Breaking childhood.

I stood there, stealing glimpses of you; my face, being caressed by the coarseness of the cemented pillar; you walked past me, etching an image of red in my mind; the “lal teep” and your saree stripped in red, adding a contrast to your dark and pale skin, your lips chapped and faded. Your footsteps falling against the ground which lay ornamented with the dry twigs left a monotonous sound; you walked only to leave my ears with a different muse. 

That night, I found myself reliving the memory of you, only wishing I could’ve found a name I could christen you with. Drowning in lust, my hands found their way unentangling the knot of the “dhoti”, moving further down under. I could only imagine your face as my manliness felt the rigor form of my fisted hand. My body was virgin to the sensation I was going through, I was foreign to the feeling; I felt elated. Ecstacy was soon over taken by the feeling of guilt. I felt terrible; my childhood was broken. 

Apartment.

The lot to which I belong, the lot being the writers, were a curious and an observant bunch. In my case, the observant part of my brain was overtly dominant, that too to an extent that even a thread lying on the floor wouldn’t escape my eyes. The apartment seemed to have musky aroma, the curtains holding back the light of the city as though a canopy holding back sunlight. The rooms were painted grey with an unarranged bed. The bed sheet and the blanket happened to be white, creased, with stains of coffee and paint. I was, however, grasped with certainty that she had an obsession of white and grey. It was mind boggling though; a bit of an oxymoron as to why a person with such a colorful or rather to say a vibrant personality have such a subtle taste of colors for her surrounding. As my eyes wandered around, I caught on to a few things, which to me, were stubbornly scattered. There lay a white mug on the rugged brown carpet, with traces of coffee I reckon seemed days old. The ashtray by the side of the bed held burnt out cigarettes; Marlboro Hard, few burnt to the bud and few left undone. The sweet smell of stale smoke that still lingered in the room however, made me nostalgic. I could remember flashes of my times in London; I remember the dorm, which shared the same smell of stale smoke and burnt cigarettes, I remember as I made my way through each novel I read. The nostalgia was broken as she called out my name.

Nightmare.

Like the sleep full of nightmares

I wish to see every night;

Entangled in the depth of lies,

You are the truth I want to find.

Like the darkness before the light,

I see fear in me ignite.

The nearer I feel I am, 

The farther you seem to be;

Always too close but yet too far.

Living under the harmony of the thought of what was;

 The lust for breath… 

That never more will be.

Like the agony in joy,

The anxiety to find what never existed;

You are the nightmare mistaken for a dream.

Love.

The unspoken truth of love:

Uttered yet unheard;

Was too deep;

Drowning every single soul,

In its melancholy.

Dark as the cave;

Creating hallucinations

With its words unseen;

On its verge to enchant the very existence of one’s being.

Spell binding every thought alive

With its excruciating ecstasy

And its confusing complacence;

Never to be understood by man;

 Not ever to be.

Cold Blood.

Cold blood,

I watched it slither through your veins;

Seducing with warmth,

Killing with patience,

I could feel the deal;

As your lips brushed against mine;

I could feel the sweetness

And sense the poison passing through.

You were welcome,

With all your intentions;

As warm as the snow!

You were intriguing like never before,

Sending chills down my spine.

Not to forget the intoxication

With which you bound me.

You killed me;

Slowly, yet enchanting me.

Your voice like the knell;

The fear;

 I could feel in my bones.

So lovely was the feeling

To be dying with such ecstatic pain;

At the hands of a cold blood.

Hurt.

And then as I turned around, there she was across the street completely engrossed in what happened to be a Nicholas Spark, flipping the pages as if they were made of glass. Intensity building in her eyes, as though the next page would shatter her into pieces. She was keeping it as casual as it could have been; in blue. A blue dress it was. All that was worth, happened to be between the book and her; as the coffee lay cold, craving for attention, like an ignored child. I stood there awestruck by what I did not know. Of how much I wanted to walk over and say a word, there was something that froze me. I could not move, not even a finger. All I saw was dark black hair, ignorant brown eyes and lips which were moving as though chanting a prayer. As her lips moved, I caught on to a few words. “You deserve better”, she read. That few seconds felt like an eternity, more like those cliché moments in every romantic movie. Time had slowed down only to stop, as though it had decided to halt at a particular moment and never start again. I was only to imagine what she might have sounded like as she read those lines. It repeated itself, that moment, in my mind, like an echo in a cave. I felt myself in a melancholy in knowing that it was just a momentary satisfaction that I was going through looking at her. Even what was left of the satisfaction was soon overtaken by a feeling of despair. It began to hurt. “Looking at her hurt.”

Dream.

You sat there next to me, holdings a torn piece of paper with something written on it; crumpled up.  The uniform lines were more than evident on the crumpled piece. The blue of the ink, so prominent in the pale pink of the paper. I could feel you quiver as we sat staring at the blankness of the scene that lay at our disposal. Somehow my eyes seemed to have latched on to the creases of the paper, the unfamiliar creases that were visible through the few strands of hair the fell on your face. The paper, seemed to have found a home between your fingers which held on to it like a mother to a child. To my utter realization, I feel a drop splatter on my arm. You were crying. You mentioned someone in your phase of lament. It made me feel relentless as I could not do anything about it even if I wished to. I could feel myself drowning in melancholy, the pain was unbearable. I was in a pool of sadness and with that sadness I welcomed my day, I open my eyes only to realise it was all but reality; I was only dreaming. 

Blood.

The creak of the gate seemed familiar.  There were cops around searching for evidences,  rather like stray dogs looking for food, looking around and under the bushes in front of the yard of the Villa. The door was left open as though waiting for a long awaited guest, which was highly unlikely in this case. I walked in through the doorway.  The familiarity was disturbing, because I couldn’t remember how and when was I familiarised to the place.  I got flashes of images running through my mind; I felt the tingle in my fingers as a memory was being revived, as if being dug out from the grave.  There was a girl, leading the way, holding my hand, pulling me along.  The vision was vivid, her back facing me,  and then she turns and everything is blank; I don’t see her face.  I was in pain now and remember being in pain then. I could see myself fall to the ground and felt a strange pain at the back of my head.  The last thing I remember seeing was the rugged carpet and was now sad I couldn’t see her face. The same carpet was now stained in blood. 

Smile.

All I heard was your chuckle as I sat there dumbfounded looking at you, making myself look stupid with all the human noise I sat there making.

The wind blew away the smoke that found its way out of the the burning tobacco from the cigarette that was left dangling at your fingers. I didn’t realise myself staring at those hurt brown eyes that looked back at me; without a blink. In those fraction of seconds, I noticed more than could, more than I ever would; the mole that made itself look so prominent right below your right eye, which I reckon would even make Venus insecure and the way your hair caressed your right cheek only to leave me envious. I wondered; fraction of seconds was all that I took? To see you? Understand you? I knew that moment was temporary. But I still found myself in that moment, smiling at you, for that was all I could do; smile.

Darkness.

I could hear my own heart beat as I lay my head on the table. 12.52 Am and I found myself moving my pen across the paper, trying to think of something rather extraordinary.  I thought to myself, “Why did I stop? Why did I ever stop?” as I stared blankly at the uniformly printed lines on the pages of my journal.  I found myself looking around to find something for my mind to latch on to and bring to life on paper but in vain; All I saw was darkness. The pillow on my dank and depressing bed, however, could be seen due to the little light that was cast on it, tinting certain portions in glow while the others remained in darkness, creating a visual, that I recall was pleasing to my mind at that moment. The ups and downs, the highlights and the shadows formed by the creases of the pillow creating their own artwork, made me wonder if beauty exists only because of light? But then I was brought to the realisation that without darkness light would cease to be. I wondered why man then feared darkness and loved the light? I wondered if he had ever tried to comprehend the beauty of darkness?  Perhaps not. I did not blame him though, for the beauty of darkness was far too vast for the human mind to fathom.