Chaos in a Kaleidoscope

She started fidgeting with her hands. It shouldn’t take so long to fix a window. The noise and disorderliness made her cringe. Were there still some specks of dust on the glass? These people couldn’t do anything right. She looked at the clock. It had a tendency of running faster than usual when she was agitated. She didn’t want her husband to come home to such chaos. Looking at her hands, she noticed that her wedding ring needed to be polished. She had worked so hard to ensure that everything had been perfect for 11 years of their marriage. This was her dream home, towering away from the commotion of the world, closer to the tranquility of the clouds; windows big enough to allow the heavens in. Windows. Everything was in place but this one window. One window couldn’t spoil it all.

Her eyes darted to the clock again. It looked lopsided. Or was she imagining it? Everything was going wrong. She squirmed. There was the same old shortness of breath that she felt ever so often. Her heart started beating faster; she felt claustrophobic. Schedules were made to be followed. This wouldn’t do. Her hands were sweaty and she couldn’t find her handkerchief. Today had to be among the worst days of her life. “You should leave. You can finish the work tomorrow,” she blurted out. They shrugged, “Take care not to lean on the window. It is not completely fixed yet.”

She got a footstool and aligned the clock. The doorbell rang. She rushed to put the footstool back. The doorbell rang again. She frowned; he knew she didn’t like this kind of a rush. “I crossed the workers on their way out,” her husband said as he entered. “I thought it would take longer to fix the window.” There was a small feather stuck to his shoe. He briskly went to the bedroom. She followed, unable to confess that the work was incomplete. Her attention was caught by the white feather; it pricked her eyes. All her efforts of being perfect were to be ruined. She looked on mortified as he placed a hand on the window and bent over. A faint sound of crashing glass broke the serene silence of her dream house. She wiped off a speck of red on the window sill with a finger making a mental note to get her wedding ring polished later.

Picture courtesy - http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/87/Model_window_silhouette.jpg

An Apple A Day

She poured out her regular cup of strong tea and lightly sniffed at it. But it was more out of habit as her ability to smell had weakened with the appearance of greys. She sat heavily with the cup by the window that overlooked the street. While she sat calmly sipping on the tea, everyone on the street passed her by in a blur of movement. There was urgency in every step, a fear in every eye. They were all blind to her withered old structure in the dilapidated construction; their only concern was moving ahead, their eyes only looked upward in the search of a heaven.

She was growing restless by now. Then the doorbell rang. She smiled and gently dragged her tired feet to the door. The young postman smiled, “Sorry grandma, there were a lot of letters to be delivered today.” She smiled affectionately and led him to the old dining table. As the young boy set down his bag and retrieved the letter addressed to her, she neatly started cutting the apples kept on the table.

The postman squinted at the letter, “Your son’s writing is becoming more illegible by the day.” The woman let out a hearty laughter, “Of course, he has become a doctor now.” “It is just the usual. He is fine. So is his wife. Their child misses your stories. He will come to meet you soon.” The woman gave a weary smile as she placed the chopped apples on a platter and passed them to the boy. “Don’t mind grandma but I have been reading out these letters to you every single day from almost a year. It is always the same. But never have I seen your son or his wife visiting you.” The woman stared out of the window for a long while as though wishing an answer to fly past. After what seemed like ages, she looked back at the boy and said, “But you will come, won’t you? You will come whenever a letter has my address on it. You will come when you get married. Your children will listen to my stories if not my own grandchildren.” She looked at him with such intense expectation that he just smiled, unable to speak.

As he picked up his bag, ready to leave, the woman glanced at the full plate. “Take those apples home, son. They are for you.” The boy looked at the plate and forced another smile. He gingerly picked up a couple of pieces leaving the rest on the plate and walked out. The woman took her place at the window as the young postman rushed out of the date in a hurry, pausing only to shove the apple pieces into the dustbin.

The woman’s thoughts zoomed back 8 years in time when her son and daughter-in-law walked out of the same house with her grandchild in their arms, vowing never to return back to her stifling presence. She felt a sudden pang of loneliness as she wrote yet another letter to herself. She had to take immense effort to ensure that the tears didn’t roll down on the letter, so that the young boy wouldn’t have any problems understanding the address.

The evening was spent in cooking her son’s favourite food and watching fatigued people return home to their families from that window. Before she retired to a night of fitful sleep, there was one last chore to complete. She wiped a stray tear as she laid fresh and ripe apples on the table.

One Last Night

The emphatically coloured eyes seemed to glare directly at him, compelling him to question his very existence. The light brown slowly became darker until it turned bloodshot. The colour then started spilling out of them. The blood slowly dripped down those white cheeks; and he looked down with horror as the drop slid down his own wrist. The gash on his hand seemed to deepen and the eyes slowly dissolved into darkness.

A cusp between Sagittarius and Scorpio, he was an undecided blend of fire and water and he convinced himself that he was destined to live this dual life. Every night, his features softened, his neckline plunged, his trousers got tighter and his gait became more graceful. This duality often left him flustered early in the morning; but later became a part of his life. The numerous wounds that he had inflicted on himself had threatened to taint his only tool - his body. He now sometimes regretted those careless dives for a gully cricket match that left him with bruised knees and marks that never faded. While he turned his fiery brown eyes into gentle blues every night, he saw his mother's misty eyes looking back at him from his reflection. He remembered those eyes as they watched her youngest son grow from a boy tied to her saree to a young man who had stopped caring. He remembered those eyes from the time he left her at the doorstep with a plate that wasn't eaten from. That sight lasted. So did the one of her lying down in the one room apartment, clad in white, devoid of mourners.

The protective younger sibling of an older sister, he struggled to be protected from mishaps every night. He was a little boy with no vices and a carefree life, who was forced to grow up and take charge in the span of a night. With the death of his mother, his father's turn towards spirituality and the concomitant disregard for his family compelled him to live a life obscured by the darkness of the night. He tried his best to lie to himself. It was easier to pity his own life, but the fact was that this was a faster source of income than daily labour work; and he needed quicker money to get out of this life. But whatever money he got never really seemed to be enough. That little aspirant cricketer was now constantly in and out of police stations, first on charges of unnatural sex and then on charges of soliciting in public places. Drug abuse now joined the list but it was more of a necessity than a choice - heroin reduced pain. In those nights behind bars, he was looked down upon and threatened not only by the authorities, but also by the female prostitutes whose daily living he was snatching away.

But the pain today would not get reduced by any drug. Through the layers of colours that covered his face, he saw just grays. The darkened room swiveled with the muffled tears in his eyes. The smell of alcohol overwhelmed the perfume in his clothes that now lay at the bedside. While he spent the night with a man who picked him up, his sister waited for her husband. The gash on his wrist would be deeper tonight.

Image source - http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?228696

All for the Lord

In the times of immense development around the world, in the times of Nepal being born again as a democracy, the evil of animal sacrifice still persists. Many Hindu practices in Nepal borrow heavily from tantric arts as the place was one of the hotbeds of the same. In the land of Buddhism, it is appalling to know that there is still place for such a ritual.



A piercing clamor resounded in the temple.
It kept him quivering for hours.
He looked skywards and prayed to his god;
The one that didn’t yearn for naive blood.

He wasn’t blessed with words,
Or the intellect of these higher mortals.
But he was capable of feeling despair and pain
As the thick rope cut into his vocals.

The delicacies fed everyday failed to interest him.
He would rather be starved and free.
Then came the day, he was bathed and worshipped;
A beautiful garland adorned his neck.

He was dragged along the street;
The temple bells seemed closer with every tug.
He glanced skyward with pitiful eyes,
As a kite circled the heavens.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

The Divine Enclosure

The Kumaris in Nepal are revered as they believe that the goddess Taleju resides in the little girl that is picked. A girl from the Shakya family (Buddhist), who fulfills 32 feature requirements, is picked to be a Kumari and resides in the Kumari palace at Durbar Square. However the girl falls into a pitiful state when, after she gets her menstruations, she is removed from the palace and another Kumari is picked. During her stay in the palace, she is not educated or trained in any art; also people believe that any man who marries an ex-Kumari will die an early death. Resultantly, most of the girls end up begging by temples or are forced into prostitution.


She gazed down at the eyes peering towards her
Hopes weighed her down, desires of granting wishes;
Her eyes momentarily glanced up towards the heavens,
Taking in the colours before being pulled into the dark.

Her fragile feet were numbed to any feeling.
She longed to sprint across freshly watered grass.
She missed the smell of her sister’s used clothes,
Not days, not months; for years the castigation was to last.

The sense of yearning, too, slowly left her alone;
A life that she knew nothing of, couldn’t call out anymore.
Though the innocence in her was kept alive by the palace,
She had to leave; this young woman was no longer a girl.

She wasn’t royal anymore, or a goddess;
She was just a woman with her eyes to the ground.
She violently fluttered along with life,
Like a tender feather abruptly released in the storm.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

The Incalculable Ganges

She ran her fingers through her graying hair.
This was not how it was meant to be.
A little lamp to fulfill one solitary wish
Shouldn’t cost anyone their two days’ meal.

She joined her palms and inhaled deeply;
The fragrance of incense soothed her senses.
But the deity was hidden behind a donation box;
And the sprinkle of the sanctified water failed to touch her.

She had lived a life at the mercy of others,
She now wished to tread on the path of God.
A silent ripple flowed through her frail and tired body
As the last sight of gray was lost in the holiness of the Ganges.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

A Bed-time Story?

He peered silently from behind the door,
His lower lip twitched harder.
Strong fingers gripped his shoulders;
He wasn’t supposed to be here any longer.

The tyres screeched loudly to a halt
And his nimble feet carried him out.
There was a commotion all around,
But he could only hear a penetrating buzz of doubt.

The image never left his mind.
It was etched in like a million others.
He wondered if he could beg for a lap instead,
Or for someone to feed him the food he earned?

He gazed from behind a pole again;
A drop of saliva trickled down his mouth.
He then tasted the bitterness of a tear
As a dog, wagging its tail, beat him to a meal.

He had been robbed of a childhood,
Robbed of a possibility to a better future;
Tears blocked his vision as he looked around for help.
He lived in a train with no destination.

Photo courtesy - http://spad1.wordpress.com/2010/02/04/the-boy-in-the-rain/

A Life of Passion

She brightened his nights, completed his days,
He found her among the brightly lit lanes.
An unusual darkness surrounded her,
Fueled by the immense, dancing flames within.

She survived the fierce battle with death
Had won the helpless fight for existence.
But smiles never graced her perfect features
And the pride of a triumph never showed.

Her untold story kept mystifying,
Her heavy silence kept him wondering.
No questions were asked, no answers expected,
He feared strengthening her shell further

A bright, starry night broke her defenses.
She had chosen a path of no return.
"The girl will die," they had said and she panicked,
She feared dying without feeling passion.


Picture taken from http://www.flickr.com/photos/29553060@N05/4376540043/ (no copyright infringement intended)

Dewdrops

Her eyes closed the door to her soul-
A door that opened only for him.
Her beautiful blue eyes were lined with kohl,
But he could only see them filled to the brim

He never understood the longing of hers,
The want of having him close,
The nights of love in cold Decembers,
The passionate patch-ups after loud rows.

He thought he understood what she said
Even as she silently gazed at evening birds.
Their silent conversations misled;
The feelings needed words

They vowed to wipe off the fantasized memories
And said an unspoken goodbye.
He never believed in fairies;
But future, for her, was to merely on fate rely.

The vow was broken, thoughts kept flooding
As they gazed at shiny dewdrops.
Miles apart they were living
Joint only by her swiftly fading hopes.

As she awoke one morning,
Fate answered her teary calls;
Emotions in her dying self went soaring.
Years without him were just full of falls.

He never thought he would see her again
Much less while dressed in his white coat.
The strength in his feet seemed to drain
He could now see his life gloat.

The time they had wasted was not to come
But he would keep holding her hand now
Through the rest of life, their song he promised to hum
As before death she took her last bow…

Grey Past

Forgetting is the greatest boon granted to man. But like a lot of things in life, we don’t realize the importance of something we have. But she did realize the importance; and this realization lasted every moment of her waking hours. Her past haunted her, quite literally so.

She didn’t remember when it all started; but whoever she could remember entering her life in any way was there, right before her eyes. They appeared from thin air at their own will and then disappeared into nothingness. A horde of grey silhouettes followed and surrounded her everywhere. Her first boyfriend, the man who left her on their wedding day, her illegitimate daughter, her dead best friend, the little girl whose father she had wrongly fired from his job, they were all there. They stared at her through the fog that they were engulfed in, said things to her, mouthed foul words. They also sometimes gently advised her; advices that she never took. She never let too many people come close to her, she never let too many people enter her life because once they entered, they never left.

As a child, she often told her mother about the strange scary people surrounding her, waking her up in the middle of the night. She never understood why her mother couldn’t see them; they were all right in front of her! It hurt her tremendously that her own mother didn’t believe her, she was sweetly told to stop asking for so much attention. When she still wouldn’t give up on insisting that she didn’t lie, she was beaten into silence. She then stopped mentioning it to anyone and lived her entire life in the presence of those silhouettes. They watched her smile, tears, laughter, anguish, disappointment. She never had any emotion for herself, never a moment alone.

Foul language, curses and abuses didn’t really affect her. She had heard a lot of them to reach where she was right now and she didn’t regret that. But having abuses hurled at you during every waking moment is not quite an amusing feeling. She was now a tired woman and so she decided to talk things out with her constant companions. Her past came back to life, not that it had ever completely left her anyway. She realized how many mistakes she had made in life, how many things she had lost just because she didn’t talk things out. She didn’t regret anything; she wouldn’t change anything in her life even if she had the chance now. But speaking things out with her past helped her greatly. She saw her life from numerous eyes.

She lay on the hospital bed all day leaving only to use the bathroom. Bland, tasteless, love deprived food was brought to her thrice a day. No one came to visit her but she didn’t even need anyone else now. She was at peace with her past.

Someone knocked at the door and a pretty young nurse entered with her lunch. “Good morning Mrs. Johnson”, she said nervously. “I am Samantha. I have joined just today. I’ll be your new caretaker now. Hope you’ll be comfortable with me”, she recited the previously rehearsed line and left the room. Mrs. Johnson smiled as Samantha joined her at her bedside, now engulfed in grey mist.