Writing is simple,but not easy.

August 22, 2018

Amore




Do you look at the same stars?
And see them twinkle as I do…
Do you feel the wind across the face?
As I kiss you too.
Do you miss me so much?
As much as I do…

Do you remember the swaying trees?
As I hear them sing…
Do your eyes follow the notes?
As they turn to spring…
Do you trace the footprints in snow?
As I blend with the rising sun…

Do you still keep the torn notebook?
As I paste memories of a lifetime….
Do you write with the color of blood?
As I live and die another life…
Do your eyes moisten?
As I leave my breath behind.

Do you wander in the same garden?
As I close the gates forever.
Do you seek the flower?
That I bury under the ground….
Do you love me the way I do?
As I close my eyes without you.




 

Gyanban thoughts :  I was listening to Martin Carthy's arrangement which Simon and Garfunkel turned to an epic Canticle/Scarborough Fair mix, it inspired me to pen a few lines of my own. Though originally a medieval English ballad with unknown origins, it revolves around a stranger visiting the town of Scarborough carrying a message of impossible tasks for the lover to perform.Carrying on with the same essence of love and war as a metaphor for what we have and have not, what we miss forever and what we treasure within us. A heart full of memories and a mind full of realities..I wrote these few lines as an ode to soldiers who lost their loved ones, and in some sense, we are all fighting aren't we?

May 14, 2018

Indefinitely Yours






 
Take a pick. Alcohol or infidelity? A potent combination if taken together, turns out it gives you great power. There I was, all of twenty-two, fucking the president on both counts and loving it. Power meant nothing to me. I was fearless in mind and as those four boyfriends suggested, in bed as well. 

There is no slut shame in being you. Exploring your mind and god gifted, untouched by the gym, full enough to fit your hands and light enough to get on top, body. Just the mention of it, will have every moral policing prick on the block run a verbal smear campaign on you, by day. Of course, by night, they are banging someone’s brain out with a single malt on the table side. Don’t judge me, look into your dark loins.

They called him Fitz. Prez Fitz. Some tonality to it. His aides joked he could fit into any pants. I met him at a campaign rally when my perky breasts brushed over his waving hands. Instant Karma. He turned to glance over his shoulders and I knew, I had him, bra-hook, clothesline and sinker! Oh, those boyfriends of mine thought I had a magnetic smile and that I should use it more often. Turns out, it was a good advice, I got an invite to the campaign dinner party that night at the club.

“What does the world know you as?” he whispered into my earlobes. “Fuckwanti.” The look on his face said it all. He was into me. I liked gob smacking older men. They’d fumble for words and quiver in their pants. Their wary eyes searching for their ignorant wives and their adventurous fingers seeking thrill at every curve, corner or tissue. But he was different. I guess being powerful means, you’ve been done over many times. “And I am Balman Khan!”  He managed to get me laughing with the next minutes of pleasantries. But deep inside, the chemical reactions were overflowing, thudding into walls.

Over the course of next few months, we didn’t speak much, drank like barrels being refilled, fucked like wild animals and collapsed like a remnant earthquake. Word got out, people around turned the other way whenever I walked in to his office. His secretary gave me dirty looks all the time, and then one day I decided to do the Fuckwanti on him. I dug my nails into his buttocks.  He’s not looked me in the eye since then. It was getting close to a year, when my withdrawal symptoms started to kick in. The sex was still good, but orgasms per outing had dropped significantly. The power parties were good, but the men grew increasingly pedestrian. The class was missing. Besides their bellies were overpowering their dicks.

Acing my masters in communication course, I was soon walking the hallowed walls of power. The party hired me formally as their public relations and social media manager. Get laid and get paid to do Facebook. Ah can life get better? I guess not. The downward spiral had begun. I was falling in love. Shit. I know, even when I think about it after all these years, I feel how Savitri of me to do that. So not me. It was evident when I began missing his text messages on the weekends and before I realized I made the dreadful leap of a nag, I called him before he did.

He began traveling physically and I began following virtually. He began drifting mentally and I started to stalk him. The further he went, the deeper I sank. Gosh. Such a Suckina of me in hindsight. The final condom happened a few weeks later, where he broke away midway for a shower. I lay in bed as his phone whizzed on the side table. Flight Aliya. What the suck. Curiosity picked up the phone and heard the huskiest hellos. A pause later, the speaker uttered the words making it amply clear, he was fucking a mindless bitch midair. Uh. The knife slit the throat and jagged right into the heart. I didn’t even feel that way since I lost my virginity. Fuckwanti, you got handed over the oldest trick in the book. Out sight, out of pussy. Dammed. I swallowed my attitude, sucked it up and destroyed the phone before strutting out of the room.
He chased, wooed, courted, even wore M7 for me. I was not coming. I mean I would come with other men, but not with him anymore. Fuck Fitz. One day, I went to the roof top, the most happening bar in town. One of our earlier fuckhaunts, as I sat there with Margarita, I saw Fitz with the mid-air bitch. He took the mike and said, I want to fly with you. I don’t know what got into me, Margarita, love or the midair bitch? Alcohol on a roof top is a heady combination on a cold winter night. It also makes you pee or puke. My fellow pee mate was puking though. I was about to offer help, when I spotted those midair Jimmy Choos. She gasped for breath as I gagged her with toilet roll. She was flushed. I hate fucked the man next to me like had never done before. He was almost choking and gasping while I kept whipping up a frenzy. It was butt slapping, prick grinding titty-twisting hard ride.

I suppose opposites fuck each other silly till they are no longer opposite and thus start to repel. Fitz and me were over. Alcohol came in handy. Each drink drank me more and drowned me head to toe. Ah those were the nights. The sorrow, the pain and the vein. Carefully slit, just enough to bleed, but not so much to die. The cigarettes burning into the arms. Black spots. Scars and many abuses later, one day I ejected Fuckwanti. Fuck it I said and draped into the Sari.

I spent the last twenty-two years of my life being Sari. I did the whole drill, married an upper middle class well educated virgin boy, produced two brats, I hated them as babies, but somehow the hormone got the better of me. Cried in movies, partied on weekends, drank juice, let the Gym touch me, wore sexy spectacles and deep cut blouses to match the ambience at work , giggled like a school girl, bitched like a prom queen, cooked, maided , heck don’t know if that’s a word, but it was a lot of work keeping that house clean. I juggled , managed, ravaged , savaged, bled, bred and lied in bed. Getting shoved, brushed, pushed, underpaid, ignored, judged , second fiddled , back stabbed, be the fall girl, all rolled into one body in one life. It would shake the fuck up. The routine had me. It robbed the mojo of its magic. Did I complain? Hell no, a woman’s got to do, what she has got to do, isn’t it? But life is a bitch. Wait. Life is a dog. It keeps barking back with its tail wagging.

I didn’t think I would ever fall in love again. I know that everyone says that after a heartbreak, but the difference is that I’m not heartbroken. I’m not cynical, or pessimistic, or sad. I’m just someone who once felt something bigger than anything else I’d ever felt and when I lost it, I honestly believed I would never have that again. But... I was 22 then and life is long. And I’m feeling things right now that I haven’t in a long, long time. 

Some wise pussy had one said, once a bad pussy cat, always a bad pussy cat. The wetness between my legs is streaking again. The perspiration was on the bosom again, the lips were moist again. The tingle in the jungle was buzzing again. Yes, it was good feeling wet again. The twenty-year Sari phase had just vanished. I filed the nails of my index and middle fingers again. The inner fuck had reappeared somehow, magically tingling into my veins. The sudden gust of gush in room full of hypocritical jerks was hard to control I knew one toss of the hair would invite two requests for a cuppa leading to zuppa. Somehow, I managed to keep my breath in check, not heaving too much.
Its slowly, but surely coming back to me. The smell of infidelity and the touch of alcohol is overpowering. It sucks you in. And just when I was getting used to the cleavage staring eyeballs at my workplace, a handwritten note was all it took to get me back to a pair of Wranglers, white shirt, hair open and bunch of black bangles on one hand.

It was from Fitz. He is older now and also the most powerful man in the county. Yes. I am on my way to the rooftop bar, and there is a dark corner under the open sky. Alcohol and infidelity are a great combination, they give you those four powerful words, I got carried away. Don’t judge me. Go look into your dark loins.

March 29, 2018

Catharsis



Hunger and shelter kill people.

Finding a place in the prime Borough is like finding a diamond in a coal mine. Mum used to say, learn to adjust, and you will find what you want. After all, these little adjustments, are a part of the fucking parcel of life. Huh. 

It would be exactly nine months on the first of April since I moved into the plush Toccata penthouse. It had soft caramel undertones on the walls and the Renoir’s, one on each side, caught my gaze on the first day. Instinctively, I knew, it was the house I wanted. As the landlady walked ahead of me, notes of coffee, pink pepper, cedar, and cinnamon oozed from her swaying hips, sucking me into a deep hallucinogenic state. Fuck me. 

I couldn’t bungle this one up, unlike the previous eight houses. Terrible, they were. “No late-night partying or substances, pills, injections, powders, got it?” She said breaking my gaze. Yes, she had the vocabulary. I am the shy type, so I lowered my head and nodded gently but my head was still spinning with her magnetic fragrance, the kind which you know, is sure to get you into trouble. And it did. I fell in love, hook, line, and sinker or fish, plate, and chips. Whatever.


The first four months were rather wonderful as I settled into a routine and we got to know each other a little better. I would leave for work early morning and she would see me off with a lingering smile and as I returned, her fragrance reached the door before she did. We spent hours chatting on the terrace till one of us spotted Felix returning from work. 

Yes, she was with Felix after all, not promiscuous but lonely nevertheless. “Meet my husband Felix,” she said glancing over her shoulder. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a questioning look. I think he didn’t like me. It was evident by his eye contact or the lack of it. So, it wasn’t clandestine in the real sense of the word, neither was it platonic, I don’t think anyone knows how to define love. But I was happy like I hadn’t been in my previous lives, and I wondered if she’d be my Queen? 

Soon Felix began to notice our chemistry and one day he refused to eat with me on the table. I took the food to my room and she followed me inside. “I’m sorry, I think my husband is a bit disturbed, please don’t mind. He has to deal with too many things of late, the business, the extended family and the cat.” Business and family, I could understand, they are complicated, but a cat? How can a cat be a source of unhappiness? I mean what could a poor little cat do? Can a cat be complicated? Hell no. The more I thought about it, the more it became clear, she was lying. While my mind couldn’t trust her anymore, my heart had other ideas.


That day, I scurried early from work to surprise her with a gift, but the familiar soft coffee smell was missing at the door. It was a shade of smoky dark tobacco and a bit rancid burnt chocolate. “She’s out,” he said noticing my surprised eyebrows. I nodded and careened into my room before another word was exchanged. They were in it together. Isn’t it? Fuck. I should’ve listened to mum and stayed away from the heart. But I was hungry, so I waited for her to return. 

She knew my food quirks just like mum. Right from my childhood, I was always allergic to Chocolate and Alcohol, a long-standing nemesis and so I kept away from the people who had them. Soon there was a knock, I waited, then it turned into a thud. Quaking, I peeped out and found Felix with a plate in hand. “Eat this, she’s kept it for you,” he said thrusting the plate. I put out a polite smile and thought he’d go, but he didn’t. “Go on eat it, I’m waiting,” he said squinting into my eyes. My heart never lied to me and it wasn’t going to be the first time today, it was screaming, get out! I drank some water to calm it down but as I opened the food cover, my heart almost leaped out of my mouth. It had Chocolate Rum balls.

He was going to kill me. Fuck him. Felix respired at the door but I felt it much closer. His gaze locked on me, I was cornered and when you corner a tiger, what does it do? It fucking fights back. Right. I flung the plate on his face. The edge hit his left eye as his knees buckled in pain. I took the fork and packed it in his neck. He growled in rage, so loud, my eardrum blacked out and eyes silenced, or is it the other way around? Fuck. I flew on his back and slammed his head on the doorknob. He passed out. I waited a few seconds before checking his breath. 

He was still breathing as I got up on the chest of drawers. My mum used to say when in doubt, stub it out. Huh. The chest of drawers smashed his head. Oh, God. A big mess. I began cleaning the spill each tile at a time. The pink gooey stuff mixed with red and gave it a dark boysenberry sweet-tart like flavor. Uh-hmm. But tarts are not my favorite, so I moved on to the others. It took more than two hours to tuck him into bed. 

No pun. I heard the key click inside the lock, she always got it right in the first shot, so I scampered out of the room to greet her. My excitement was short-lived as I saw her striding in with the cat. “Meet Isabell Catz, our newest family member,” she said stroking her thick Mocha mane. Slightly on the heavier side, but she’d kept herself well, the curves had not yet become folds if you know what I mean. I forced a welcome smile and returned to my room. “Felix. Where is Felix?” I heard her walking into the bedroom behind me. The floor was still sticky and a bit tart-smelly. I closed the door on her face. It broke my heart but I had to do it. I heard a loud grunt and her voice receded as she searched for the missing Felix. Huh. What about me? What if I got lost someday? Would she search for me as much? Will she cry? Huh.

I reached for the lavender room freshener and sprayed it on the bed, the floor and near the door. There was a sniffing sneeze which escaped through the bottom of the door. That stupid cat was spying on me. Moments like these bring out the cunning best in me, or is it the worst? Whatever. I cleaned up, put on a fresh coat and applied some minimal touch to my hair, I like it to be left carefully careless before I step out in public. Isabell had a ‘I-don't-like-what-I-see’ look in her eyes but I smiled, this time quite warmly. The sun pierced through the window on to the dining table. “There you are, why were you sulking? I’m going to make some phone calls – Felix is missing. Oh, and do me a favor, feed her, will you please?” I nodded with a hint of a smile. 

I went inside and brought her a bowl of boysenberry milk mixed with some light chocolate. She sniffed it suspiciously but it looked so yummy. The greedy stupid cat drank it all. I didn’t have to wait long for the reaction. Isabell rolled over, scratched her back against the carpet, dug her claws into the flesh and bled on the floor. The porcelain Pygmalion was in splinters, the slender bar cabinet rattled with cracking wine glasses and the stain glass floor lamp hit the Renoir, fleecing it off its pricelessness.

I think it was an allergic reaction. Huh. I heard her scream from the upper deck, “Oh my God, no,” before she stumbled down the stairs. Those strawberry lips thud into the protruding pillar at the end of the stairway and blood smattered all over her face, she slumped on the floor, lifeless. I had my heart in the mouth or is it mouth in the heart? Whatever. I noticed her lying in a pool of blood flickering her legs in pain, quite dark I thought. She opened her bleary eyes when the cat, all seven pounds of squirming flesh, climbed onto her belly. Squinting into the sunlight streaming in from the open window, she discovered that she was now the weary possessor of a pounding headache, and at some point, had managed to lose both a tooth and a spouse. It's in moments like these you see light from darkness and I think it happened for Isabell


It was the first time she asked for permission. I nodded. Isabell took the other Renoir and slammed it into her face. Sharp girl. Huh. I opened the refrigerator to get some juice and realized, we hadn’t done groceries in a while. So, in the next few hours, we made sure the refrigerator was well stocked. Isabell understood my shy nature and I must add we are great friends now, more like a tag team partnership. Maybe someday, we’ll have a company of our own. Morning never shows the day. Huh. 

It’s almost a year since the bloody Friday weekend afternoon got screwed, the stately couple was killed and to the police, I’ve promised to cooperate fully, as long as it takes. As I celebrate my birthday this thirteenth day of April, I am a happy cat. Toccata will officially be mine, well it’s technically sealed, but who cares. Fuck. Though I will need to do some remodeling, perhaps change the bed, the stains are stubborn, the refrigerator, it keeps dripping and some paint job.

But its ok. You make do with what you have left, don’t you? It’s a dream come true. Mum always said hunger and shelter kill people, not cats. So, who kills the cats? I guess it’s impossible, because every life, has nine cats. Huh.




Gyanban Thoughts: wrote this for a quirky writing competition. Did not get shortlisted. But I enjoyed writing this dark tale , metaphor at some level literal for some. And the title seemed quite apt as well, dont you think?













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