After

After all this time I wouldn’t have imagined that it would be the thought of you that brings a smile to my lips the way it does now, without any regard to where I am or what I am doing. That you could cause my heart to skip a beat or two with just a glance my way, that anyone or anything could make me want to be a better person. When we met I would have laughed at the idea that I’d be doodling your name on scraps of paper like a high schooler with a crush but I do that now, involuntarily. I don’t quite understand why catching a glimpse of you in the crowd makes my day, but it does.

I would be content with watching you from a distance, because it is you in your element. The way it seems as though the world was designed with you in it because of how you seem to fit in so perfectly. I, the outsider, could watch you and it would make me happy for some unfathomable reason, maybe it is the thought that you or at least a part of you is all mine, even if not right then.

I think of running my hands through your hair as you fall asleep, watching your chest rise and fall rhythmically. I think of trying to match my breathing with yours as I’m lying on your chest. I think of how I trace the lines on your body with my eyes, with the tips of my fingers, intrigued by the discovery of the ticklish spots that make you laugh. I think of your laugh, and how it fills my world, how it can make me happy even when I’m feeling my worst. I think of how I love you, simply and without thought of what now or what comes after because this fluttery sort of happiness is all I need.

About Time, Don't You Think?

A/N: Anyone who is here for the first time, this is not the usual kind of post. If fiction is what you are looking for, go over to the older posts. Thank you!

---

Well, hello!

Thank you person who left an anonymous comment asking me if I had abandoned this blog. Turns out, I had. This blog had reduced to one point on a bullet list in my resume which served as a convenient ice breaker during interviews, "Oh so you have a blog?" "Yes, since 2009."

To write, to write, to write. See it turns out, I have been writing a lot since the last time I posted (which was in November 2015?!) but I haven't been writing for myself. I'm doing this online content writing internship and it's going really really well, so all you young people who are sitting around with nothing to do, start doing internships and volunteer work. You'd wish you had when you're working your 16 hour IT job with no time to breathe.

This year has been pretty great. I spent New Years with a friend that I've known for the longest time and she and I rekindled our friendship over munchies and Red Bull. Oh and I watched the fireworks go off from on top of a kind of high building. A friend's sister got married and we were all wedding-clubbing! Which was all sorts of awesome. I love these people.

I spent three days in Fort Kochi with these people wandering about the touristy places, not really doing a lot of sightseeing, just eating lots of good food and chilling at the beach. I don't know if it is because I associate Fort Kochi with the Biennale but I feel that there's something so beautifully artistic about the place, the buildings, the streets. I love the art on the walls and I love the way the people don't really bother you or stare at you because they're so used to people doing touristy things.

There's this thing about the beach. It doesn't matter if there's a lot of seaweed-y float-y green and brown things on it, it has this incredible calming effect on me. While I was there I got this feeling that moment right there was my big awakening and that if I started to write then, all sorts of wonderful stories and characters could be put into words but I couldn't, I was busy having fun.

That's something I've noticed about myself though, I don't seem to want to document a moment in which I'm feeling wonderful, I just want to feel it.

There was this guy on the beach with this expensive looking DSLR camera. He was trying to get a picture of the sunset through an incandescent light bulb which he buried into the sand. He left after he took that picture and I thought, whoa. To have a passion you'd spend hours kneeling in the sand for. If I were a teeny bit more outgoing I might have said hi. But I'm not and so I didn't.

If you head out to Fort Kochi, get food from this place called Pizza Italia. They've got some of the best pizza that I've ever had. And 'Upstairs' they've got live music and really good calamari.

I'm thinking of the last three months in terms of food, that's how much I've eaten.

And I went to Bangalore for the first time. A lot more food. I'll write about that another time.

I've said goodbye to two old friends and although I miss them I don't know if I will be talking to either of them again so that's a little sad. The never ending conversations ceased. The dots stopped spinning. Life is made up of hellos and goodbyes and I'd rather have more meetings than departures but sometimes these things are out of your control. And maybe the old have to move out to make room for the new.

Welcome to Armchair Philosophy 101 conducted by me, now in a very good mood because I threw open the windows and its very windy. I hope it rains.

Speaking of old and new, I met a lot of fun new people because of whom I think I'm actually going to miss college when I graduate in a few months. I can't wait though. To be all grown up and fending for myself.

I'm thinking I should try one of those blogging challenges, just to make sure that I come here once in a while. Oh and 11k views! I love you guys!

I've been assigned work for the evening so until I decide which blogging challenge I'm going to do, I'm abandoning you, blog. Back to a bullet point on my resume it is for you.

x

PS. It's raining!

The Original Dream

I claim to want riches, lots of money, exquisite sculptures and paintings, one of a kind of everything under the sun, collector's items, precious things, everything, a fancy house on the beach, another in the city and a third in the hills.

Maybe I want love and happiness, to work on something enchanting, inspiring and motivating, to surround myself with people who challenge me, engage me intellectually.

To be able to write the stories that appear in my mind at the oddest of moments, when I'm walking or talking or looking out the window on a cold rainy day, when I'm laughing or crying, to be able to make words feel emotions, to be able to translate this wonderful magical experience of living into words and sentences.

I want to sing the songs that I make up in my dreams, in time with every step I take when I'm awake. To hum, maybe whistle, to describe what it's like to be in my shoes through tunes.

I want to dance, each step following the rhythm of the beating of my heart, each movement a reflection of the deep, dark corners of my soul. An expression of why I am who I am and what it is that makes up this consciousness that I call myself.

The dreams of castles, gems and riches coexist with those of freedom and expression, coexisting, supporting, growing, not judging. For they are all the same, these dreams, manifestations of desires of grandeur, material and of the mind.

They all spin in a tight whirlpool, the occasional memory or emotion joins in for the ride before going back to their respective areas of expertise. This is the world of dreams, and everyone is welcome.

And if I walk through them, brushing aside the ones that get tangled in my hair, holding back the ones that try to engulf me, push away those that try to absorb my humanity, there is a calm centre. Nothing spins, there is no sound, no feeling. There it is, the one original dream. Pure and untouched.

I'm an artist. Sitting by the street, cross legged on the pavement, on the rocks by the stream with my feet in the water. And I create, paintings of people, places and things. Obscure, abstract images which are at the same time a depiction of clarity. Paintings lacking conventional beauty rather containing some ethereal quality, brush strokes representing interconnected thoughts and philosophies, that no one really gets but everyone pretends to understand.

posted from Bloggeroid

Our Twisted Coexistence

Two little dots once met, one blue, one purple, by chance, bumping into each other, almost not meeting, running over each other, hurrying away in their separate lives. But meet they did, and quite the union it was. A whirlwind romance of minds, bodies, ideas and emotions. They stuck to each other, each reducing to half a dot to form one whole together. And they separated, teaching each other what they knew about love, life and the philosophies of existence, and they each grew, realizing it is better to be two whole dots interlinked than to be half of a whole. And they split occasionally, pain and despair of the worst kind, culminating in a wondrous, almost child-like bliss. Their colors faded, contaminated with the greens and yellows of jealousy and lies, the brilliant gold of the worst kind of pain and manipulation, then the blue and purple shone through and finally it was a bit too much to bear and all at once, their union ended.

But they moved together, spiralling around each other, parallel lines mostly, other times helices around a common centre, increasing in radii until the loneliness of being the only dot in a world of black became too much to bear and they met, a twisted, explosive coexistence, cohabitation, before they repelled with twice the force of their attraction and moved away.

Maybe, just maybe, it was better to exist in separate planes, occasionally interacting, than to attempt to coexist.

posted from Bloggeroid

The Cave of Thought

It was a cold, dark night. A storm raged on with no indication of an end in the near future. It was the sort of night that would serve as a backdrop for many dramatic stories in the millennia to come, stories of bravery, treachery and star crossed lovers. So yes, a fitting backdrop to the story of God.

Three cavemen sat huddled around a fire (yes, they’d discovered the fire, but not the wheel just yet). They were sheltered from the storm by a makeshift cave, a little hollow by the side of the mountain with a jutting roof structure.

They were isolated from their tribe, separated by at least a few tens of kilometres, all dense forests and steep cliffs. They had sneaked out earlier in the evening to harvest some of those strangely shaped leaves that grew in some clearings in the forest. Some of the gatherers had found the leaves and they burned it one night, the smoke was found to heighten awareness and experiences and induce a delirious state of mind.

These three were hunters, and they’d gone into the forests to hunt a wild boar that had upset their settlements one night when these leaves were found and smoked. By the time they got back, the tribe elder had banned anyone from burning them, the effects were too dangerous, unpredictable and uncontrollable, he ruled.

It felt like they were in a whole other world, they said, those who had the opportunity to inhale some of that wonderful, magical smoke. The world felt brand new, the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and it was a wonderful life after all. It sounded like magic and they had to have some, in spite of the warnings and the bans. So, after sunset, they sneaked out of the village and into the forest.

And now they were stuck in this cave until the storm passed. They made a fire to keep warm. When it started to appear as though the rain wouldn’t relent, they decided to burn the leaves.

A few hours later, they had each inhaled a sizeable quantity of smoke and the colours were brighter, the air was lighter and the world seemed less mysterious. Ideas, oh so many ideas were just floating around in the air, waiting to be picked, comprehended and known. In a few thousand years theories would emerge that every idea had already been thought of and everything labelled ‘new’ was merely a repackaging of something that already existed, this story, however, happens before all that and these ideas were fresh, never seen before, brand new, completely and entirely original.

One of the men plucked an idea out of the air, a bright red thought that was vying for attention. He spent a few minutes in a trance, the idea was a little too complex to be grasped by men who had only thought as far as food, water, shelter, safety and sex. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed different, he seemed enlightened, later on, story spoke of a warm glow surrounding his head.

“This world is beautiful,” he said. The others looked up, noticing the large shadow of a moth falling on the cave wall behind him. “Whoever made the world must have had an incredible imagination, and a lot of skill.”

“The fire is beautiful too. That man from the other village made the fire and he isn’t anything special.”

“No, no. The world is different. Hand crafted. Look at all of us, look at these plants, the rain and all the animals.”

The one who spoke about the fire looked sceptical. The other one who was sitting nearest to the fire looked at them blankly. The one affected by the red idea seemed passionate, almost manic.

“Can’t you see it? It was made. Each and every bit. Sculpted, planted, watered, nurtured. Everything bears his signature.”

“His?”

“Yes. The creator. The all-knowing, all powerful being that made you, me and the boar we killed. I don’t know who or what it is. But does it exist? Yes it does.”

The sceptic remained sceptical, the other one felt funny (You are stoned, said a green idea. Stones? He couldn’t comprehend). The rain had stopped. They gazed into the fire in some sort of trance, one searching for the Creator, one thinking of a better invention than the fire and the other watching a moth dance near the flames.

“Let’s head back. It’s not raining anymore.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I want something sweet.”

“Berries?”

They would have preferred chocolate, had it been invented but that’d take a while, so they had to make do.

Not Quite Goodbye

A/N: Here you go. Makeshift poetry. I'm stuck in this rut where I write about coffee and wine and occasionally a cigarette, a gender-ambiguous narrator, one or two male or female companions, a relationship maybe, that is either beginning or thriving or dying and exactly one sentence in the story/poem that is vaguely poetic and used as the title of the story/poem(whichever I feel like writing pretending to write at the moment).
And that's about it. Maybe, just maybe I should write something new.
End of italicized garbage. On to the real garbage.
---

She is still around, I see her the first thing every morning when I wake up and the last thing every night before I sleep. I can't reach out and hold her hand, or tuck in that stray strand of hair like I used to.

We still smile, we still laugh. I make tea in the morning. She makes breakfast. She still makes the things I like. I sometimes wonder why.

We don't talk as much as we once did, it's like we're actual roommates now, now that she has moved into the guest room.

She insisted, I tried to persuade her to let me move out instead. She stopped talking to me until I stopped trying.

It's been two months. Why is she still here? She shouldn't be. Why am I still here? We need space, or so they tell me.

She attempts to leave every once in a while, calling me a callous bastard. I attempt to push her out, the lying bitch. At the end of it all someone cries. Someone walks out. Someone gets drunk. And it's the next morning. Everything is forgotten.

We want each other to stay so that we don't have to see the other with anyone else. That's a reason people assume. Maybe because it is easy, we don't have to think anymore. Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe in spite of all the lies, a part of me still loves her. Cares about her at the very least. Cares about her enough to know I couldn't bear to see her with anyone else. Not just yet.

All I know for sure though, is that I don't want her to leave just as much as I don't want her to stay. And she feels the same way. And that should suffice, for now.

*

I'm still here. In this house with all our memories. That couch where we'd cuddle watching movies. That bed we used to sleep in.

He still makes tea every morning. I used to like to watch him make tea, clad in his favourite blue boxers, humming a little song as he dusted tea powder onto the boiling milk. I don't watch him now.

I make breakfast for us, occasionally pack lunch. I still make his favourite things, maybe just because it's easier to stick with the pattern.

We still talk, empty conversations, lots of silence. Sometimes fun and lighthearted. Nothing serious though. The word serious screams 'Run!' in his head. Or so I imagine.

I still lie. I try not to. But I do. What does it matter now. It's all over anyway.

We fight occasionally. Someone packs their bags. It's all forgotten once the night passes. Maybe that's how it should be.

It used to be love at one point. True love, even. Whatever that is. But it is not anymore. This had been over for a while, even before decisions were made. So it's okay, I suppose. Very mutual, as they say.

Maybe someday we will get over this and we'll leave this comfortable space we have created for us. Until then this is where I will be.

Stop

Written on 16 June 2015

On my way to the airport this morning, there was a crowd outside a house somewhere near Kayamkulam. The car had to slow down, my uncle saw some kid he knew and called him to the window and asked him what was going on. Or so I thought. When the kid replied with 'Oru pennu' A woman, I realized that he'd asked who died. Thoughts of Mada mada dane, still have a long way to go, floated around for a second.

Was she old?

No, only around twenty or twenty two.

Two nights ago thoughts were of people who are robbed of their lives and loved ones when they least expected it, of how fucking cruel accidents and heart attacks and even more accidents were. And now this.

It's not hard to see why most people are indifferent to or sceptical of the pain of the suicide victim when faced with the pain of those they leave behind. It's their life, really. And their choice whether they want to live it or not, but they've also chosen to take away the lives of anyone that gave a crap about them.

Rumors fly. She was with some guy and he left her, she got knocked up, she couldn't handle failing an exam, she was selfish. Or maybe she wasn't a bad person, maybe she was hurt and abused, maybe she was depressed. All it takes is a second to make a decision and the days following it to plan it. And that's it. You don't get a moment of regret.

It's okay love, it's never as bad as it seems, get help, be happy again. This life doesn't have to be so sad and terrible, there's a lot more to it. A million places to see and claim as memories, a million people to meet and fall in love with, a million experiences. If only someone found you sooner, if only someone has said the right thing at the right time, if only you could see what you have to live for.

It's all a gray area. Sentences float around voicing contradictory opinions. Why not hurt the people who hurt you enough to make you decide to die. What does it take to get hurt anyway, with fragile minds and hearts worn on sleeves. In a few days I'll forget and you will too. The people in this car have forgotten in the time it took me to write this.

All you need is a little bit of love. Or for someone to grab you by the waist and plant you firmly on the ground. A little too late now. When it feels like your world is slowly spiralling to an end, when you want to get rid of everything to find peace, stop for a moment. There's nothing beyond this love, no magical world where the ones who hurt you are punished and you are compensated for your sufferings. Nothing. This is it, this one life. Nothing more.

posted from Bloggeroid

Hello Lonely World

Well. It's been so long that my web browser doesn't auto-complete blogger.com anymore. That the sign in page pops up, almost asking, "Are you sure this is where you want to be? Really? Reaaaally? Would you like a moment to reconsider? Sure? Okay, but if you're going there to make another draft, we're not letting you in next time."

Maybe not so much. Anyhow.

I'm on vacayyshun! I feel happy. There's this tall kid (old man, brat) with nice hair and my son who I've known since he was only 3 feet tall who keep telling me to write and I keep refusing saying I'm all drained out writing love notes for this other fool but maybe I should stop making excuses and share my happiness with the rest of you beautiful people! People? Hello? *crickets chirping*

Yes, yes. This is what I deserve when I desert the few wonderful people who actually gave a rat's arse about what I had to say. Yes, arse. Not ass.

I made biryani today :D It was good, if I may say so myself. What else.

Take a picture of the biryani for now. I'll have another, better structured post in another hour or so.

Hehehehehe I made this :D

Okay, bye.

Windows [Part 2]

If I could put in a window between our two worlds, I wouldn't reach out and touch you. I wouldn't run my fingers through your hair, or caress the contours of your face. I wouldn't tap you on your shoulder to get your attention, to tell you about something I read or some movie I watched. I wouldn't peek at you occasionally just to see you, when I missed you too much. I'd shut the curtains, but leave the window there, we could maybe catch up once in a while.

I Used To Know You

There’s something about the way she smiles that takes me back to the days when I held her hand as we walked along jasmine scented streets to go by the river and sit atop rocks, skimming smooth rounded pebbles on the still water. The way she used to find the best puddles to jump into when we went for walks, the way I used to pull out the ribbon she used to tie her hair with and run across the field, the way she would chase me, with tears flowing down her cheeks the first few times and bubbling with laughter as we grew older, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

She looks tired now. I could touch the crows’ feet around her eyes if I just reached out, but I didn’t. Each time I felt like tracing the lines of her face with my fingertips I gripped my teacup so tight that I thought it would break. Her eyes were still bright; dark, sparkling orbs just as I remembered them. A long time ago they would shine the brightest when she spoke of the places she wanted to go to. I remembered the little girl who’d draw Eiffel Towers and the Great Pyramids in the sand when we went out to the beach. I found that little girl in the souvenirs she had collected from the places she had been to – all the places she used to dream of and more – scattered all around the living room. They weren’t arranged in any particular order, her favourites were nearby, easily accessible and more visible, on the coffee table and by the television. The ones she didn’t like as much were up on shelves, hidden behind heavy books, paintings and mirrors.

She speaks of the people she met, of the boy she met in Rome, the one she fell in love with and married ten years ago, of the children – two girls – that they named after music, art and beauty. She spoke of the disease that took him away from them, of his last days when she spent every minute by his side, of his whispered last words. She spoke of the last five years, just her and her girls, outcasts from her family just because they liked to dream. She is doing fine she says, and I believe her. She talks about her children, they’re at school right now, she says, I’ve told them all about you, they’re really excited to meet you.

I tell her about my failed marriage, of the girl I married who left as soon as a high school sweetheart returned, about my son, who I raised on my own the last six years, he’s nine now, I tell her, a year younger than your elder daughter. She asked if his eyes were blue like mine and I shook my head, no they weren’t.

She reached over to take the empty cup of tea from my hands and I stayed mesmerized by the way she moved. She still had the fluidity of youth in every movement, I had greyed, and my joints ached. She tried to coax the cup out of my grip, it took a few seconds for me to realize and I let go. She looked at me questioningly but didn’t say anything, instead she got up and walked to the kitchen while making fun of herself for having learnt the social niceties she so despised as a child. I found that I was unable to stop myself from following her; evidently I couldn’t stand not to see her, not after meeting her for the first time in eighteen years. I stopped by the doorframe and watched her open the oven and take out a freshly baked almond cake. She laughed at my surprise and handed me the knife while she poured us some more sweet tea from the kettle. We dragged tall stools up to the kitchen table and sat down, I ate furiously for the first few minutes, expressing my admiration at her culinary skills, she laughed and showed me an empty box of cake mix.

Then we sat there, looking at our plates, toying with the remnants of cake, not saying anything at all. It reminded me of the times we spent at my place after school and I knew that nothing I said could express the plethora of emotions I was feeling right now. I wasn’t sure what it was that I felt, was it love or regret or just plain old nostalgia?

I stayed to see her kids come home from school. Her younger daughter took an immediate liking to me, refusing to get off my lap until she had finished her cake and told us all about the kitty she say on her way back from school. Her elder daughter kept her distance initially, watching me until she decided I was alright and then she came and sat next to me. She looked exactly like her mother did at that age, I told her that and she looked very proud when she said that she had been told.

When I finally got back to my car it was another hour later. The four hours I had spent with her felt like I had spent no time with her at all; too many things had been left unsaid. I needed to pick my son up from school, go grocery shopping, go home and make dinner. She packed some almond cake for my son. Her younger daughter stayed glued to me and refused to let go until I promised to bring my son with me the next time I visited. Once I did though, she jumped off and skipped away happily.

She knocked on my window as I was putting on my seatbelt. I hadn’t realized that she had followed me out, like I had followed her into the kitchen earlier in the evening. I rolled down my window, she smiled at me, I smiled back at her. She said that it felt good to see me. I didn’t say anything to that. What could I have said? That I missed her, her eyes, her smile, her laughter and her dreams? That listening to her talk made me think of the times when we sat under trees and spoke of the world, when she held my hand under a moonlit sky and told me she loved me, when we kissed for the first time the day we graduated from high school.

She saw my confusion, I think. Or maybe she didn’t. She leaned in and kissed me on my forehead. Don’t go away again, she said. I nodded. There wasn’t anything else to be said. I watched her retreat into her world through the rear view mirror as I returned to mine.

New Year Resolutions + A Little Untitled Story

I wish I had something to write about. I really do. This mental block frustrates me to no end. Well. There is this one story, but I sort of want the college magazine to be the first place anyone reads it. And the illustrations this kid drew are beautiful. Maybe I'll scan them in.

Anyhow. This post is purely in response to you who commented 'stopped writing?' because I don't know. Somewhere deep inside I guess it matters what people think of me.

I'm pretty sure I've lost some of you who'd check in occasionally because you kept checking in to find 'Pies'.

And that I wrote for someone in particular and that might be why it doesn't make a lot of sense. But it made me happy :)

Anyhow. Happy New Year :)

Since I've said that I'm obliged to talk about my resolutions now aren't I? Well, even if not.

1. Read more.
2. Write more (Yeah wipe that look of fake astonishment off your face)
3. Stop taking things so seriously.
4. Laugh more.
5. Drink more water.
6. Don't get so mad so quickly.

So I had no idea I had all these resolutions until I wrote them down. See, this is why I should write more.

I'm going to stop rambling now. Here's something my brain produced when I tried to force myself to write as per resolution #2.

And I miss that black and gray keyboard I used to type on, I miss that swivelling chair I used to sit on and I miss the voice that whispered in my ear.

---

I see you in the shadows under my eyes.

The way you smile makes me feel so relieved. Because I'm tired, I'm exhausted waiting for you to come home and here you are. You're finally home.

It's in your laugh and in the heaviness in your voice. The feeling that something is terribly wrong, that nothing will ever be quite the same.

Maybe different will be better. Maybe different is what we've always wanted. What we needed.

Maybe being together will be no worse than being apart, that's how I sate this apprehension that fills me. We've been together before, it's not the first time. There's no need to be afraid that things aren't as perfect as they are in our heads.

They won't be. Nothing could ever live up to the dreams I had, because dreams are dreams and this is life. This is real.

You know that too, somewhere deep inside and that is why we're holding back. You reach out to touch me, bring your palm to rest against my cheek. I hold you close, wrapping my arms around your waist. We feel our hearts beating, not quite together but it's okay. We still have time.

posted from Bloggeroid

Pies

She asked him one morning as they lay tangled under sheets made warm by the heat of their bodies whether he thought pies tasted better right off the pan or served on ceramic plates. He traced lazy circles on her thigh as he thought. Straight from the pan, maybe. But pie does taste better with cream and you always take a slice of pie and put it on a plate before pouring on the cream. She considered that for a moment and said that if it was about the cream then maybe they ought to pour cream right into the pan to have an even comparison. She furrowed her eyebrows as she spoke and he laughed and leaned in and kissed her, right in between her brows as if to get her to stop worrying. She grinned and pulled him on top of her, showering his face with kisses.

He bought apples that evening and dumped them on the kitchen counter. She looked up from her laptop where she was typing up some important letter and grinned. It was going to be a good day.

The shared stories of their days at work as they sat cross-legged on the floor chopping and peeling apples. There was that guy she always saw on the subway, the one that drew buildings and skylines on scraps of paper and on the backs of flyers. There was that lady he met on his way to work who burst out of an office and yelled that she was engaged. He chopped the apples into lazy pieces while she fiddled with the peel. He laughed at the way she held her knife and although she reached out and hit him with the back of her hand, she felt like she wanted to grab hold of that laugh and hug it to sleep every night. Never let go of it, essentially.

Then they realized that they hadn't made the dough and all the apples they had cut would darken and ‘become icky’ by the time they got the dough to rise. She read somewhere that squeezing a lemon over the apples would prevent them from darkening, she said. And he thought that they had nothing to lose (except maybe twenty apples) and went along with it. She kept the lemony, cinnamon-y apples in the fridge and joined him in the kitchen where he’d already begun mixing the dough.

Unlike in all those sappy movies they managed to get the dough ready without breaking into a flour-fight. A fight of pots and pans seemed imminent however, with threats hurled back and forth every time someone opened the fridge to steal a piece of lemony apple. See, it’s a good thing there were so many apples he said. She hit him with a spoon. He chased her around with a cutting board.

She cried when they were all done, with the bowls all washed and the timer set, thinking of all the things they had lost along the way. And how it might just be another month before they got to spend time together like this again. He hugged her until the pain went away and as always she concluded that the long waits were worth it just because they got to do things together once in a while.

She felt better but still refused to let go of him. He made to move to the living room couch but she clung on to him like those little monkey babies you see on Animal Planet. He wanted to watch the news in ten minutes so he thought, oh well, and picked her up and carried her over to the couch where they settled down, him with the remote and her on his lap.

She fell asleep by the time the timer rang so he coaxed her awake, he knew the kind of monster she could become if woken up the wrong way. She woke up and blinked, focusing on the careful expression on his face and smiled and kissed him harder than he expected her to. He looked a little dazed as she leapt off his lap and skipped to the kitchen and his expression made her even happier. He followed and wrapped his arms around her waist as she cut the pie carefully into two halves and then divided one part into slices. She moved the slices to another bowl, and took one in a ceramic plate. The special plates, the ones they bought on her first raise, the ones they only took when they ate together. He let go of her and poured cream all over the slice of pie on the plate.

They argued over which pie they should try first and decided it didn't matter really. They finished the slice and decided that this was definitely better than the strawberry pie they made a few months ago. Apple was more pie-able she said. He tapped her on the nose with the back of his spoon.

He settled into the blankets while she went to get the pie in the pan that they’d left in the oven so it’d stay warm. She poured all the remaining cream over it and crawled into the blanket with him. She said she was too lazy to feed herself and he took turns, scooping up bits of cream and apple and pie crust for her and then some for him.

About two hours later when they had a real dinner and put away all the dishes and crawled into bed, hugging each other so tight that they could barely differentiate whose head was resting on whose arm, they had arrived at a conclusion. Pie tasted better off the pan. No doubt about it. Scraping up all the bits of crust from the pan, with a tiny bit of cream and some of the apple leftovers made making pies worthwhile.

posted from Bloggeroid

Windows

If we could put in a window between our two worlds I would. Because at times like these when I miss you so much that I feel actual physical pain resonating through my body at the thought of you I could just reach over and tap you on your shoulder. And you'd turn around and smile and I'd be okay. Because I fall in love with you all over again everytime you smile. Even harder when you laugh.

If we could put in a window between our two worlds, it would be nice. I could just turn around and ask for your opinion on something I read or wrote, maybe we could discuss it for a while, maybe we could argue. I could maybe reach out and touch you, run my hands through your hair, touch a thumb to the corner of your lower lip. The times when we want to be alone, we could just draw the curtains on our side and it'd be okay, we know we'll open them up when it's time.

posted from Bloggeroid

This is a Rant. With a Capital 'R'.

Good day. Today I shall rant.
This is applicable to more than one of you so read well. Understand. Weep.
Or maybe not. But you'll be hit by a large moving automobile in the next three days. Yes that's right. I'm talking about you.
And I'm really, truly sorry that I couldn't resist doing this. But this sits and festers and putrefies, it's time it goes out of my system.

--

Hey you there, yes you, the one with the mask on. Does it bother you that your cover is blown? Of all the years of pretending and putting a show on, does it bother you that now someone besides you knows the truth about you?

It’s easy to spout ideas and ideals, easy to talk but not so easy to act, now is it? The challenge is to actually act on what you pretend to believe in. But what I don’t understand is why you do it. So let’s examine that, shall we?

If I were petty (well, any more than I am already) I would launch into a detailed description of just what you did but honestly, that’s not the part that shattered everything I thought about you into tiny fragments. Much like when my phone fell out of my hand and the screen cracked. It’s quite pretty actually, my broken screen that is, not you.

Keeping the actual event aside, let me just say, your mask never was perfect. There was something that you said one afternoon that made me realize that you were not as open-minded as you seemed. Now back on topic.

What I don’t understand is why you have to pretend to be someone you’re not. Maybe it’s not easy to be honest with yourself. Or is it just not easy to be honest with others. Does all of you know what the real you is like, or do you lie to yourself even when it’s just you in a dark room with no place to go and no place to be and no one to impress.

Now that I know the face behind the mask when I meet people who think you’re oh-so-funny or maybe even oh-so-smart I wonder how it’d feel for them when at some point they figure out who you really are. It’d break their hearts, you know. They really look up to you.

What you like and what you don’t is honestly up to you, no amount of arguing or ranting is going to change that and I don't even want to attempt to change your beliefs because I wouldn't want someone to do that to me. However try (for the sake of those who still believe your mask is your true face) to face the consequences when you make a decision instead of deleting accounts and running away because that’s a sure-fire way that they’ll know you for the wuss you really are.

---

Thank you. I have ranted.

Boxed Belongings

Natalie opened her eyes sleepily. For a few seconds she couldn't figure out where exactly she was. She felt an arm around her waist and then she remembered. She focused her gaze on the pale blue curtains, and the light filtering through the crack. She crawled out from under the thick comforter, only glancing behind her for a second at the figure hidden in the sheets. The glimpse suffices, she’s filled with a rush of affection. Her partner, her love, the only one she’s wanted as much as she did right then.

She hummed Emily’s favorite song as she stepped out of the washroom. She pats her face dry with the worn out towel hanging by the door. ‘I really ought to redecorate, now that I've moved in officially,’ she thinks, eyeing her boxes piled by the door, making plans to go shopping later in the day.

She went into their room with steaming mugs of coffee, filling the tiny room with the scent, “Emily, sweetie, wake up.”

“Em. Come on, you've slept enough, love.” Natalie sets the mugs of coffee down on the dresser and pulls apart the curtains. She stands there for a bit, basking in the sunlight. She watched their neighbor cross the street, checking the time on his watch, in a rush to get to work maybe.

She smiled. She felt so calm now. Now that everything was decided, now that they were finally going to begin their life together. 

“So I was thinking we ought to go shopping later? Maybe get a few towels. Do you have milk somewhere else besides the fridge? I threw out the empty cartons.”

She turned around from where she was folding her clothes to find Emily still wrapped up in the sheets. She giggled as she crept up to the foot of the bed, her mind filled with almost childish delight at what she was about to do. She grasped the comforter firmly and with a quick tug pulled it off Emily’s body, expecting to hear a slew of curses and whining. Emily didn't move.

‘Wow she must really be fast asleep.’

All she could see from where she stood was Emily’s long dark hair all over the pillow, it was only when she walked over to the side of the bed that she saw.

Emily’s eyes were frozen wide open, her mouth slack, something that looked like dried spittle all over the edge of her mouth and pillow, and her lips the grey-blue color of death.

Natalie's scream resonated through the apartment, filled with boxed belongings and dreams. She fell back and kicked herself away from the bed, collapsing against the walls, pushing apart a bookcase on her way, with soundless sobs escaping her shaking body.

Beyond The Veil

On child brides.

---

You are a 12 year old girl. Your eyes are closed but the sounds are so loud that you wish you could shut your ears and hide in the corner, but you can't. Oh no. It's your special day. You're scared, you're shaking but nobody notices. An aunt asks you to turn, you turn mechanically while you're draped in a heavy red and gold cloth. An older cousin sister combs out your hair, another drapes ornaments all over your face and body. Your mother sits in the corner, being comforted by your elder sister. You remember hiding behind your aunt and watching the same scene unfold just a year ago when she was married. She was 14 then. She was crying, sobbing, black tear tracks running down her face. You're not crying. You're confused. You don’t know.

---

One third of all the girls in the world are married before the age of 18. One in nine are married before the age of 15. India comes in at number 13 on a list of the countries most affected by child marriage, with 47% of its girls being married off before they're old enough to even fathom what being married entails.

Child marriage is banned in India, with the accused if convicted facing up to two years of imprisonment and a fine of Rs. 1,00,000. However in most of the communities where child marriage is the norm, the government and its laws are the enemy and are seen as attempts to inhibit 'the way things have always been.' In such communities, it's not easy to find someone who thinks differently or is willing to act to cause a change. And of course, this change needs to come from within.

Studies show that women who are married before they are 18 are twice more likely to experience domestic violence and sexual abuse than those married after 18. In a country where courts have ruled that marital rape is not 'really' rape, it's alarming and disheartening to know that in a lot of rural areas, there are parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles who set up their children to have to face violence and abuse against which they have no defences.

In many parts of India, female children are married at ages as young as 5 - sometimes to grooms who are a few years older, other times to grooms older by half a century or more. These children in some cases continue to live with their families until they hit puberty after which they're sent to their grooms. Although they live with their families until they are 12 or 14 have severe restrictions on their freedom, with most of them being denied education. Many child brides have stories of confusion, the transition from being a child a few months ago to having children now is not easy to adapt to. Some stories have brides so young they barely know how to take care of themselves when they're suddenly responsible for a family. Others recount being told to never deny their husband sex.

While most cases of child marriage are unreported, the few cases in which girls escape oppressive situations are given much deserved publicity. On examining the reasons behind the change in these cases, it is most often found to be education or employment. Cases where children start working to make themselves 'useful' to the family are heart breaking. In some cases, the presence of free secondary school education in the village provided an incentive to parents to permit their children to remain unmarried.

Modern day feminism focuses on the 'higher classes' of women. Women who have the opportunities to attain an education, women who have jobs. Somewhere out there, there's a terrified 10 year old who is raped on her wedding night. Thousands of voices echo to fight for the rights of women. No one hears the cries of this little girl. And no one will.

Not unless the self-proclaimed feminists of the world are willing to step out from behind their computer screens, take a break from ranting for a second to actually do something that could make a difference. NGOs operating in rural areas with high instances of child marriage have proven essential in convincing young girls to stand up to the community and demand education. It would take time for communities who've been living in figurative darkness for centuries to realize that a girl child is just as valuable as a boy, that women are capable of so much more than bearing children and rearing families. It's about time to fight for something far worse than the injustices we live through each day.

---

So who decides the freedom of the Indian woman? Her family and community who, in the 21st century, still find it acceptable to give up a 10 year old to marriage. Her husband, who is but a stranger until the wedding night to all Indian women who are married in the 'culturally acceptable manner'. And of course, that stranger or that neighbour we all have to impress by being 'normal.'

Of course it's not the woman herself. Preposterous. Who ever thought of such an abomination? The idea that a woman can be in control of her life, her body, her future - ridiculous. Welcome to reality, dear woman. You are but secondary.

The Time I Went to the Beach

The last time I was at a beach, I was with you. We ran around in the sand, I ruined my Converse. We took all those pictures, that one you took of me with my hair flying all over the place. Back when I barely knew you. Back when you barely knew me.

I thought maybe that going to the beach today would make me think about you a lot. That with each wave crashing in I'd think of the way the sun burnt my skin as I sat next to you in the sand. I can't say I didn't. But not too much. I'm doing well.

I was a bit of a wuss today. I didn't want to get too close to the water, didn't want to ruin my jeans. I stayed at a respectful distance and watched. Wave after wave. Ohisashiburi ne. It's been a long time.

The salty wind messing up my hair (which I'd straightened carefully before leaving), making my skin feel like I'd been dipped in salt, carrying the sound of the water that made me want to run into the ocean and keep running until I was waist deep.

And here I stand, at the shore. Too scared to dip my toe in.

A huge wave comes in and I run up the sand. It chases me for a while then stops, laughs, and falls back into the sea. I turn around, laughing, a little breathless. My laughter is drowned in the sounds of the sea.

Hey there, Stranger.

Title: Hey there, Stranger
Genre: Fluff|Drabble
Word count: ~180

He was laughing with his friends when she walked by. He had a nice laugh, one that appeared to originate from his soul, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that made his eyes light up. It made her want to laugh with him. She couldn't look away from the happiness that emanated from those eyes. He looked up and met her gaze just as she was about to look away. She almost blushed, but she smiled. She managed to smile the biggest smile she had in a while and she wasn't quite sure why.

_

A girl smiled at him in the hallway. A tiny girl. She was barely five feet tall, he thought that night. He was with his friends, laughing at something someone said. Some weird magnetic attraction made him look up and he met her eyes. She smiled and suddenly he couldn't remember what he was laughing at a second ago. He smiled at her. He wondered now how long she had been looking at him before he met her eyes. It didn't bother him, it was a nice smile.

_

posted from Bloggeroid

O-Hisashiburi

Starting with a cliche
Of the rain outside,
I wish it would stop
It makes me feel empty;
As though you're not-
But you are.


I roll over, smothering
My thoughts in the sheets,
Lying face down
Hoping the voices shut up.
They tell me you're not-
Even though you are.


They're watching me.
She's not the same.
She's lost her smile.
She's losing her mind.
They tell me you're gone,
But you're not.


A lazy day, an empty room
Save the two of us,
With eyes closed, I know
You're here, you'll be here.
I open them and you're gone
But you're here.


You don't have to
Brush my hair off my face
Look into my eyes
Or smile that precious smile
Just think of me
And I'll know you're here.


I don't need you near me
Or even need to hear your voice
Or feel you touch me
To know you're around
You should know, this 'us' thing
Is all I want.

posted from Bloggeroid

Broken Bunch

A/N: Title credits to the friend that abhors all social networking sites and very recently has given up on instant messaging services as well. His phrase, not mine.

---

Scratching at skin that's a little sore already. The only thing I hear is the sound of the water that keeps flowing, I turn it off. It doesn't care much. I keep on scratching and the skin breaks. There it is, the first tiny blemish, it's just a single spot of red. Don't stop, it's not done yet. Keep going. It spreads to a line, a thin line. But it's still there, even if just barely. I can't stop yet, I press it against my skin harder. The sharp end against my sore skin. It's a few lines now. I take a deep breath. It feels good. So good. I'm done. I step into the shower and the water washes over me. It stings when droplets strike against the cut up skin. But I stay there, trying to suppress the feeling that was threatening to take over me. I wanted to feel it again, that blinding, dizzying moment when it felt so good. When I closed my eyes and leaned back into the cold, hard wall and let the pain just wash over my mind. And so I do. I pick it up again, the object that brings me salvation. My hand slips a little this time, it's harder to get it right now that my skin is damp. But I keep trying because it feels good. Stop. Now. Right now. Just stop. So I do. I wash up, dress and then go back to where I was, surrounded by all those people. No one knows anything but that I had a shower. It's alright. I know better.

posted from Bloggeroid