Thursday, October 27, 2011

Gold chariots and the likes.

We've all been subjected to grandma tales.
But what left Kiu a little perplexed is if any of them ever came true.
Kiu would walk, into the lonely terrains and mythical thoughts, into those imaginative ideas and floating shadows, often questioning her whereabouts whether she should lay down her instincts onto those tales of yore.
But, what she searches for is not what you and I may understand.

She dreams,
of the strange mix of love and touch,
of life and death.

And then he happened, and the questions were put to rest, albeit for a short while. He's the soul-breaker to her, that she never could be.
Together, they decoded their own red-coloured language. 
Together, they loved. Together they were wounded.

So, grandma, would a prince come to me in a gold chariot.

No, she smiled, they came with their own troubles, and their own whims. 
They came walking down, oblivious to people around
They smiled, and rejected the unnecessary drama, they came with their own subtlety. 
They were princes, no less. 

P. S. Image courtesy, me. Yes. 

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Dreadful despair.

Attracted to morbid dreams,
of love and separation following thus. 
When suddenly afflicted with picturesque moments,
of hearts and smiles,
I paused,
momentarily confused.
And stayed, put.
Aft a while, I began,
the search for despondent happiness,
that lay in lights,
and in self-benevolence.
And as I passed by your abode,
that lay, perhaps a thousand miles from mine,
I felt a strange complacence, 
and sat there,
Waiting in solitude,
but in contentment,
at the aberrant happiness that lay ahead. 
The lights now chose to appear,
out of the blue. 

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

How she settles, oh how beautifully, she does.

As she silently settled onto her seat, her eyes vividly began dancing and established themselves on the page that her fingers tried to trace.
She began reading.
You and I might be forced to think that she was oblivious to the silence around her, but we might think, or we may think, or it may not be so.
Her loneliness in the dead of the night surprised her, and made her weirdly content.
And suddenly, almost notoriously, the water droplets began to spur her. They came, almost abruptly, like perhaps, by accident. She panicked, and her arms closed around her book.
What followed was an awkward moment, wherein she couldn't decide if closing the window was a better option to moving.
And then, as abruptly as before, she calmed down and smiled.
She sat where she did, did not rush to close the window, and let the rain drops replenish her troubled frowns and soothe them.
She marveled at the peace that's infused in the most unexpected moments.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

"When the dream is gone"

It is not often that one's thoughts serenade into those mystical spaces, that otherwise exist, but for us, just in the mind.
But her's did, always.
She called it, yearning for a life, altogether different.
I called it being untamed.
She was definitely not one of us. 

Sunday, August 7, 2011

The lights of ecstasy.

We're not dissecting age-old norms here.
Nor will we talk about how it was wrong for her to have gone out that night. How it wasn't appropriate for her to step out of her periphery of custody.
But the want for freedom sometimes, beguiles the most careful of them, eyes.
And I have, always, silently appreciated her wavering attitude to stability. I somewhere, saw my unwavering soul in it. The one that has always dreamed of quenching her faltering thirst, but has never been able to take the first few baby steps. I was in awe of her. But that was a feeling that I solely kept inside of me, and thus, forever, sealed my lips.
Well, so coming back to the spunk of it all, she silently averted our attention that night, and made way, to the acropolis where royalty waited for her with baited and nervous breath.
I have never been  able to duly comprehend the love that existed between them, but then, she once silently whispered to me that love was not to be understood, either way.
And as she made way to his ready-to-embrace arms, she saw the lights that had forbidden her all along. The lights of pure ecstasy.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

The incoherent ripples of child-dom.

We've all been part of the same sweet game. 
Often, if not, always, when abundance of emotions prevail, and situations run high and dry,
like the demystifying eyes, that flutter across your troubled brows,
that are often shriveled, like the ripples that we made in the lake, in the days of yore.
When often, life was defined by the shoe-clad wriggly feet,
that were often pointed to the stars in the wavering nights of child-dom.
Oh, how often, if not always, my thoughts go back to the same incoherent folk-tales.
When the Maharajah extended his strong hands to the erstwhile princess, and how we blushed,
at the prospective love that was deemed to happen.
You and I looked into each other's eyes, and we realized that love is not what is spoken about, only. Love can exist, sporadically, insignificantly. And having made our compelling discovery, receded into the the same child-dom of blooming happiness.
When you and I were a little different. 
A bit more silent, a bit less coherent, slightly more eloquent.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Touch-me-not plants had a role to play.

Summers are not what they used to be.
When a pony-tailed girl with a punch serenaded in shorts, wildly running in a beaver of touch-me-not plants.
When mangoes did not induce pimples.
Summers were different then.
I remember, in the old fort, when time was consumed by idyllic banter, and when evenings receded into unpretentious excitement.
When buses were red, and so were telephone booths.
When taxis were royalty,
And share autos amusing.
And the baby seats, that you were so reluctantly made to sit on, even more so.
When cinema meant whistles in single-screen theaters.
And the beach was where, your mother never let you be tempted by the water, lest you drown.
And a coke placated your empty heart.
When running around in a towel was pardonable.
I think the touch-me-not plants had a role to play.
Their importance only grew, not in the mere presence of it, but it in mind.
They slowly meandered into the summery afternoons.
While the pony-tailed girl, stood confused, and bewildered.
Change took place.  

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Everything is clearer when you're in love- Lennon.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you;
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home every day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.

I'll pretend That I'm missing 
the lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home every day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.

All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving, darling I'll be true.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you:
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home every day,
And I'll send all my loving to you

To the love of music, that has just sprung up, almost in sync with the lovely weather outside.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

My perfection.

Sometimes, amidst my ideas of perfection and its antonym, I'm often left to believe, if what I live is along my ideas of anything adept. If utopia is just a word, and never to be achieved. If ever the thousands of flaws i see in myself can be over-looked, by not just me, but by the world alike. Sometimes, I'm often found in quest for all that is beautiful inside me.
Ever so often, the naked me feels vulnerable.
I do not recall if as a child, there were these questions of perfection in my head. But then, back then, these things didn't matter. It all looms large, as you grow up, and when you assume greater importance in your scheme of things, that the real you makes you feel uncomfortable. How your face is not pretty enough, and how sometimes, if not always, you will be subject to some sort of inferiority. Having said that...

Me is not perfect, but me has its spectacles.
The real me, wakes up from sleep in a disheveled manner. With the hair bedraggled, the eyes all puffy. No, she does not wake up to look like the beautiful women on television. Perfect, she's totally not. Externally, that is.
She takes a lot of time in choosing the right outfit for the right occasion, and always finds herself falling short in the end.
She wished she had larger eyes, and prettier hair, and looks, that only movies boast of.

Frankly, the real me, has stopped caring about all that quite some time back. 

She assumes her share of importance when she catches hold of her favourite pen, and her favourite notebook, that contain her little tit bits of wisdom.
She sings with joy, when she instantly recognizes one of her most favourite songs being played in the distance. Yes, she secretly sings the song in her heart, and wishes she could strum the guitar as well as some of them do. 
She secretly chuckles at how funny her hair looks, on a bad hair day.
She secretly blushes at compliments, and pats herself for her deservedness on her back, though she might put up a straight face and nod in humility. Having done that, she congratulates herself once again for pulling off the straight face act.
She will never, and I repeat, never will she lose count of the niceties led to her. 
She doesn't look at herself when she passes by in a mirror.
For her, she makes a hell lot of sense, more than to anybody else she ever will.

I might say i don't care
Silently enough to sham myself,
only that i don't succeed,
all the more hoping if only things were a little better.
Sometimes, laconic complaints will surface, 
and external beauty will be searched for,
but the night will eventually give in to the day
and as the sun rays seep in,
I will be more relevant.
More extensive.
More beautiful, 'cause my inner courage will transpire,
and lead me on to eloquent beginnings, 
and satisfying ends.
The complaints will die a natural death,
and not much attention will be given to the hair,
The nuances will be looked up to,
and applauded to bring in the natural flare,
yes, the real me is a beautifully, innocent thing to be.


So, the real beauty in me, has to be the ability to look beyond my imperfections. To nag about them, yet feel comfortable in my own little space I call world. That's 'cause loving oneself for what you are has to be the greatest form of contentment.

PS : I have posted this story under the topic "What does Real Beauty mean to you?" for Yahoo! Real Beauty.
To read other entries, click here.
To vote for me, sign into IndiBlogger and promote my post here

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

A bout of grief.

She undid the knot, that she had been grasping onto her bosom so tight, all along. As she did, the mere cruelty of everything that life has had to offer her, struck her very bad. An impending sadness, almost akin to the one when Ram died, hit her in an instant. The eyes, that had tried to instill a picture of a promising future[and a picture it will remain, she thought to herself] in her daughter's life, could not betray her emotions any longer. How much were she to act? How much were she to hide?
When was she to let out her pain in the open? And when was she to express her dying emotions?

Meanwhile, Swati was busy making herself comfortable on her berth. Train rides have barely happened to her in her not so great childhood, and she was visibly excited. She could not stop beaming in anticipation of the candy-man that was to come at Remunda, something for which her mother lent her extra coins. Calcutta would arrive in a day's play, and after that a great future was awaiting her. She was sure, that all the liberties that have eluded her and her younger sister this long, would now happen. She looked at her baby sister, contently coo-cooing and she smiled to herself, thinking that there was no way Ramya would live the life she herself has lived all along. With her sister's income, Ramya will be educated, and an amazing life awaits her, in the not so distant future.

Ramya was bothered by the heat. It was too much suffocation for the young body to take in, she let out a cry or two here and there. Her mother swiftly led her to her bosom to keep her from crying. She sat close to her sister, and she sat on a funny seat in a funny enclosure, that was definitely not home. But, she had seen its picture somewhere? Somewhere, she can't recall. Where was it?

"Here, some money, and a few coins extra for the candy, like I promised". Swati's earnest blush broke her heart, but she continued, "Also, when you meet the man, Ram Kumar, is his name, do not give the money to him. Keep it for yourself, he will take you to a house, full of women, so you need not worry. I'm sure, you will be looked after very well. " She was choking now, so she chose to remain quiet.
The train let out its life-changing, soul-stirring, heart-breaking whistle to move. And moved, she did, with Ramya in her arms, and a lump in her throat, and hatred in her heart towards herself, for doing what she is, and towards the society, for every atrocity in her life.
Swati's smile, slowly changed into a sudden bout of sadness. The excitement levels had silently died now, as the wheels made their first movement. Somehow, impending grief, seemed more closer than soon-to-happen happiness. She looked outside the window at her mother, who was now crying inconsolably and her sister, wailing loudly, under the influence.
But it was too late to get down the train. Swati's life took its way to destruction, forever. 

Friday, April 15, 2011

What do we do about the girl in the train?

With the future seeming blurred, and the past, so much more pain consuming, she took her seat. The vividness of the unknown, or should I say the lack of it, was eating her inside out. Though she tried, unsuccessfully, to not let it show. The pain, of course. Unsuccessfully. The tears that lingered at the corner of her eyes, gave her away.
The rain started beating down on the earth, against the window pane, on the green fields leaving the leaves wet, ruffled and awakened. That feeling of being animated, of viability, she ached for. Something inside her had died that night. The will to live, the will to smile, the will to love, not even herself. She did not stand alone, tall and proud anymore. She sat defeated, purposeless.
If I may ask, how does love give you away so easily? Rules are broken, and the resolute often bow down, often intimidated, often losing to spite the necessary ego. Please don't answer. I'm just asking. As I look at the girl, bereaved and alone, I cannot help but question some uncertain emotions. Now, don't look at me like that. Love is pretty uncertain, with all the unanswered questions, and the unspoken promises, along with the broken bonds. Trust is pretty over-rated, over-used, and mostly so, over-abused anyway. But what do we do about the girl in the train?
Whose face clings to the window pane.
The tears roll down, giving her away, only more so.
The nose turns a cheeky red, trying to sniff in the loneliness.
Who tightens her grasp around herself even more tightly, suddenly realizing that she is all that is there, for her.
Who clenches her fist and loosens it, uncertain of her life.
Who not once looks out of the window, trying to grasp in the surroundings, the beauty of the perfect amalgamation of rain and water.
Does she realize how bereaved and lost she might be, that she's gotten onto the uncertain train, as well?
Oh, what do we do about the girl in the train?
Do, we let her pain heal itself? Or do we leave her alone, to wither, and to be re-born again?
Oh, let the girl in the train be. Let them all in love, be.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


Like everyday, I see, 
you coming out of your sweet agony.
Your pain, 
makes my love for you abounding. 
As I stare at you
through the narrow recesses of the gleaming window,
the sunlight filling my eyes with joy.
Oh no, its not the sun to blame.
The world seems fine, with your smiles, 
and that twinkling laughter of yours.
Do you know my feelings, 
or me at best?
I guess not.
Does that hurt?
It fills my whole self with profuse pain.
But I still manage a smile,
or a silent blush,
when I see you sitting outside the door,
talking to your folks,
not once staring at the gleaming window;
where fluttering eyes stay. 
One of these days,
you'll be well.
Not anymore will you sit outside the door,
not anymore.
Not once have you seen up at me,
now, not anymore.
You will ride your bikes,
come back late in the night.
Or not return at all.
You will smoke joint with them guys,
in the alleys, that I cannot venture within.
My eyes still search for you through the gleaming windows,
for your signs, your laughter,
or your music. 
My love is still growing,
but it aches for your presence.
One day, it might grow,
to exalted heights of agony,
and will let me wither and die in this pain,
that love alone can give. 

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The devil

As she helped Sara lie down on the bed, her face bewitching her emotions, all she did was wait, for THE moment.

I've always been good to you, to everyone around me. Alas! Life hasn't been so fair to us, she mumbled.

Isn’t death everything
Isn’t death everything
Isn’t death everything

..crooned Elton John in the distance. The gay bastard was so right. For her, Sara's death meant everything.
However ironic the song might be, Sara would never approve of shutting off the radio. She was sure, Sara would want the radio to go with her in the coffin [since she could smell Sara's death. Soon]. But the undying love and loyalty had always remained. Funny how people set up relationships with inanimate things. The materialistic ones, but more often then not, fail to have genuine love from the animated ones, like her. Sara seemed to have only invited her hatred. 
From the very start, the better one, the closet devil. The more-loved. The equally more-hated. 

Die when I may, I want it said of me, by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower, where I thought the flower would grow.

-Abraham Lincoln

Stupid Lincoln. It was not a flower that the dying hath planted, it was a thorn, of pure, rotting hatred.

Some water please!

She wouldn't mind taking the life off her, though she obliged.

After I die, do take care of my precious garden, I wouldn't want the roses to wither and die. My grave should be next to mother's with the same ivory craving. Not like I'd see it, she coughed some phlegm, but it would give my soul some sweetness to cherish, I'm sure. Do be a good person to all. 

She rambled on. Testing her patience, like every single time. Almost tempting her to retaliate with a few harsh words, or actions, not that she has ever done any, but how long could Sara instigate her like this. The elder, the better, the sweeter, the prettier. The one with the better husband, though dead. The one with beautiful children, though none here, not so soon, the one with a huge house, that she was allowed to live in. She, the barren, abused wife of a fucking bastard. Ah! The cruelty of life. 

She sighed, this time aloud. Took the pillow, and sucked out the remaining life off Sara. The devil had acted, after all.

Monday, March 14, 2011

The cross-legged animals.

It should help, the indifference.
Or so, I thought.
You smile at me. I do not smile back. Silently hoping that you'd realize your bad. Do you? Maybe, maybe not. Do I care? You might say no to that one, but you see, that's the funny part, I do.

There is a garden, a pretty one. With flowers, freshly dewed, or maybe watered. A lot of green, red, pink, all those happy colours. Basically, its my place, the place I live in, in my dreams. I own it, and it houses my happiness. Not that I have any particular fascination with flowers. In fact, I hate them. So, let's just replace the flowers with different coloured chocolates, which taste like M&M's. You get the picture, right? I'm an awesome story-teller like that.

I sit in the garden, cross-legged, crooning to myself a very happy song. Maybe it's the Beatles. Cross-legged, because the world makes more sense that way. I see you, or maybe it's the silhouette. You won't come into the garden, cause you very well know, that the trespassers might just be killed. You read the devil inside me very well, don't you? But little do you know, that you own the garden as much as I do. The chocolates, we live on them. We both are cross-legged animals who croon along, together. 

If you want more love,
why don't you say so?
If you want more love,
why don't you say so?

We sing the same songs, almost in unison. If you want more love, why don't you say so?

Why don't you come out of the silhouette?
Why don't you step into the garden, which you own as much as I do?
Why don't you sit cross-legged with me, and help eat the flower shaped chocolates which taste like M&M's?
Why don't you talk to me, so that I start smiling?
With you, the world is a happier place, so why don't you be with me?

Sunday, March 6, 2011


A trivial thing she was,
almost unnoticed, almost non-existent.
Almost dead.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

How about a Bucket List?

So I was watching The Bucket List the other night, with even more contemplation than the two times before that. Why? Because I was feeling morose and so I thought, that the energy that's so lying dead inside me would be better concentrated on a movie so subtle, with a profound outlook to impending death.
Death is inevitable, very much like life, in the true sense of it. Very few of us are lucky enough [or not] to be told the time of their death. So, it's better to have a personalized bucket list, eh? Makes living life so much more purposeful, and joy-ful [which is not a word, by the way]. So, yes, caught up in the complex expressions that Morgan Freeman kept displaying every minute, I decided that I'm going to have a bucket list. A very own, personalized bucket list, that will give a deep meaning to my stupid existence on earth. So that, if tomorrow, a totally random person walks up to me, and asks "why-the-hell-don't-you-f***-off-from-the-face-of-this-earth*, I can proudly show him/her my bucket list, which at that moment, would be lying contently in my denim pockets waiting for its bulletins to be ticked off. Get it?
So well, I will not put up wishful and hypothetical things like I want to own a plush sea side bungalow in Goa/ a Volkswagen beetle/ *tada data*.. [read: loads of rich luxury stuff*] in the list, because that will make me look materialistic and blind to the simple pleasures of life. So well, cutting it short- THE LIST.

  • I want to have a walk by the sea shore, in a beach that would be enamored by the beautiful colours of sunset, that would be empty of all chaos, save for me and my special someone.
  • I want to bungee jump. Yep. Not because I'm an adrenaline junkie or something, but i want to experience the tense moment between me having worn my suit and me, being pushed down [considering there is no way on earth i'd jump down, compulsively].
  •  I want to go on a bag pack trip across India, experience my country first hand, eating in road side dhaabas, travelling in crowded buses and trains, asking for lifts from truckwallas, yes, that India has to be the most enriching, not the India trip that some tours&travels organizes for you.
  • I want to have a whole library made in my future house. Loads of books to be read, to be learned, and to be smelt. Yes, you read that right. The smell that emanates from a new book, is any reader's delight.
  • I want to take loads of photographs in my life. Yes, I have a taste for photography, and I want to adorn the walls of my future house with loads of them.
  • I want to make a silent, submissive trip to the backwaters of Kerala. Lets say, a self examining trip. And this is one trip, I wish to make alone, wherein I want to be away from the chaos of city life and experience beauty, serenity and simplicity first hand.
  • I want to go to Paris, yes.
  • I want to attain contentment, which is something I do not boast of, not right now. But someday, I want to be happy about how life is shaping up, and how there is nothing much to worry about.
  • I want to have thousands of followers, but more importantly I want to be appreciated for things that I believe I'm decent in, writing being one of them.
  • I want to write a book, or I want to contribute creatively to a very important piece of document.
  • I want to sing like crazy in a karaoke bar, yes, the soonest I can. And yes, I can sing pretty decently too.
  • I want to learn to play the tabla, so bad. And the guitar too, yep.
This list will keep getting updated in the recent future. You can never expect a person to want to do so less in their life span. Of course. Life is a funny place to live in. Sometimes so subtle, and sometimes, so on your face. It's kinda funny, really. But might as well take it with a pinch of sugar/salt as you may please.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


Slowly, with nervous, insecure fingers, she touched the photographs, looked at them, rather merely glanced. It was not the photographs that bothered her. Okay, they did, but only a slight bit. It was the uncertainty that was gnawing into her empty recesses. Is it possible for any person to feign anonymity? To block yourself from the prying eyes of the world, to wither within yourself, and then someday, die, a lowly, unimaginative, and neglected death. Well Sybil did that, but she had Dr.Wilbur for comfort for the most part of her life. But, she was no Sybil, not mentally disturbed as much as Sybil. A slight bit, maybe. Not much. Like her grandma would say, "not too much, not too less, sooogar". Funny, she was. She smiled.
The photographs reminded her of an eerie past. Eerie because she was happy then. Not alone and happy. Well, you might ask as to how happiness could be eerie, well for Nina, it could. She was not used to it, the happiness.
It was not too long ago, that the hallucinations started. Not too long ago, when she realized the presence of the very human shadows that kept following her. Not too long ago, that she started dreaming of her own death.
The shadows ruined it all, the happiness, the impending marriage with Aaron. She drove him away, yes it was her all the way, with a little help from the shadows. Trust was a word that she knew nothing of, not anymore.
The would kill her, the shadows. Humiliate her, make crap fun of her. And then ultimately bring her down.
The death was inevitable, now, even more so.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

An award has been dropped on my lap!

It feels great, when people think you write well. Most do. But, it feels even better when you're appreciated for it.
Have recently been awarded the Most stylish blogger award by this wonderful blog.

As this is a pass on award, I would like to award some bloggers whose work I exceptionally enjoy reading. Thank you so much for this award.I love all the blogs I follow, but these few are simply my most favourites. :)

There are four duties to perform you have to perform after you have received this award.

1. Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award  :: [DONE]

2.Share 7 things about yourself:
 ---- My name is Meher, and I'm a weird-ass 18 year old.

 ---- I am fixated with poetry, especially the one with blank verse, coz i suck when it comes to rhyming schemes.

 ----I'm very resolute and strong, not the kind of person to be breaking easily. I'm kind of a loner, yet, a very extrovert person.

 ----I'm passionate about my dreams and my ideas, and have etched out the future like I want it to be.

 ----I'm a very creative person, and I welcome criticism if it is rightly given, else, I usually try not to respond to it. Trust me on this, I'm quite a tough nut to crack [pun intended].

 ----(Trust me, its taking me a great deal to think about 7 points about myself) I love reading, and I appreciate good writers. And I believe anyone good in what they do should always get their due, even if they are better than me, which so many are.

 ----I've always been very opinionated about everything around me, but I keep my opinions to myself, unless asked.

3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers :: 

Trust me, this is a very difficult job. But these are the few blogs, that have kept me totally gripped.

There were other notable bloggers who were awarded this award by some other blogs, hence I haven't mentioned them. =)
4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award!

I'm gonna do it soon. =)

Monday, February 7, 2011

Letters to weird people, and things #1

Dear apple,
Why the hell were you made by God? Why did Eve have to eat you up and cause human kind so much of pain. Come to think of it, since the time that the world was made, weren't you designated as the forbidden fruit? Why then, does my mother look for ways to put you inside me? Seriously, apple-dearest, why don't you die?

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Unusually imperfectly Complete

The memory of that night refused to evade my senses. It was almost like I was living it, now, every moment of my day. I woke up with vivid sensations of that day's insanity. Some other days, I try blocking out the images that keep resurfacing, try blurring them out. But things don't always work the way we might want them to. Life keeps whining, successfully.

The house was spewing chaos. The laughter, the shrieks, the dances, the singing, the chattering. Everything, but silence. The party, on in full swing. Celebrating my having turned 20, or something like that. As much as I wouldn't have wanted to be here, I was trying to defy my own weak self. Which lay cringed in its loneliness, refusing to shut the tears. A person of few words, I am not, but this weak self, had reduced me to a pitiable state wherein I could say nothing at all. These are things that a broken heart does to you. Shutters your basic self-esteem. Hampers your vital thinking process. Gosh, seemingly, I have been watching a lot of movies these days. Staying at the party, watching others happy, right now was not my thing. As much as I didn't want to go to him, since it definitely is not meant to be, I had to go to him, tell him how I've always felt about what we had.  As I started to run away, I couldn't help but think, that maybe its the movies that are making me over-react, they definitely have a part to play. The Wuthering heights-s, the Casablanca-s, the West Side Story-s, the Anna Karenina-s. But its not just about them, its about me, and its about him. The broken heart, blah blah. People shouting out my name from behind. I ran, even faster.

Adolescent love..
Child-like, a little crude
full of funny promises..undone.

He was going, in two days, maybe. It was ending, whatever there was. We were determined to end it, the remaining pieces, scattered.
We were like two children, always running away from each other, running back together. We were imperfect, in ever sense of the word. Unusual. Unusually-imperfect. Unusually-imperfectly-complete.
Has anyone ever known a feeling like that? It was not meant to be, whatever there was between us, but what. is about to end, should not be happening either. He should be going, because, us together makes no sense, but him going, is ridiculous too. I kept running, without much of a thought in my head. My feet begged me to stop, begged me to gather some respect, asked me to head back home. I kept running. [R. E. S. P. E. C. T.]
I kept running.
After having been asked to get out of his heart.[ R. E. S. P. E. C. T.-the mind resonated]
After having been told, that I don't mean much. The legs were begging. I didn't stop either.
Finally did, in front of the same house, that I'd been so accustomed to stopping in front of. It was a sullen night, the trees incoherent, as much as the heart, which had many things to mumble, but barely did anything escape.

We are the love makers,
and the break-ers too.

We hold hands, and we run. Barefoot, without a care in the world. Into the world, where everything is right, even us being together. His body was like clay. It changed the way I wanted  it to change. Cold first, warm later. Then so warm, we begin melting. The lips touched, parted again. He sank into the couch with me, and I saw a moment of confusion in his eyes. A moment of indecisiveness ensued. He covered me up with his shawl, kept me warm, kept me covered. And we stared into nothingness,sitting close to each other, only hoping, that the night would come, for us to be where, that day, we so wanted to be. The time might come, when we would resolve the differences and look for reasons to be together. Hope, is a soothing feeling. It soothes the pain of separation. It soothes the pain of all the differences that exist. It soothes the pain of wanting to move forward, yet wanting to run away at the same time.

I sometimes can't figure out whether all that happened, was for the better. We were imperfect, yet it was love, alright. A part of me is glad we're not together, and a part of me is aching for him, still. Conflicting emotions, much?

P.S. The guy and girl, have their fair share of differences. That does not make them any perfect. And also, the guy is leaving in a couple of days, so their relationship is not meant to be. But love is a weak emotion, which makes the girl do something, she did not wish to do, that is bow down, and lay bare her weaknesses. opposite emotions?

Have you ever had such magical moment when you felt such strong emotions? Although the girl doesn't want to go to the guy since they can never have a future together given their contrasting ideas, yet, love wins over her, and she has to go. I am sure you have a story to tell too, share your thought as a comment here or on the Close-Up Facebook page. This post is participating in a contest, please vote for me on Indiblogger by clicking on promote there, if you want me to win! Thanks!

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

The God Of Small things-a reader's viewpoint.

"Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story."

So intricately woven is this book, that one gets caught in the complexity of human emotions and fears. On one side, where you have young innocent minds arrested between the thoughts of an absent father, always over-bearing elders, a mother who clearly loved them but was caught up in her own complex world, but more so, they were perhaps, silently amused by their own connection. On the other hand, you had a mother, who single-handedly bore the brunt of all her youthful mistakes, took the jibes in her stride, who was charmed by her twins' playfulness, who could barely suppress the emotions in her heart that threatened to transcend the societal distinctions. Arundhati roy, very effectively and poignantly braids a story that surpasses all the barriers created by the public and otherwise. When once done with the last page of the book, you find you mind and heart, alike, lingering back in the deepest recesses of the human mind that the book has to offer. 
In brief, the book transcends back and forth in the past and present and is based in the *hot, brooding* Ayemenem area set in Kerala. It talks of a pair of fraternal twins, Rahel and Estha, who are separated at the age of seven and reunited when they are 31. The book is written from the point of view of the children and tackles the issues of communism, caste and the Keralite christianity, as seen through their eyes. The book, at large, is benignant to the emotions of the twins, as they suffer indifference at the hands of their relatives, owing to their Ammu's (mother) and Baba's (father) separation and also due to their friendly encounters with Velutha, their helper and also an untouchable. The primary theme of the book is love. The love Ammu bears for her twins, though she knows that times are to get difficult and she will have to forgo with one of them. The love that silently brews between Ammu and Velutha, which is clearly forbidden. In the abeyance of the silent nights, the beating hearts often looked for a gateway to be one. Arundhati roy has also mentioned the political realities in India, through satirical snippets. She is also critical of the traditional hypocrisy of Ammu's parents. 
The novel also brings to light the forbidden love that grows between the twins, Rahel and Estha. As twins, they always stood connected in a silent, unassertive way. When they re-unite after years of separation at the age of 31, wherein both have grown up to be silent, pained souls, it is perhaps their silence that speaks for them. In the end, it shows their love culminating into incest, which is forbidden love, alright. 
The beauty of Kerala, plays an important character in the book as well, as Arundhati Roy often draws her childhood memories of the place to create situations. As it shows in these lines..

"May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst. Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled by the sun.
The nights are clear, but suffuse with sloth and sullen expectation."

All In all, it was a Booker Prize well deserved.