12 Years

If you ever find an animal that wants your Love; give it! And you’ll be amazed by how much you get back.

So, the story ends today? Such a vicious and violent ending to a life of twelve years. Such an ending to begin a day with. You are gone now. Gone with the wind. Gone like the car that did this to you. You’ve been taken away from us, just like your sister was, exactly this same time last year.

It hurts to see you lying there, not moving. It hurts to see your blood spilled all around the road. It hurts to see that I belong to this species and not yours. It hurts to see the woman who took care of you for the last twelve years, cry and shout out to almost anybody who cared to listen. It hurts that out of all the people in the lane that you guarded day in and day out; only as many as three came down to say farewell.

“Such a peculiar name!” they used to say. Ghushan. A name that is synonymous to our household. A name that everyone around us knows by heart. A name that I shall never forget. Is it always the same? After twelve long years; is this necessary? A life lived receiving and giving so much love. Ever heard a dog follow her master into a crowded bank? Ever heard a dog follow her master’s son up to his tuition teacher’s terrace? Just to make sure that they’re fine? Most probably; No!

I grew up with you Sister. I grew up different than most other children. I grew up with two street dogs. No exquisite breed. No friends. No one but these two ‘animals’ who made me understand what Life and Love is. My very childhood stubbed out in two years during the month of my birth. I remember how much you loved me Ghushan, I knew it everytime I saw those two beautiful eyes of yours. I remember those long, sultry afternoons of us sitting on the front stairs and seeing Time pass us by. How we used to play and during one such evening how I tripped over you and fell on your torso and everyone around feared that the “street dog” would bite and all you did was look back at me with astonished eyes and wagged your tail as always. I longed to see you after a day’s wait in school. I loved to see that glazing red fur and a wagging tail running up and down every car that tried to pass in a hurry through our small forgotten lane. And in the end; such a car took you away from us! Fair right?

I know you cannot hear me. I know you cannot see these words. I know you cannot come back to me as Ghushan but I do know that someday, somehow, somewhere we’ll meet again my beloved sister. May your Soul find peace in contrast to the way you met your end. It is going to be a long wait till I see you again; but when we meet, come running towards me like the dog that taught me how to love dogs. The dog that helped me grow up as a human. The dog who saw me change throughout the twelve years but never for once did you complain or stop loving me. Keep barking! Keep wagging your tail! To the most aristocrat street dog that ever lived! Thank you!

I hope you find Saadhu. Forgive me, for it is a shame to exist as a human. Forgive me, for I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Sister. Adieu, friend. Rest in peace.

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Rose Noire

Who says that Black is for portraying everything Bad? Who says that it is the most negative colour on the palette of an artist?

Black is not the colour of Negativity. It is not the colour depicting Darkness, Depression, Angst, Hatred, Malice, Disgust or Contempt. It is not the colour of Night; for we are all Black even amidst broad daylight.

It is just the colour that never got the chance to be White.

It is sad to see how people have denoted it to be associated with all the worst kinds of emotions.

Such an elegant colour, a treat for sore eyes. The only colour which can usurp any other colour valiantly. The only colour that has never lied. The only colour that never fades away. It has so been used for long time to express anything but the holy emotion of Love. The only colour that exhibits what my Heart shall bleed.

My Love is Vengeance. That’s never free.

And so on this day; when Cupid is busy firing those deadly arrows away, I give thee, my funny valentine, a Rose Noire from the deepest trenches of my Heart. Look closely at the petals, they are spattered with the colour of my Soul. Look closely at the thorns for they will make sure your velvet blood flows. Look closely and you shall see it turn into the classic Red Rose. Look closely and you shall see; my Love isn’t Red; it is Black instead.

You are everything that a Rose Noire has ever been held for. A symbol of Mutiny, a strange sense of Anarchy, a demeanour of an Angel with the eyes of the Devil. Your velveteen voice soaks in my sins like a tiny dot of ink is soaked by the paper beneath. Your beauty radiates through the timelessness of Eternity. You are the colour that inks my Heart; you have drenched me once again in Black.

You, my Love, are my Salvation; a curse that can cure a curse like me.

You, my Love, are my Redemption and I’m your unholy Sin.

~ the black curse

via Letters to Rose Noire.

Odio Amoroso

Wise men say, only fools rush in..

And thus the love ballad began; ensuing lovers for over a period of fifty-six years and counting. The heavenly voice, caramelized the lyrics based on the romance by a certain Jean-Paul-Égide Martini. It has been one of those songs that simply take your breath away, much like she did whenever my forlorn eyes saw her vibrant ones.
It was doomed from the very beginning for the past always has a say in scripting the present and the future. yet the poor, unthinking heart never really swayed by the mighty odds stacked against it, she came in. Broke through the barriers guarding my ruins and ignited a spark that was long forgotten in the icy cold surroundings of my dilapidated life. And so this magnanimous emotion came back to devour me once again using Hope as the bait!
“I’m in awe of what we have”, she used to say quite often during our walks along the city high-rises and connecting bridges. In awe we really were because she was someone else’s and I knew that. “I can’t love her. I mustn’t”, or so I thought.

When have we ever had the privilege to choose whom to love and whom not to?
And the inevitable happened; one fell whilst the other remained and they both understood what happened.
The vibe died, the conversations shortened, the meetings postponed or cancelled. Although they both knew what they had seen in the eyes of one another while her palm was enveloped by his that one fateful evening surrounded by the upbeat music in a bar, had been real.
They say that writing your feelings down helps one accept the turmoil within; I suppose this is me trying to do the same.
This is inspired from the song; Can’t Stop Falling in Love With You.

---

Help me Stop Falling in Love With You

Take my soul,
Take whatever I own,
For I just want you
Cause I’m losing my heart to you.

Like the Sun and the Moon,
Can never meet
Oh Love, this is it
Some things are not meant to be

Whenever I see those eyes,
Its as if I’m flying high,
But then I realize
That all of this is a lie

Like the Wolf and the Moon
Shall never meet,
Baby, this is it
Some things are not meant to be

Stop my heart
Break these stupid train of thoughts
For you’ll never be mine
Even if I fall for you.

No matter what I try,
Its as if I’m falling hard,
So help me my dearest,
Stop me from falling in Love with You
Even though I can’t stop falling for You.

– oրեո

 

La Vie En Rose

I am not a Poet you see yet I have found a friend for me, a friend who has forever been near yet I’ve never held her dear.
A friend who only helped me yet never asked anything in return.
I am not a Poet you see; I am just friends with my Words.
I am not a Warrior you see yet I wield what is said to be mightier than the Sword.
I am not some Stranger you see, I know the World through my Words indeed.
A friend once asked me whether I was a Writer or a Story-teller and all I said was,

‘I am just a boy who’s friends with his Words and She helps me whenever I need.’

I am not a Musician you see yet when I heard the violins and the trumpets,
my heart swooned like the magnanimous trunks of the African elephants.
I am not a Singer you see yet when I heard those ‘Ghazals’ and ‘Raags’ of my country, my mind iterated and the lyrics which were again Words; ushered out of my mouth from within.
I am not a Lover you see yet when I see the red velvet roses and the bright white lilies, all my mind imagines is Who’s behind these intricate detailing?
I am not a Lover you see yet when I see two young lips retracting, I feel an immense regret knowing how hard it is to bridge the finite gap between that small infinity.

---

Yet when I saw her, there she was, the figment of my imagination embodied into a real human form, waiting for the well-known and familiar voice to call out her unfamiliar name.

“Hold me close and hold me fast,
The magic spell you cast,
This is La Vie En Rose.”

The harmonies synchronizing, the lyrical beauty taking over the inhibited mind,
a boustrophedon attempt of scribbling down this emancipation of us.
The bouquet lies around in the corner, seeing the passionate lovers strip each other of their images and usurp each other thoroughly; mocking the anhedonia shrouding the world outside.

“When you press me to your heart,
I’m in a world apart,
A world where roses bloom”

Ode To Life

And thus it began, as mentioned to us by the age old man,
The Seven Stages of Life which I have lived through in my limited time.

But no matter what you may say,

You cannot call me a Loser.

For I stand here, after quite convincingly winning the very first race that you had put me in.

I’ve walked; briskly and wearily,
I’ve ran; swiftly and heavily,
I’ve fallen down, flat faced into the delirious entrapments of your fanciful debauchery,
And yet I’ve stood back up at the end to embrace you wholeheartedly.

So whatsoever it is, tell me.
What next do you have in store for me? However odd or silly may it be
I shall take it upon me to finish this race that I started so steadily.

For now I realise that you are but a Privilege given to a select few. I realise that you are not my commander but only a chanced encounter.

You are a race which one can never actually win as your loyal servant runs behind in order to obliterate us all.

But to those of us who can look down upon the road rather than seeing far away into the distance searching for the destination and the meaning; they shall see the footprints left behind by the ancestors of our humble beginnings.

Life is a race indeed. Run. Not to reach the inevitable end but to leave your footprints on the tracks instead!

Living Dead..

Dehradun, 2000

“Oh please! Just shut up. I’ve been listening to this crap for a long time. Your family had never accepted me wholeheartedly and I am tired of pleasing them ever since. “, her mom was  screaming at the top of her voice. 

Not a single word was heard from her father. 

Avantika kept her head down looking at the carpet and her mind constantly trying to connect the dots of this daily disagreement and the increasing distance between her parents. Though she was just 8, yet she could understand the differences between her parents. She knew that they did not like each other. 

“Avantika?  What kind of non sense is this! You were supposed to write an essay on ‘My family’. Why did you copy Arshi’s essay? “, her teacher rebuked

“Because I found her family to be happier than mine..”, she replied 

Her teacher had no answer to that. She did not know what Avantika was going through. 

Avantika’s soul was caged. She wanted to flee. She seeked help.. 

To be continued… 

¿Enemigo? Mi amigo.

To Depression,

My old foe; withstanding the sands of Time, we’ve surpassed everything and everyone. Time has passed us by like the clock hands ticking away, counting Eternity. We’ve stood there, face to face, addressing our wounds through each other’s eyes and coveting our victories with malicious vice.

You’ve taken away from me umpteen amounts of Moments, gifting in return nothing but tears and dilapidated ruins. The child who’s mind runs through vague ideas is our playground; you being the Sandman of the Night while I’m the Morning Sun.

In this playground we meet again, ill-advised we wage war again, to see who reigns supreme, to see who stands tall when the dust settles down again.

All I can say at the end is that one day we shall meet again, away from this playground and its meshes while it rains.

One day we shall meet, where the World fades away and the dark crimson line between us turns pale.

One day, You and I shall be Friends.

~ Happiness.

Knowing Emraan..

14th April, Kurseong. Present Day. 

“Happy Birthday Emraan“, a voice of a lady came to his ears.. He still had his eyes closed until a touch on his forehead woke him up.. 

“Thank You Miss.”, he said. 

“You better take a leave today and enjoy the day. Have a good day my child.”, and then Miss. Lobo left his room. 

Emraan stood near the window watching the boys play. He then sat on his bed, lighted a matchstick and watched it burn till the end. When the whole school gathered for the morning prayer, he was still there in his room lost in his thoughts, the outside world did not bother him. After a while, he reached out for a book and turned to Page 78. There was a picture of a boy laying on his mother’s lap. He watched that till his vision went blurr and he shut the book. 
This hostel was his home, the garden adjacent to the school was his playground and the flowers were his friends. He spent the entire day watching them. 
10 long years in that place, he saw them grow. He saw them smiling to the sun, He saw them fall. Every spring he had new friends and every autumn, he would lose all. He knew what losing was, how it felt. And like every year, he spent his entire birthday with himself and the roller coaster of emotions he couldn’t keep aside. 
“Come Emraan. It’s time to cut the cake. Come with me.”, it was again Miss. Lobo who brought him back to the real world. 

“Can I cut the cake in my room?”, he said looking down to the untied laces. 

Emraan has always been different from those of his age. He wasn’t abnormal, he was just friends with himself. Little did the world know the reason behind his calm…. 

To be continued…. 

The Goddess’s UTOPIA

The din of our day to day lives suddenly gets usurped by the rumble of the clouds while the lightning bolts scurry through the cloudy sky. The nonchalant passer-byes tread upon but one mind detaches and fancies a thought process; “the clouds float oh-so peacefully through the sky but even they need to roar so as to usher in the rains.”
Muddy, convoluted lanes encroached upon by in-numerous thatched sheds comprising of wooden frameworks waiting to be touched by the artisan’s hands that will mould the frameworks of clay into incarnations of The Deity. The pot-hole ridden lanes crowded upon by amateur hands holding various models of cameras to capture that holy moment when her eyes are sketched and drawn which is fabled to bring Her into Life!
The magnanimous idol situated in the southern part of the city attracts an endless sea of visitors, who brave the sweltering heat and the various hurdles that our beloved city’s traffic has to offer, only to catch a glimpse of the idol that towers over the surroundings and to see whether those countless slogans of ‘Eto boro? Sotti?’ were merely false propaganda or had any truth in them; while the necessitous maker of that very graven image wanders about, searching for an idol of that very same deity, only the puniest version which befits and is in-sync with his stature.
He hopes to find one so that he can look into the eyes of his own goddess who’s glimmering eyes wait patiently for her beloved father in torn little frocks with a sickly smile.
“What a hapless father am I? And what an unlucky daughter is she? I help create these colossal statues for people I barely know but for Her, my Angel, I can do no better than this.”
It is fabled that this deity had been created by combining the virtues and strenghts of the most powerful Gods and Goddesses so as to defeat the Asuras; an army of devils who were granted immense power by the very Gods and Goddesses they rebelled against. This deity, Maa Durga had single-handedly (actually she possessed ten hands) defeated the leader of the Asuras and taken his life. This moment is the one brought alive through the idols. Peace had been restored and humanity could grow and head to where we all stand today.
God created humans; Humans created Religion and Religion created various faces of the Supreme Power or the Almighty. Which face to worship? Which one to frown upon? Where to kneel down and solemnly pray? A Mandir? A Masjid? Or the Church?
Where should this father go and pray? Where should he offer flowers, sheets covered with rose petals or candles so that his daughter does not have to face such impecuniousity?
Humans are believed to be the foremost species of life to have ever graced this planet. I do implore the “finest creations” to try and answer the questions that darted out of this meandering mind.

  “All you need in this Life.. is a hand outstretched for you.”

Folded hands address that same deity who once rid this planet from the ghastly terrors of the Asuras, who stood alone in the face of danger and defeated Evil. She brought us out of that peril, I hope she can see how many hands are outstretched for Her to grasp and pull them out of this delusional place which she vehemently fought for once. I hope she hears this father’s prayers and see his daughters tears. I hope this time when she returns back to her husband; she makes sure there are no more hands that are left outstretched for her to grasp!

Lugar Profano o Paraíso de Bibliófilos?

‘Where are you? Where the hell are you? I’m just going to try and finish whatever you are!’  a voice rattles from the pathway leading to the chamber. The magnanimous house drenched in white with an eerie atmosphere around it! A paranormal experience enthusiast’s delight!
The Belvedere House; the enchanting presence that has it’s delirious entrapment ready to baffle and play with our meandering minds!

‘Someone there? Help me out!’

The chamber in the ground floor sealed from the above and bricked up at the entrance through an unique archway. No trapdoors or openings yet a sudden chill runs down anyone’s spine walking through this passageway with an inexplicable feeling of being followed. The guide says that it served as a torture chamber for prisoners during Lord Belvedere’s reign and has never been opened since. The voice fades away but the absurd thoughts carry on. Book lover’s Paradise? Or the safe haven of something Unholy?