wreck.

Like it was a garb teenage girls stitched for rehearsals.

When you are almost 40,

You could hold the wife in your embrace,

Filled with warmth of kindness and stability,

Happiness would be trivialized and comfort prioritized.

You could tell her that I was a phase.

Which you mindlessly ventured into.

Like maps of our beings are voyages instead.

When you are older,

You could reminiscence,

With anyone who would care,

Age would make others slowly withdraw.

You could tell them of a story,

About a woman who is now a narrative.

Somehow surviving decades in your memories.

But to me,

You would be an embellishment.

Right now and for ever,

I will write you and

Your lifetime off in my imaginations.

You as a narrative would not be painted

In the backdrop of hurt.

My fluorescence would transcend.

Like it does time, in your memory.

Red.

Red light.

In it's warmth, your fingers.

Tracing my face.

From a childhood scar

On the broad forehead, to

Few over-grown eyebrow hair.

Slowly moving to cheeks

Soft fingertips inducing a smile

Flushed cheeks and your endeavor.

From dry lips to muscles of my neck

Bathing in the soft light, you

Move slowly, not swiftly, but softly.

Contouring my neck, moving closer

Under the warming color, intimacy is effortless.

Camouflaging your desire, my need.

As your hand lowers down, you look 

Into my eyes. Smiling eyes

As if seeing something within

Beneath the exterior, and smiling.

Your hand on my breast. Feeling it palpitate.

Eyes still entwined, lips nearing

You raise another hand, cold finger on my lips

I smile, and you let all distance disappear.

Touch me, love

Tonight under this luminous shelter

Touch my skin, my heart

My breasts, my soul

My waist, my fears

My legs, my love

Touch and embrace.

And let it last, for a moment

In memory. And for ever

In this red lit room of warmth and passion.

Few.

See this,
Twenty two year old piece of flesh,
Palpitating in my hand.
They, the previous owners kept it in a funny looking box.
The box was warm.
It had a hundred holes,
But it was warm.

I began with a poem, but a gap of 24 hours and rigorous workout disintegrated my thoughts. What I was writing about was my heart and how it seems to be  in a cold strange place. Ofcourse there is the heat that keeps it alive, but the palpations don't vary too much and are neither excited. The memory of past love and warmth keeps it going and maybe, just maybe it's the refusal to step out of that past which is causing me such dullness and distress. The point I am trying to make is that I feel a perpetual melancholia haunting my days. The bags under my eyes are an evidence. Despite great love and a few very good friends, I feel sad. Most  nights I sit pondering why and others I try to be ignorant. Ignorance isn't really helpful. And all that pondering did give a result.

I am afraid. Afraid of being distanced even an inch from the people I have. A loving brother, a partner for life, a hilarious mother and a couple (2-3) friends hold the key to my sanity. And since I was very harshly disappointed in forming any new relationships in this new place I go to, I am heavily dependent on the ones that define me. The fear of being sent away even an inch from their hearts terrifies me, because if I cannot pick up the phone or board a rickshaw to the nearest solace I will slip into an abyss unknown even to me. The thing is, I love them too much and the knowledge of them loving me just as much as a life-savior but when your  personal space is so pleasantly decorated with the most beautiful embellishments one could imagine, you begin to fear even the slightest blow of wind. Crossing your heart and fingers, hoping they don't get washed away by the harshest rain you hold them very close and wrap them keeping them as safe as possible. Hopefully I am not yet on the verge of suffocating them, but it did get there through irrelevant fights and accusations. Being alone is an enjoyable experience when after days or weeks of isolation you can go and tell someone about it. It's the richness of memories in every corner of this city that makes my walking alone empowering and not depressing. Don't get me wrong. I like being alone and even want to travel so, meeting new people and all but lately a realization hit me that 'home' is instrumental to my happiness. All of my happiness. 'Home' being the people I mentioned, without them, rain is depressing and winters harshfully cold.

I don't have anything left to say. I feel selfish wanting to tuck them in a drawer and lock it forever, but the heart can afford to love only few. And few are all here, the people outside who I considered loving have been disappointing too many times and I want my love safe...in these few. As I wait for some security to kick in, I hope I don't lose track of sensibility as for some reason this distress is taking great toll on me.

This is quite calming though:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVGgGW1ZalY

Will and Would.

I chose to write about you and the song to listen along is an interesting choice. 'Cigarette Burns' held me through times of disappointments, I would put it on repeat and listen to nothing else. The singer's sharp voice was like a lullaby that put my anxieties to sleep. Is that what you do to me? Get rid of my unrest and frivolous mind and bring in peace, which is hard to find by myself.

The reason behind me writing has to do with choosing sides. Which side I want to be in and whether I want to be there with you. I think of a physical and mental space with-out you. What will I miss, what do I love and how will I be.


I will miss the way your fingers trace my body with a romance infused scientific curiosity. Anatomic fascination that fills my skin with sensations of adoration. Your rather rough fingertips slowly walking over the bones and joints of my hands and legs. I will miss your touch.

I will miss your lips. They taste homely and strangely familiar, not like entering uncharted grounds but familiar warm abode of affection. It's not because I am now accustomed to them, they have felt so since the very first kiss. And how I remember it, with hints of alcohol and coziness.

I will miss finding corners through the intimate and mobile space we already occupied. When standing on red-lights meant stealing kisses. Traffic signals would turn into painful and nostalgic pauses without you.

I will miss conversations. Words exchanged through mediums and times, throughout years and days. I will miss not knowing how time is treating you and that I would no longer be a catalyst or an alteration, reduced down to an observer.

I will miss being warm and comforted enough to fall asleep in your presence.


How will I be..


I would feel less guilty. Otherwise guilty for taking too long to take a side or decision, for keeping you for only me when I didn't know what I really wanted.

I would be miserable for some time. And wash away all modes of contact, I might even begin to hate you because then forgetting is bitter and not excruciatingly painful. Talk about you with my girlfriends and find flaws which were never there.

I would wait for time to pass. To find someone new, someone who would not remind me of you. But that hard work would fail miserably, though I will keep moving on wondering if you were as lost as me.

I would probably find peace, even if after a decade. When I will see you being with a deserving lover. Who won't dwindle and run, who would walk arm in arm with you as convincingly as I wished I could. Someone with whom I won't be thought of and probably with many such moments, you would forget me and be happy.

I would write of you, like I am doing now. And would even dedicate my first anthology to you because you helped me find my voice and no artist to could ever pay that debt. Every sentence that doesn't destine to be a poem, will resonate of your presence in my words.



Thinking now, I wonder why am I even doing this. What do I need to achieve and do I really need to walk in one specific direction. I guess yes, because it's not fair to you. It's not fair to keep you in this void of scared loving and lapses of courage. The love I have will last, and tell me my love how necessary is this choice? And how will it be if I never end up choosing? 

Happiness?

What it is..
Is an assuring hand held suddenly and tightly.

What it is...
Is a mother's hug after a series of demanding and disappointing days.

What it is..
Is the warmth of another body permeating through cardboard walls of persona.

What it is..
Is a tattoo, marking a companion for life on your body.

What it is..
Is a cheese-burst pizza.

What it is..
Is shared laughter with a lover/brother/sister/friend who got lost in the turn of years.

What it is..
Is a love that refuses to leave or shy away in the trying torpedo of time.

What it is..
Is wine drunk like milk by a thirsty child waiting to be condoled in warmth and familiar fragrance.

What it is..
Is redecorating you loneliness with art. Art of others and yourself. Learning and fulfilling.

What it is..
Is the first cigarette of the day in a winter night when smoke and fog are indistinguishable.

What it is..
Is beauty of ideas expressed and heard, in class, in the world or within.

What it is..
Is documenting time through roles played as a performer and audience.

What it is..
Is despite numbing tribulations, a needle feeling as intensely as a hug.

" Ten Thousand Years and You're Still on Your Own."

For some strange reason I write better on Word file than directly on to the blog. Though I have never done this for a blog post before, but I am demonstrating this now.

For some days my mind confronted, interrogated and tortured my fertility to produce something. Some-thing which I could read over and over and feel pleasant. A piece of art and not some rambling. Rambling, the word has such weightage; the greatest minds reduce their words of prophecy to ‘rambling’ making it dismissive yet profound. Profound, another emotions or adjective currently absent from my life and mental state. Mental state, I am unaware of its condition right now. Not just right now but for a month now. A month has passed and I have yet not felt an impulsive emotional outburst that made me sit and write about cruel decorations which I associated to my soul. ‘My soul’, I had never used this phrase before and usage now probably demonstrates my passivity and degrading emotionality. Emotionality and its lack ring a bell of something about which everybody can write. Write stupid poems on, even hilarious short-stories and the likes of Ravinder Singh can even weave a ridiculous novel(s) around it. ‘It’ is love. (Ya Allah! How infertile I must be feeling).

 Love, the word reminds me of certain things. Things and times I misunderstood, but was it really misunderstanding because for the few moments I felt it, it was brilliant. Brilliant and quenching, like Laura’s songs and Cohen’s voice. Cohen’s voice resonating the movements in bed, but ‘the bed’ wasn't too relevant some times. Sometimes mere conversations are enough. Enough to dream and weave. Weave the smiles some words and footsteps evoke in you. ‘You’, that word pointing to someone special who stirred happiness as easily as sadness. Sadness experienced in leaving their hand as we lowered, but that happiness in quickly grabbing onto another. Other, another; like, alike. Alike like no one, yet like many who walk around with carelessly stitched up armors of pig-skin around their heart. Heart prone and addicted to meat-eaters who perform spectacles out of cooking and have the most innocent smiles. Smiles are never on criminals but victims, I rarely have it. It comes and leaves both me and my lover. Lover, so many each alike and unique in arms which still wrap up memories of each like scent of sweat imprisoned amongst clothes in winters. Winters call upon melancholia, not a sharp one but a softer one which is capable of blemishes. Blemishes occupied by happiness and people I can laugh with. With who I could talk all night about dogs, chocolate and blemishes. Blemishes are beautiful, just like winters and lost lovers. But are lovers truly lost or they shift from the rented apartments of comfort to bodies observed from windows of vehicles. Vehicles out of which we stare with utter hope. Hoping that the meaning of useless and aimless things shall be found here. Here where being transient is the only permanent characteristic.

I conclude this, because I can no longer continue the technique I was writing with (starting the sentence with the last phrase of the previous sentence). Listening to Laura inspired all this, and I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. I shall let the last words be her’s:

“And I am lower now and lower still, 

And you did always say that one day I would suffer,

 Did always say that people get their pay. 

You did always say that I was going places, 

And that you wouldn't have it any other way.”

The Wishlist of Intimidating Things.

I have been creatively infertile for some time now, after my Creative Writing exam to be precise. And today too, I won't be writing a story or poem. It is more of a Wishlist which many of us have, a list things we never did or left mid-way. Sometimes even abandon after accomplishing the desired finesse or don't even begin to start because it's intimidating. To avoid these 'things' we give reasons, to others and ourselves, clarifying why is that particular thing beyond or below us. Even conjure socio-political conspiracies as to avoid being put into the position of an 'amateur'. And some things we just forget in the years of 'growing-up' and soon disregard them as frivolous fancies. I have a list of such things, which for the very reasons stated, will look fantastical and childish. But there were times I wanted to terribly accomplish them and surprisingly still do. So, via this public forum I promise myself to learn and get rid of the escapist in me. Doesn't matter till when, but hopefully before 30.

Here we go.

1.) Learn to play the Saxophone: I left this one mid-way, and even own an Alto Saxophone which is conditioned to cruelty in some corner of my house. The teacher lived too far and learning online got boring. Anyways my brother was playing the guitar brilliantly so I just chose to quit than work hard (disgusting, I know).

2.) Learn French: Learning a language is TOUGH. I have given this one many shots but never went for classes. So instead. I downloaded busuu and watched (still do) as many French movies I could get myself to like.

3.) Study Physics: I don't know how, where or what 'exactly' in Physics. But I will figure that out soon. I have a natural curiosity towards scientific 'things' (*sigh*), but an asshole of a teacher and a prodigal Physics enthusiast in my brother kind of pushed me to rebel against the subject instead. But I still find phenomenons around me absolutely fascinating, and would want to explore more about them.

4.) Learn How to Swim: I have a terrible fear of water bodies (aqua-phobia). Need to learn to swim to get over that. And also because this a basic survival skill, you never know when you might get stuck in life-endangering situations from which only can save!

5.) Learn  How to Ride the Bicycle: Yes! I don't know that. And I need to learn that. It's just pathetic not knowing how to ride a bicycle. :(

6.) Learn a Fighting Skill: Most probably Kick- Boxing or Karate. I did begin to take Karate lessons when I was very little (like 8 or 9) but I could never go ahead the White Belt, because I found it too repetitive and boring. Whereas my brother went ahead to get a Black (almost) one.

7.) Learn Driving: I am taking care of this currently. :D

8.) Publish a Book: This might take very long to substantialize, but I will get it done. Writing has been the only thing throughout the years which was 'mine' remained 'mine' and when everyone was being brilliant in 10 different things, I could just come home and write. I am at a point where people tell me I am good and some day I would want to get published. A book/anthology/collection of my own.

9.) Travel throughout India: Mujhe France aur Italy bhi jana hai, but before that (until given a surprising chance) I would want travel across the country. Visit brilliantly enriched place of cultural and historical amalgamation. Take it all in.

10.) Learn to Code: Yes Bhaiya Yess! I would like to give it a shot. A 'shot'. My brother has been after my life to get me to learn Coding, from showing inspirational videos (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKIu9yen5nc ) by greatest programmers to luring by the money in the business. He has tried it all, and I have always refused because it just doesn't sound like 'My Thing'. There is a reason why it is in last, because I am still very reluctant about this one. But because of the very dodgy person I become at it's mention, I want to learn it. God knows I might be fucking brilliant and become the female Sergey Brin. :P

All this things put together seem like a lot of work, but I have given myself time. All the time in the world. What's even more intimidating that there must be SOMEONE SOMEWHERE who already has all this checked out. But doesn't matter how dumb or unskilled I appear after people read this, I need to get these done to feel truly accomplished in life. Nothing requires ages of time and swimming and cycling are really fucking basic. Also, I am quite sure most of the readers have such lists of their own.
Let me know what are your to-do tasks in the comments, so I don't feel like an inexperienced 2 year-old!

Irrelevant. Irrelevant Phrases.

Hair in rings
Rings on fingers
Fingers entangled
Entangled in a web
Web of wool
Wool not hands
Hands held
Held together with glue
Glue doesn't stick
Stick to your mind
Mind and not body
Body with warmth
Warmth after love
Love under sheets
Sheets of polyester
Polyester being
Being not Human
Human touch needed
Needed for faith
Faith lost on roads
Roads leading
Leading to a cabinet
Cabinet and not home
Home is the lack
Lack inside
Inside the polyester frame
Frame on the brick wall
Wall hit many times
Times of running
Running towards The Wall
The Wall of blood
Blood sister and brother
Brother in man
Man in absence
Absence in presence
Presence in abyss
Abyss in loss
Loss in faith
Faith needed
Needed like human touch
Touch of being
Being of polyester
Polyester sheets
Sheets and love
Love the absence
Absence of blood
Blood sister and brother.

Oh Mary!

Every Wednesday Mary went to Pink Room, a hip and popular club in the heart of the city. Her date was Fred, a lawyer friend around whom the complexities of sexual politics were sidelined as they soared high in pink twilight. It was in this very luminescent room that Mary saw John, who was accompanying two women and a man. Conversations happened and they engulfed each other with the warmth of ‘knowing’ and eliminating ‘complexities’ under the pink blanket of romance. Time flew by. Mary got close with John’s friends. The women were his sisters and the man, a co-worker.

Mary and John liked taking long walks in parks and early morning quiet roads. The silence made their voice loud and thoughts louder. Mary liked latching onto his fingers now and then. No matter where he moved, sat or walked. She kept her fingerscrossed and tightly tangled, and somehow got himself to like that. Before seeing in her eyes the assurance of finding ‘the One’, he had seen something else. One of those peaceful mornings when John and Mary were sitting beside the road on a cold wooden bench, Mary talked about her life. Her childhood, the motorcycle her father had and the innumerable rides she took on it late at night. She said,

“My father liked taking me to stranded places as well. On his dark grey Honda. We always went past 11:30.”

John replied, “11:30 PM? Isn’t that quite late? What did you do out so late?”

“Pretty much what we do in the light of day. My father and me, we talked. About how love works, how bicycles wear out and how much mother loves me.”

“That is still pretty late at night. For how long did you wander?”

“Oh! It was not that late, dear Time passed rather quickly in his warm and delightful company. I still cherish those nights.”

“Well, what else you did except talking?”

“We just talked, love!”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Tell me more about the bike.”

“No.”

John saw her eyes change. They seemed to have turned night black from chocolate brown. The warmth of her entwined fingers went cold, and though John tried to get the grip, she pulled back her hand to make him fail. He assumed that she probably started missing her father who had been dead for 7 years now. So, he let her be.

Days passed and John was right, Mary had slipped into fried. She had a fragile mind after the appropriate amount of courting and anticipating John proposed and Mary, with all her innocent love, accepted. They were elated and announced the world of their love and marriage. They vowed before the formal vows to never lie. Mary had made him repeat one specific night,

“ ‘Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you’, repeat this three times John.”

And like an obedient lover, John did. “Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you. Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you. Mary, I will never ever ever lie to you.”

Mary leapt at him and held him in her embrace. She was happy. Really truly happy. She had the perfect job, the perfect man with the perfect job perfect!

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

Madge was dating an older man, of nearly forty. Though she liked the stimulating and challenging sex life, but he never took her on motorcycle rides like her father did when she was young. So, Madge put on her hottest dress, revealing her luscious curves and drove to the nearest biker-pub downtown. The nearest one was 25 kilometers from John’s posh and sophisticated neighborhood. Over there she was able to be her youthful exciting self. Weekly appearances made her the pub’s favorite singer. She would climb up the bar-top and perform hottest and demanding numbers. That is exactly when Madge caught James’ eyes. Madge’s voice filled the room with enthusiasm and exhilarated James’ wishful heart. Not too long after that night did Madge followed James to his house. James was the perfect man for her. He had the perfect body and the perfect bike! Just perfect. One day James brought some top-grade California hybrid, which elevated him and Madge to impossible levels. In that ecstasy they swam all night and until the next afternoon. But the ‘trip’ didn’t last very long, as Madge had to go back to the older man in her life, John. Who she had escaped from lying about a visit to her relatives.

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

As soon as Mary reached home from her sister’s place, she hugged John and went on and on about how much she missed him. And she really did, her heart anticipated his phone calls. Settling down John asked her,

“How was the stay, love?”

“”Oh God! All I could do was miss you. All day I could keep lying in the bed, waiting for it to smell like you.”

“Aww dear! I missed you very much too. Anyways, how is your sister?

“I don’t remember much. I even had a headache this morning. Just hold me and enquire all this later.”

And the loving husband that he was, John followed. They sat in each other’s embrace all night people wondered and envied their love, which refused to diminish despite 15 years of matrimony. But only John knew, the small battles they fought whose memory retained only in his life. It was like they were walking parallel paths, which intersected often, but Mary had no memory of them. So, whenever she came complaining about a headache, John held her till it went away, knowing she would have no recollection whatsoever.  It had all began that morning on the bench when Mary talked about her father for the first and last time. He tired asking her again about his death, and neither did the conversation last long nor did she remember it few hours later. This is how it went -

“Mary, you never did tell me about your father’s death.”

“I didn’t?” Mary replied rather reluctantly.

“No, never. I heard he had a terrible accident. Case of hit and run.”

“The papers said he was murdered.”

A surprised John asked, “What! When? How old were you?”

“I was 20. Late at night. While he was on his motorcycle.”

“Oh God! Were you with him when this happened? Did you see?”

A blank silence followed this and the three more questions John had asked. Mary was cold again and he decided to stop there. Forever. But that night also took away one of the things John had deeply loved in her, her singing. Mary never sang to him anymore saying she was never good anyways and had almost forgotten all harmony. John was disheartened and promised himself never to ask of her father again.

But tonight when she came back with a headache after a two-day visit John felt worried and scared of what unmentionable and irrevocable thing had she gotten herself into. so he decided to find out where she goes when she does next.

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

Madge had been yearning for James. The twenty-something who made the twenty year old Madge feel divine and unstoppable. Freedom had not been the same for Madge, it never is for girls. So with James, Madge was liberated and free. Yearning and craving for the exhilaration as she reached his doorstop. Madge had again told John that the relatives needed her help with some housework. Seeing James her heart skipped a beat, the excitement took over her body as she shuddered for his tight grip. His weight over her body thrusting in the magnificent dreams and juices he had made her addicted to. The smell of their bodies filled the room.  They had not exchanged a single word, knowing the honesty and motives behind their meetings. The friction was still radiating heat when a banging was heard. They ignored too absorbed in each other’s enigma they swam higher and higher. The banging continued on the door, but they couldn’t give the smallest attention to it. The loud noise finally stopped. James and Madge both sat up as they heard footsteps coming to the room. Madge pulled the sheet over her breasts trying heard to be decent, until she saw the man staring at her from the room’s door.

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

John had followed Mary to see whether she was getting herself in trouble. He had been terribly worried since the last visit. Hours getting erased were affordable, but entire days getting lost terrified him. So this time when Mary said that her sister needed her, John decided to take care of her quietly without being too loud of encroaching in his pursuit. The pursuit brought him to a man’s house which he saw Mary entering. After no response or movement for half and hour, he decided to enter and assure her safety. He picked a baseball bat before leaving the car, as he had no idea of what he was walking into. He really had no idea that he would be standing and staring at his forty-year old wife, covering her breasts in bed with a very young man. John saw Mary, with her pupils dilated and hair tied. Mary never tied her hair. The first shock that took over him was not seeing her in another man’s bed, but the trouble he had recognizing her. Her face was distorted by unknown expressions, she never lifted her eyebrows like that nor did she ever paint her lips bright ink. Somehow the woman he had married was lost in this seemingly younger lookalike. But he knew it was her. He had followed her there. After taking time to grasp the condition she was in and with whom, John dropped the baseball bat and screamed,

“OH MARY!”

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

The sight of an unfamiliar man freaked James out. Moreover, that man was screaming somebody else’s name. Being of the reckless youth that he was, James reached for his drawer where he kept a small revolver, bought with the help of some biker friends. Whereas this other man kept screaming,

“OH MARY! OH MARY! OH MARY!”

Raising the tempo with every shout. James was petrified now and in a moment of fear took the revolver out pointing towards the stranger. Madge on the other hand didn’t understand why was John calling her ‘Mary’. Sure they had started spending very little time together now, and she didn’t even remember most of it but he can’t forget possibly her. Finally she spoke,

“John! This is MADGE not MARY. Don’t you remember me?”

But she was too late; James already had the gun pointed at John.

John’s screaming quiet down when he saw the gun facing him. He slowly bent down to pick up the bat again. The guy in the bed was palpitating. John knew he didn’t have it in him to shoot. So he held the bat in his hand and started moving towards the man with his wife, in order to get rid of the gun. He kept shouting, “I will shoot you, man!” John couldn’t care less; he had anyways lost the love of his life to an abyss of multiplicity. He kept moving forward, and then the shot. The trembling man did have it in him to fire, and so he did in John’s stomach. Instead of falling immediately, John took a blow at him and so did James.

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

Madge sat beside John she saw the blood in her hands, James’ was still splattered in her back. Her naked body was trying to hard to caress and gather the almost lifeless body of John. Right before closing his eyes John saw Mary’s eyes change to the one’s he fell in love with. And he saw the twenty year old vanishing. The one who hadn’t aged a day since her father was killed in front of her. The one who was young and thirsty. He saw her leave, and the warmth of his wife’s body finally arriving and soothing him. Right before he could close his eyes, Mary screamed,

“JOHN!!”

And the man, caked in his own blood sighed with great affection,

“Oh Mary! You really never lied.”

Language.

Speak
In words from any language.
In my ears and not in front of my lips.
In their sound, be your breaths
In their music, be your diction. That special way
In which only your tongue rolls.
In whose syllables, only you gasp. And when done
In speed, they wet your lips.
In your special way. Just yours.
Into my ears, play with sounds of your language.
In process, start speaking like you would to who understood.
In musical harmony let them flow. Soon
In this euphoria, tell me of love. How it is to be
In love, do that with the thunder and thrill of it. Falling
In love, show that with your hands, demonstrating.
In it, tell me of loss. Of deceit
In life and love, as I feel your voice heavier. Shift
In to your comfort. I understand not a word. But
In a rendezvous as such, I’d rather not. Don’t touch me yet, I am
In the same world as yours. I feel the depth and color
In which you slept and dreamt. The stories and their necessity
In your being. Tell me more as I sit.
In my ears and not in front of my lips.
In words from any language.
Speak.



(I feel love better when I am not in-love)
:)

Drugs.

It has been long since I wrote anything for myself. Not for an assignment or to know if I have a creative capability. I haven't broken down andstretched out to the keyboard impulsively hitting keys to form words which came uninhibited. I am not feeling anything in particular, but I do feel lonely. No, lonely is sad. Alone is better. I can sit in long auto rides without music or messaging, just looking outside or even at the mirror not thinking of anything or anyone in particular. Maybe my disposition has altered or transformed, maybe i have taken change too honestly or maybe I stopped finding beauty in little humane actions. Whatever it may be, but I have changed. And there is one thing I miss the most.

Dopamine. 

Reaching out. Not too far. Right across.
Just few inches. Arms with hands. Fingers.

Slowly. Coyly. Perfectly. To me. Near me.

Into me.

Serotonin.
Unaware I was. Until. Until now. Tonight.
Arms crossed. Torso heavy. Swift movements.
Pressed breasts that hurt. Not too much. Not too little.
Just perfect.

Endorphines.
Breaths. Heavy and loud. In my ear. Faster.
Rapid and lavish. Wet and warm. Feet with toes.
Toes wrestling. Hair falling. Breaking. On the sheet.
On me.

Amandamide.
Sweet sweat. Pearls. Droplets. Or whatever.
But bliss. Inner-body experience. Echoes.
Of voices and laughter. Not momentory. Will stay like you.
Will you?

Sunshine.

You know how the sun feels in winters? The warm touch of sunshine, how it moves and dwindles on the body, like fingers following contours and tracing borders and corners of your skin. Its soft presence is like feeling someone's eyes you when you talk and laugh. Feeling their eyes on your laughter, on your lips, eyes and face. Even how your hands move, how animated they get and how you move your shoulders. Sunshine is like that lover, who is coy and shy. Who doesn't want to announce it's presence, but softly whisper it in your ear. Softly arrive near you, like sunshine travels on your body from toes to forehead. Leaving these warm traces, filling the pores of skin with a soft goodness. How you keep stepping under it, need it so you can spend the night. Take your hand to it often, just to assure that it's there,  on you and near you.

You know how sun feels in summers? The sharp scorching presence, not good at all. Its discomfort and hurt. How fast it creeps up and how late it leaves. Though just as its about to set, there is a sense of missing it. Missing that sharpness and strength to clinch. Sunshine in summers illuminates. It sends you inside, makes you get locked in cool places and stay with just yourself. Think before stepping out, and prepare for a struggle. But there is a pleasure in that ruthlessness, it armors you. Makes you walk a little faster and move little closer. It makes you smile in that sudden shade of a tree, and praise yourself for the smallest endeavors. Its intensity makes you powerless, and move to its will. And you appreciate. Because sunshine is benevolent, its enlightening and unlike night, doesn't make you feel lonely.


You, my love are like sunshine.

Banana and Cornflakes.

12/05/10

Banana and cornflakes.

My mother believed this was the healthiest breakfast I could ever eat. Yes, those definite hyperbole are intended, because that was her conviction, and it was contagious. And today I am reminded of a story. One from childhood, when the likes of us were different, placed on corners and lived only on margins. But I didn't know all this then, I was 13, I know it is not too young, but age is always comparative. So is feeling old. You always feel old 'compared' to how you were, or what you were. So, I was 13 and I had a sister who was 4. It is a story which only this diary can hear, because I believe in not telling real stories to people, the pretension of understanding and the burden of melancholia gets too confining for me. And you never know how they see you after it.

Early summer, when its not excruciatingly hot, but the sun realizes the strength of its warmth and switches slowly onto heat. Just between that transition, that's where the day was. Banana and Cornflakes, again, like every other day. Yes, I was bored, my sister didn't understand much to object, it somehow tasted sweet, so she liked it. Slight drizzle of honey, sliced bananas, cornflakes and the right amount of milk, it was like an art that my mother had mastered. This was probably the thing she could make, only thing she was able to make. Only thing she was allowed to make. My father had dictated the menu to her right after they got married. Married. Yes. It was one of the days which are deceptively pleasant. Deceptively hopeful and swift cheaters. 

Breakfast and then we left. Mother might have stayed back and addressed her wounds from the night. Though I didn't understand why, but she always walked crippled in morning, like her legs were separated by a barbed club. I know better now. My parents were not the kind  they made on boxes of cornflakes. The happy kind sitting around the table and enjoying breakfast and all those god forsaken meals. There were always five people, five different entities, separated by walls of their temper and convictions. Me with my disagreement of everything and the boredom of it too. My sister, with her newly formed language and penchant for sweetness. My father with his encroaching hands and feet. My mother with her loss and morning pains. And my mother's illness.

We had breakfast and left. Did whatever 'normal' kids do in school and came back. There was no light, just like the time when I saw mother stuffing my sister into the cupboard. Just like the time when I heard my sister laugh while she was doing it. Just like the time when I saw my father's bloodied knuckles for the first time. Just like the time when I first wet my pants, out of sheer fear. Fear is always of the unknown. Not of heights, depths, darkness or spaces. It's always of the unknown. And in 13 years of age, I had understood that fear. So, as I entered the dark house which haunted every nerve in my body, I looked across and forward. Moving ahead, hoping I would find my sister and take her away with me. I could hear loud breathing, anticipating the terrible.

"I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you. I see you."

I heard my mother scream this repetitively from her room, and as I entered I couldn't see who she was saying this to. My father was right there but she wasn't saying this to him, if she was he wouldn't have been grabbing her hair and shouting a louder "Shut Up!" after every "I See You". The voices got louder and louder, from the room it filled the house. From the house to possibly the street and my fucking soul.

"I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU.."

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

The room started vibrating and father's grip got stronger, he really did want her to shut up, and maybe she really was seeing someone. But the floor was trembling beneath my feet and my sister was sitting in the corner crying and wailing. She too wanted them to stop. My father's patience was on the edge, and my mother...she really was seeing someone. The voices kept getting louder, and in my head they created a crises, a life endangering situation for myself and my sister. And that's when the survival instinct kicked in.

And then after a loud bang the noises stopped, and all I could hear was my fathers panting. Mother didn't see or speak anything after that. I found out that day, the rage in my father's eyes was not anger or a sadistic demon, it was fear. He dictated the menu because he never trusted her enough. He was not the reason for those bruises. He was not the one banging on the bed. the blood on his knuckles was the left over of a bloodied arm. The reason for his absence was not me. The death of my mother was not on him.

I woke up very late the next morning, head hurting like it does after a very long and very bad dream. There was still some smell of blood coming from my pare..father's bedroom. Ignoring that. Ignoring that what I had realized will turn my life into a constant battle for the blurred line between sanity and insanity. Ignoring that the mother from whom I got my beliefs, believed in something else altogether. I left everything to be thought about later, or never. Went to the kitchen, and saw my sister sitting on the table. Her tiny chair, her small figure. She looked at me hoping I would already have the answer for what she wanted to ask. So I asked,

"You hungry?"

"Yes."
"What do you want?"

And in her broken language she replied,

"Banana and cornflakes."

Tattered Once.

I had a father before I had a mother.
My father stayed with us.
Loved me very much.
Never held me close
Or stretched out the way for me.
Never pushed me
But made me walk on my own
On my own paths
And plant lovely trees on that path.
Trees and flowers that I would like.
Mother came later.
She didn't talk much.
But taught me things which are always remembered
Things that are firsts.
She loved me in her own way
I know she did.
Because my father loved her very much
And she loved father very much.
They were happy.
It made me happy.
I looked and painted
Painted a picture of how my love
Would be. My love, like them.
With flaws, but complete.
Never too much.
Never too little.
I grew up seeing and loving them
Together, never apart. For decades.


They are not together anymore
Like all grown-ups
They say their reasons are well
Well and good for each other
The love is there
And the loss isn't too grand.
Might be together again, he said
Ask him first. she said.
But I saw them since I began to see.
Now like a broken glass
They hurt my eyes and mind
Their edges are piercing my eyes
What together soothed
Separated is fatal.
They say its all well
But my world is shook like hell.
The painted picture is now ripped
And its tattered pieces I hold in my arms
Running to the love I now have,
Hoping we could fix it together.
Tattered once, but hopefully complete.
Our painting, together.

Rumpelstiltskin

Remember the night, I came by
Came by to your bed and you dreamt
Dreamt of a man who could spin your nightmares
Spin them into enchanting feats of tales
That begin with kisses and end in laughter.
Nightmares grown as saplings, little plants
And now this overwhelming forest
Which threatens your sanity.

Remember the night, I came by
Like I used to many times.
Slowly you grew accustomed, dependent and hungry
You kept dreaming of me, hoping I could spin
I could spin all your fears into this wonderful joyous dream
A dream, that was beginning to have a life of its own
Like those nightmares, the forest they feed in
You kept calling, I kept coming.

Remember the night, I came by
And told you I was tired. That I can no longer hold
No longer fight your sanity. That you had to choose
Between my visits and reality. Worried me it such
That I stayed very long, that night. And you woke up
You woke up with the bed wet. I had to leave
You had to choose. Like everything and everyone
I too had a price, my love.

Remember the night, I came by
When I promised my exit forever.
Suffocating my love, under the sanctity of your existence
Stopping myself from calling out your name
And stopping from hearing your loud cries from the dark forest
I wanted to run to you, enter within and quiet it forever
Hold you close, never let go. You suffered. I saw.
But then you finally chose. I could finally come out your dreams.

Remember the night, I came by
And you went with me.



(This poem came out of a word (Rumpelstiltskin) given by a dear friend to help me get rid of my writing anxiety. Since this was impromptu, this was done in 10 minutes.)
:D

A Fair Deal.

After precisely 16 days, I am here, in front of this screen and a keyboard which is like a dose of sanity (or maybe insanity) to which I keep coming back. Too which I owe an honesty, a price for liberation and a duty. But I wonder now, liberation from what, because now, in this moment I have the best of life. But still there are these traces of sensitivity, reminders of vulnerability that make me seek the shelter of these words. Words, my words. I haven't written a poem in long now, which is making me feel slightly disconnected, poems come out of intensities and impulses, I guess I am waiting for one or have ignored some before.
So here it goes, I guess.



A saw, I took a chain saw
Plugged it in and turned on the switch
Cut off my left foot. Blood splattering
On the walls, the sheet, the plastic
Her statuette and my body.
Wrapped it up, and gave it to her
Hoping she will give what is promised
A fair deal.

A knife, I took a very sharp blade
Placed two of my fingers on the wooden board
One shot. Shouldn't be more. Blood flows
Drops where the foot should've been.
My needs and her promises.
I don't want much tonight.
These two will be enough a price.
A fair deal.

I need them, a bit like how they need me.
To hear different things. Tell different stories.
Stare differently. Laugh at me differently.
Every woman, I held in my arms was provided
Provided and taught. Taught to talk back
And subvert when desired. She gave me warmth
Dusted around the corrosive falls of my mind.
A fair deal.

They have a price. Have to take something
From me, which is mine. I give them
This body, which I can't feel.
Give them parts to devour and keep going
Fuel up and love me all over.
They like flesh, everybody likes flesh
They serve, as long as I serve
A fair deal.

More than Just Three Years.

I cannot help but cry and cry louder after I go through my 1,312 pictures which are all from this one place, College. MY college, MY Kamala Nehru. I always thought before leaving that I will embrace new experiences and everything in life, at the end, it is just a phase and  one HAS TO pass for another to come. But oh god, this was not a phase. These three years were way too much than a phase. They added the beautiful silhouette to my body, the deep fissures in my brain and the rare power to my voice. Living with 40 odd women everyday and speaking through our bodies and minds like there was not a care in the world. Like the world and universe within the premises of my college was the safest and the most liberating place in the world. Studying, not with just these hands and fingers, but through my existence as woman. Staying and breathing the air of a place that I never thought will become the most special and exclusive for me. I ACTUALLY have to struggle to write, because my hands are trembling and my eyes can't stop crying. It literally picked me up, pulled me out, fucked me up and gave a new birth. but enough about the education.

MY FRIENDS. Oh god please, let me live those afternoons once again when we would lie on our grass studded backs and talk mindlessly about sex. My women's sex life, about which I knew as well as mine. The warm feminine hugs, the touch and the most warm places in this world. The embraces in which I spent my three years so smoothly. The creative and philosophical struggles, the perfect music we'd find for it. And alcohol, which was the temporary solution to everything. And winters, I can never ever spend my winters any better in any part of the world. Because in those hours, and amongst those sweethearts we'd travel through spaces and dimensions of decades of womanhood. From the childish lovers to wandering bodies, from long curly tresses to short ones, from seniors that were epitome of a future we couldn't wait to be in to our own farewells, from transforming into gorgeous women to never forgetting the ugly little girls within us. The endless Nescafe talks and an all-time willingness to take pictures. My heart is still breathing that air and is not ready to come out of the place where I found companions for life. Realizations, hundreds and thousands of them spread across three years. Realizing that vanity is not a vice, its just being beautiful and enjoying your own skin (the reason why our post-grad mates always think we are over dressed), realizing that the most beautiful friendship is the one shared between women, realizing that anxieties of our heart doesn't shy away from falling on a caring friend. Realizing that I can never be alone in my battles and that no matter how low I fall or how high I rise my women will always be with me. Going to JLF, and dressing up as the hottest chicks in town and smoking up to our hearts content, and listening to Saumya sing. Feeling the utmost comfort in their company. Even bathing in the tub while three of your friends perform a short dance routine in the bathroom. Holding hands while crossing roads and strong grips while picking a drunkard off the road. Playing with hair and bodies like they weren't too separate from ours, and a special bond that is shared only with the same music lover.

I am in a great place right now, my dream college. Where I worked so hard to reach, but I have never missed my College so much. I have never missed Surbhi's warm lap to sleep much more than I do now. I have never missed Sukriti's 'unintentionally condescending look' as I do when I see how people dress there (AND GADI BHI). I have never missed Akki's abrupt and indefinite sense of humor which knew no bounds of social embarrassment, neither have I missed Mannu's soothing assurance "are kya hogaya, theek hai, chill maar" more than right now. Or Naireeta's loud break throughs in class and those highly relieving long talks. I terribly miss Ankita's stupid lingo, because it made me laugh nevertheless, and the quiet understanding between me and Tina. Never did I think I will miss Shivani and group's giggling behind my seat like I do when I am in class. I miss stepping into the staff-room and feeling like I am not in a strange place but in a room where mother-like figures and mentors occupy space.

I might be pms-ing, and that gives me all the more reason to be around my friends in college. But this will never go away, every time I wear the t-shirt/sweatshirt I will cry proud tears, as the place I turned into a woman was the most enchanting of all. And every time I come across anything even remotely related to College, I will burst out crying.

Hair.

A beat. A heart-beat. One after the other, back to back, every moment squeezed within its long and infinite seconds. Seconds of lying and staying stagnant on the bed. She could move, move away and then to a corner. Her hair were tangled in his hand, and was smothered way too much by his early morning bad breath. Invoking moments of strange whirlwind like years of childhood, and highly sexualized adolescent. This seemed completely natural and palpable. The arms of an unloving man, making love to a rotten desire, doesn't matter who or where. But it had to be making love, because sex or 'fucking' was too instinctive to feel ashamed of. It's experience is a little too natural to count as a decorative piece on the mantle of her neurotic display. But I guess habits die terribly hard, and she anyways had the most beautiful hair, she'd rather lie than damage them. Anyways there was a bald patch on her head, which she managed to hide it with her gift of wonderfully natural yet artificial hairstyles. A man had loved her too much, or said so. He liked hitting and pulling women's hair. Reminded him of his mother. Turned him on like a switch. 

They never put mirrors in rooms of her kind. Like others, looking at herself could and have done her a lot more harm than good. She had the most gorgeous curls everyone said, people would line up to take pictures with her vegetative smile and alluring curls. Soft and smooth, never tangled and dark brown. The way they fell on her big brown eyes, created a spectacle under sunlight. And laughter, glorious and loud, like a proud mother or a valiant sister. She laughed while flipping her hair from left to right, and vice-versa. The prettiest in the ward she was. But that was six months ago. It will be catastrophic if we showed her the mirror now. The curls, the laughter, the gorgeous eyes, they died a silent and apocalyptic death in 185 days. Her once plump frame was a rack of bones, many men liked such women so she laughed looking down at naked body. Pretty sure she can still make the world go round around her with those looks. But she hadn't seen the mirror yet. No one would let her.

Lying partially naked in his arms still. He, like every other man loved playing with those curls, round and round in his fingers. Ignoring the bald patch, moving swiftly in the effervescence of her beauty. Fingers running from head to eyes, and lips. Bending to kiss her pink lips, she wanted to kill him and taste his blood at that very moment. Bite off those stinking lips and sticky tongue and giggle with a bloodied mouth. But no, she will never do that. Only mad women acted so. Her mind was far from insanity, maybe her body wasn't. But anyways she let him kiss her, any way he wanted to. Rolling his tongue inside her mouth, biting lips or sweet repetitive kisses that are usually lovely. She had a belief, if she pleased men in bed, they would do anything for her outside it. But it took too much toll.

Eliza, was her name. She was 22 when her parents brought her here. People around wondered what could have happened at this age to turn her into this breathtakingly beautiful monster. Eliza talked with all the warmth and conviction in the world. She told stories of her childhood very willingly in group sessions. Highly effective was her presence for others. Vibrant and ecstatic, a contagious energy flowing across halls in the hands of a delightful humor. They could not understand why on earth was she here. Why was she brought here, what kind of a parent would do that. Yes, she had too many lovers. But every pretty woman has too many lovers. What did they do too her? Why did they want to take away the mirror from her room? Did she look at it too much or did she despised that universally loved face. Being beautiful is a suffering as spiteful as being ugly.

They didn't move all night. Not from the bed. Only to eat and wash, but nothing else. He was too much in love with her and caressed very deeply. Eliza was annoyed by now, but she had great patience in bed. She had to give men what they want, so she gets what she deserves. He kept playing and playing and playing and running his fingers in her hair. Unable to take anymore, a loud, very loud scream came out of her. It was followed by nothing, neither a laugh nor bunch of tears, just a very very loud scream. The worst kind. He looked at her, and turns out he was no different from the man who liked pulling women's hair. Grabbing the nearest knife, he held her hair in a bunch and started cutting. Her voice had died after the scream, all she did was move to run away but he sat on her back, like ghosts latch onto people. That night was the longest of Eliza's life.

They never found out was wrong with her. Until one morning, when she came to the hall. Her luscious curls gone and what was left were uneven soft strands on an egg-shaped head. Her eyes were swollen from crying all night. They kept asking what happened. Not a word came out of Eliza's mouth, until came the session and she told how her brother visited her a day before, how they made love, how he kept touching and kissing her and how he cut her hair. They looked blankly at her. She tried reminding them of the loud scream they might have heard. But blank still. She narrated the day to them again. Eliza had had no visitors that week. But she, in her sense would have never cut her tresses. They found out that day, why she was there.