|LOUD PLACES || QUIET SOULS|

Smiling faces greeting us at the door,

Laser light beams swirling all across the floor,

Urbanized ethereal décor depicting famous folk lores.

The smell of sizzlers, fries and booze,

Flooding the nostrils of everyone in the room,

Waiters rushing to and fro taking orders

And making sure that St. Valentine’s day is celebrated with a blast! Young couples on the dance floor, grooving to the upbeat music and keeping each other’s tempo.

.

.

– “Hi Sir! A table for two?”
– “No, just for me. Thank you”

Perplexed and maybe even a tad bit shocked,
He points towards one of the corners of the room.
I wade through the sea of intoxicated lovers,
While hearing the loud music eat up most of the silent proposals.

I order my usual, a scotch whiskey on the rocks,
And the DJ puts on one of those romantic tracks.
The disco ball goes off and the dim lights come on,
I look around to see if I’m the only odd one out!

And there she was, sitting at the other corner of the room,
Sipping her Cosmopolitan and looking at the couples’ dance; with what seemed like forlorn eyes.

She seemed familiar; as if I’d seen her somewhere,
Her brown hair seemed like a cascade, beautifully complimenting her smile which seemed sad on the inside.
I felt an urge to not look away, which was uncommon for a guy like me; I’m sure you have deciphered that already by yourselves.

I had read about broken smiles plastered on happily masked faces but I had never experienced it before and it pierced right through my heart which had already been shattered into a million pieces. And then our eyes met for a few seconds..

“You can say what you want but I’m giving it a chance”

©theblackcurse

Song ~ Revelator eyes by The Paper Kites

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Every end has a Beginning..

We are blinded by the notion that time heals..

Time is never the healer, the soul is..

We are all wounded by people, society, the traditions and whatsoever we give importance to..

It is not the right time that heals those wounds but the right people we bump into..

We all are looking for a soul to connect to. However, we fall prey to the pre-conceived notions that surround us..

“You can never unlove”

However the intensity diminishes with healing power of the soul..

Too much of anything is toxic, and toxicity is hazardous both for the mind and the soul..

How far have we come?

We almost reached the end..

But there is something ahead of this, right?

What?

Beginning of some other end..

But we end here, okay? No more..

You still are going to start, this time someone else will walk with you.. No one stops..

We were never meant to walk together, so for me this isn’t an end neither a beginning.. I have been walking all by myself towards somewhere I am not sure of..

We are going to meet again.. Someday when you’re lost, I’ll be there to guide you home..

Okay.. Let’s not extend this any further.. Try not to come in my way EVER AGAIN..

I’ll be in touch..

I won’t give you that chance.. Be sure of that..

I don’t need you to be in touch.. I have taken care of it..

Rubbish.. I am so not interested to take this any further...

I’ll carry all of it for both you and me..

How will you? I won’t let you..

How will you end the journey you never started…

Our lives are stories and each journey is a chapter. Few gives us joy and few sorrow but with every end, there is a beginning….

Have you reached the end?

Or

Are you heading for a beginning?

Sad Old Year

What has changed apart from the number at the end of the date and the calendar page?
A new year has started with senseless joy and meaningless banters.
The world seems to have found a renewed passion and adulterous enchanters.

The melodious songs of the yesteryears have given way to the new beats of decadence.
Phantom threads of the sartorial minds nurturing thoughts of business and brand new trends.
Morality and ethics are lost at sea
Like Lemuria and Atlantis were once.

A new day awakening the sleeping world,
A broken canvas and colours spilled all around.
Families and friends, gathered together like before,
Absinthe and cigarettes have numbed us all.

The countdown begins and everyone’s back on,
‘Hurry! Hurry! We’re nearing the count of one!’
Merriment and wishes all around,
Unknown souls greeting each other with familiar sounds.

The eyes at the corner watches all this with a scowl,
What’s the noise and celebration for?
Aren’t we all nearing the end of our time?
The planet won’t die but it’s inhabitants shall,
The man made Gods’ won’t help you
Even if you read the Bible or do the Namaz.

What will save you then, comrades?
Religion, politics or commerce?
You’ll all turn around and see what you have done
And the planet will rejoice as the the plastic cups are buried under the blooming flowers.

©theblackcurse

M A N H O O D

They say a Man is different than a Boy.
They say that the eyes differ; one showcases imagination and the other hides the pangs of maturity.
They say that the face differs; one gleaming with innocent youth and misplaced pride and the other filled with the innumerable scars of life.
They say that the beard differs; one barely coming to life and the other hiding a whole world inside of it somehow.

A world sought after by everyone from the beginning of times; new continents and countries alike.
A world where the stars shine brightly in the night sky and the air feels like it is absolutely sublime.
A world fought for and protected with force.
A world found only through sacrifices and endless office tours.

The discoverer of unknown lands, unknown foes and unencumbered folklore.
The keeper of innumerable secrets and the guardian against merciless gore.
The protector of the weak and the upholder of truth.
The one who always feels everyone is equal in every sense of the word.

A forgotten king who’s kingdom has since been usurped,
A pious soldier who’s dying for the wrong cause,
An honest father who’s making ends meet even after selling his very own soul,
A nomad lurking about on the roads searching for the world he’d long lost his way back to.

I see him through my car window and as our eyes meet, the traffic lights turn green,
He smiles and through his beard I see the doorway into the long lost world.

The world where Boys turned into Men,
MEN who showcased true manhood.

©theblackcurse

Artist – Sakshi Jajodia

Shubho Bijoya, Dadu

Isn’t it a paradox; how an empty room is so full?
It is strange how one human being alters the perception of a room in our minds.
Everything stays the same but their absence makes all the difference.

The aroma of the chrysanthemums lingering around,
A flashback of him sitting on his favourite chair flashes by,
‘Ei jaega ta amar khub priyo jano toh dadubhai’; the voice looms around, as if coming from behind the smiling photo hanging on the wall.
The sunlight floods the mezzanine floor,
The table tops and the furniture seem to glow. There is a lot of dust accumulated on the bookshelves and the framed photos; a sudden gush of wind and the fading ‘dhak’ beats remind me of his holy presence in the room.

The door remains closed now,
The family seems to have learnt how to forget about him somehow.
I roam around like I used to; while he used to listen to Manna Dey and Kishor Kumar; it helped him reminisce about ‘Dida’ I suppose.
We used to hum together, the yesteryear tunes,
A lozenge used to be my reward, if I was any good.

I see the open window ledge overseeing the neighborhood. I see how lonely he felt when no one but pigeons were there for him to talk to.
I feel guilt or some kind of a morbid remorse;
‘Ektu bosh na Dadubhai, kotha boli ektu?’

The pigeons still remain, they miss their old friend too,
I guess I made a mistake; should have spent more time with my Dadu.
I stand near the window ledge while the procession is afoot;
I close my eyes whilst She goes away,
Silently bidding her adieu.

‘Abar esho Maa, opekkhae roilam Ami,
Aar bhalo rekho shobai ke,
Pouchey diyo tar kache ei kotha ti,
Shubho Bijoya, Dadu.’

©theblackcurse via the room

Picture courtesy – Rupsa Sreemani and Soham Chatterjee

Unposted Letters #2

When in the morning I wake up late,
And you fly into a rage,
I quickly sit up on the bed,
For I understand what’s there in my fate.

When I don’t reply to your never-ending texts,
Your blood pressure at once jumps and the usual serenading voice of yours,
Often compared to an Angel’s by me,
Changes into a scorned and angry one,
Demanding an answer to the reason of my late reply.

I oblige with an answer as I know that you’ll not take much time to return to your lovely and graceful self.
They say ‘when all else fails, there’s family’; well, for me it’s You!
I know everyone else may feel bad, may feel left out but what do I do?
It is not always that I can tell them that.. I love her,
It is not always that I can tell you that.. I love you.

When you feel that I’m unromantic and that I don’t express my love through the preferred phrase of “I Love You’s”
I know how you feel but what to do?
And as they say, ‘true love is felt!’

Don’t worry about things I say in anger,
I’m a kid so my anger provokes these,
But somewhere down the line I’m sure you know
That though it is not always that I can tell you,
But know this my love… I do love you!

©theblackcurse via the first letter for her

Featured Picture – Rupsa Sreemani.

A Starry Night

‘Look at the stars, look how they shine for you’

But there are no stars in the night sky. The city lights reflecting on the calm water makes it look like a starry sky. The city sleeps while the dreadful whispers are heard. The night is dark and the terrors have just begun.

A traveler from far beyond, traveling in a forlorn boat with no one for company but long lost ghouls. The atmosphere is eerily calm, as if it is the silence before a storm. The buildings are lit even when the city is fast asleep.
“Peculiar thing” the traveler thinks.

The horizon is blue, the end seamlessly far. The traveler muses to himself about the unforgiving nature of his past. The life left behind, the sins committed, the vows taken only to be broken, the face of death worn like a glorious mask on his face.

There seems to be no life around. An inexplicable fear creeping up on to the back of the man. Has he been here before? Passing the city that sleeps through the day only to wake up during the unholy hours of the night? He looks around and sees men, women and children; all looking straight into his eyes. He sees the fire of hell in them; they’re walking but there’s no life in them. They recognize him. He realises he’s been here before.
Following orders of the Devil, removing anyone who tried to oppose.
He has arrived. The final destination of his venomous soul.

The boat travels towards the destination alone.
No stars, no moon, no traveler.
Waiting for the next sinner to come aboard.

©the black curse

Artwork by Sakshi Jajodia (inspired by Van Gogh)

Paradise

The door slams shut. The earphones are plugged in.The violins shimmer into life.
The bass takes it’s place.
The rhythm is set and then it all begins.

‘When she was just a girl…’

The song begins and slowly the lyrics work like magic. The eyes close.
The dream begins floating in her mind.
The day and all the rumbling,
the countless innuendos and the quarreling;
they’ve conspired against her to make her feel weary, to make her feel that this reality is just too cruel to live in.
But she has surpassed them all, she’s flown away and now none of this can touch her again.

She lies on the soft grass, while the sun is frolicking and the breeze is singing. The world is at utmost peace. A faint sound of the waves crashing into the shore looms around. The sound of the daily lives have been muted. The birds fly in merriment and the world around her is shrouded in leaves and trees and bushes and forests. The world feels like it has a new life now.

Some images rush by her eyes, transporting her to the ghastly incident. A few tears roll down her cheeks. The walls are again closing in. She feels like running once again and just then the lyrics float back into her ears to usher her into a new dimension; where she sees what she had been vehemently praying for.

Her favourite Mango tree dancing on the tunes of the spring time winds and smiling broadly at her.

The tears stop. A smile awakens on the corner of her lips. For she has seen her favourite tree come alive; moments after seeing it being chopped down mercilessly and watching it breathe out and die.

Yes, indeed she has found paradise.

She has found her paradise.

©theblackcurse

Artwork by Nilakshi Sarkar.

Once upon a time…

“Why does your audience fall in love with you every single time?”, the reporter asked..

“I’ve lived the characters I play..”, answered Emraan

“So your characters are real life incidents?”

“Not necessarily.. My dreams are my stories and reality is my stage.”

“Is Tanika in real? Your audience is curious because this name is associated with you since Day 1…”

“Sometimes, Somebody’s absence makes you a better person..”

“If you could share this story with your audience, they are looking forward to the reason behind your success. The perfect success story. Emraan, if you could….”

“Tanika, she is my novel and our life are the chapters. The best part is that our chapters will never end because I play her part as well, with utmost honesty. Her voice is in my heart, her expressions in my mind. We live together in my dreams like there’s no end. I guess it is better to dream than to have it in reality. We all recreate the things we want but in reality it is nothing pre-planned.

Tanika was never mine. She was just there in my life and that is where it all went right.. ”

If you’re reading this, just know that you have an Emraan in your life who’ll never show himself to you but is the one to devote his all for you.. ❤️

Just don’t let go,

#LikeDreamsLikeReality

My Bougainville

I’ve walked around a fascinating place,
Up in the mountains, away from the plains.
I’ve walked across gorgeous gardens,
Where my gloomy childhood blossomed
And the happiness was never shrouded.

I’ve seen colours painted across the sky,
I’ve seen birds singing to fireflies.
I’ve walked past the place where I saw you,
Been there a zillion times and yet it still feels so new.
I’ve attached our memories to the petals and the feathers,
In Autumn they fall, only to re-emerge through unposted letters.

I’ve stood beneath you, my Bougainville,
I’ve whispered my worries into your ears.
I’ve stopped by while rushing to a destination,
Only to catch a leaf fall to the ground in silent anticipation.

I’ve left the city which beholds you,
And yet I reminisce about the evening walks and what I’d do.
In this foreign land, on this foreign soil, every dawn,
You bloom just as beautifully as you did in my backyard lawn.

The pinkish hues feel soothing to my eyes,
As I float back to the afternoon in my mind,
When below you I so peacefully lied,
And the world seemed like it wasn’t dying.

©the black curse via My Bougainville
@d_debi clicked.