Red And White

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Tiny slashes across her wrists 

Drop by drop, red against white

Blood on ceramic 

The physical pain now matching her inner turmoil 

A little compassion was all she wanted 

Her cries for help fell on deaf ears 

She was supposed to be immune 

Locking away her emotions like she was expected to 

Her sanity went oozing out 

One, two, three... 

Too much in such a little time

Life was what had happened to her 

In this corner of a dusty bathroom 

People like her had no place in a cruel world 

They were labeled as weaklings

Survival of the fittest was the rule

Weeded out one by one

Blade against smooth skin 

She had given up

Almost 

But now she had a new reason to fight

To carry on living 

Inside her a new life bloomed 

Memory

Memory and I, we go a long way back 

I have tried to kill her many times 

Tried pushing her into a well 

From the edge of a cliff top 

But she was stubborn like a stain 

Refusing to leave my side 

She drained me, took away everything 

And so I decided to trick her 

We went on a journey by boat 

Into the ocean at night 

Side by side, frolicking 

Sharing a jolly time 

It's time for you to go, I tell her 

She looks at me in panic 

I can see the pleading in her eyes

I try to shrug it off 

I take out my matchbox and light a matchstick 

In the flickering flame I see her weeping 

Before having second thoughts 

I light her on fire and watch her burn and burn

Burn till she's no more than a fistful of ashes 

Lying on the floor of the boat

I take it and scatter it in the water around me 

Watching it floating and dissolving, becoming one with the ocean

I look around, dawn is breaking 

The sky is turning a blushing pink 

I row back to the shore all alone 

Feeling strangely empty 

Her death was what I wanted all this while 

But now that she's gone, why do I feel so guilty?

Why this hole in my chest? 

I walk back to my life, each step heavy with exhaustion... 

Ruins

Image Source: Francesca Woodman

I was a ruin when you met me. An ancient one at that. You fell in love with my cracks, the dust gathering around my soul. But you lost interest, you always do. 

Like the time you craved perfection, when you knew from the beginning that I was not. In fact, I'm scared of shiny, new things, unlike you. Things that have no soul; unblemished, untainted. 

My roots go deep. You prefer to admire me from far, yet, you will never make me home...

Linking this post to Magpie Tales - Mag 303. 

The Year I Turned Back to Books

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I have taken many vacations in my life. But the one that's imprinted in my memory is the summer vacations after my 10th standard boards. Though I have been a reader all my life, there came a reading slump during my high school years due to lack of libraries and the scarcity of books in my life. My reading for these few years were limited to the Harry Potter books that I read as soon as it came out, which was once in a blue moon. But that was about it. The various tuition classes and the board examinations and vast syllabus left me with little time to devote to my first love. 

So when I got a long break after my exams, we went back home and this was when I rediscovered my love for reading with a flourish. This was the year I discovered Sidney Sheldon; a startling difference from the books that I was used to till then. These were labelled as 'grown up' books, meaning they had plenty of thrill that kept me up late nights devouring book after book. I still remember my first Sidney Sheldon book, The Other Side of Midnight. I was so in awe that I went and bought all his books that I could get my hands on. 

Now, these are books that deal with sex, murder, betrayal and what not. For the hormone filled, rebelling teenager that I was, these were my staple diet. The heroines of Sheldon's novel reveled in their sexuality, they did not shy away from desires; they were spunky and real (it was for me then). And just like the regular teenager, when I was admonished for reading these books, I made sure I read more of it. I also read The Da Vince Code and all of Dan Brown's books. It so happens to be a book fetish of mine- if I discover and love a new author, I kind of go overboard and try to read all their books. Yes, that was one adventurous vacation! 

The impact these books made me on was tremendous. I discovered a genre that I'm hooked to even today - thrillers. Crime, murder, mystery set against dangerous backdrops. But my most favorite among the lot are psychological thrillers. Gone girl, The Girl on the Train, Tell me your Dreams are among the few that top my list. Even today, when I'm stressed, I prefer to get lost in a world where the author dwells into the psyche of characters and it's easy for me to forget all my worries and just get lost in their world. 

And when I took to writing, this was a genre that I wanted to explore as well. I tried my hand at writing a few short stories and I'm still trying to get the hang of it. Though being far from perfect, I try to be a better writer with each word I create. Today, for some reason, I felt like writing about the books that have impacted me as a person. At the risk of being labelled a psycho, I continue to dwell into the minds of complicated characters. I have come to a better understanding of people and that they are not all good or bad, that sometimes even good people can do bad things. It's just a matter of perspective. 

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

The Tea Shop

Image copyright: Anaz Jaffer 

She watched the tea leaves simmering inside the hot water, turning a shade of deep amber before adding spoonfuls of sugar into it. The time was 4'O clock, a busy time at the tea shop. Most of their customers would come in at this time. A bead of sweat made its way down from the corner of her earlobes. The kitchen was small and stuffy, filled with smoke and kerosene fumes. 

"Eli kutty.. ," her reverie broke at the sound of his voice. Her name was Eliamma, yet for Chacko, she was always Eli kutty, from the day of her marriage. He took the tumblers of hot tea from her hands and took it to the adjacent room to serve. Looking out at the dusty road from the kitchen window, her heart clenched. No matter how hard she tried to forget, some days like this one always brought back the memories. Ones that she wished she could bury forever. 

As always, her mind wandered over to Joseph and Mathew, her sons. Joseph, her first born, who had come into her life with the joy of a rainbow. She had cradled him close to her, he was the apple of their eyes. Till that dreaded day when he had decided to play in the village pond with his friends. He was only ten, still a child. Some say he had lost his step, others dismissed it as a cruel twist of fate. Losing him was a grief that took her many years to get over. It still ripped her apart.

Then came along Mathew. Her serious and sturdy boy. Her baby who had come to her when she was too old to be a mother. He was nothing short of a miracle, which was why she wasn't able to ever say no to him, unlike Chako, who was always stern with his children. They had given him the best they could manage between the two of them. He had grown up fine. He studied well, found a decent job to support himself before getting married. 

He had wanted them to close up the tea shop and move in with him. Chacko had said a firm no even though they both craved to spend time with their granddaughter who was only two. Chacko was always a man of principles. No matter how little he made, he made sure to support all her needs without depending on anyone else. Depending on their son for even small errands was something he didn't like.

Though she tried not to dwell too much on these things, there were days like today. Days when the ache in her heart spread all over her body, grasping her in its clutches. Her eyes welled up and she wiped it on her faded blouse before Chacko came in and saw. She mixed the batter to make the bhaji which they served along with tea just as he came in. 

"Sit down, your feet have started swelling again. Let me handle the rest," Chacko insisted as Eli kutty went down and sat down on the stool in the corner of the kitchen. She leaned back, resting her head on the charred walls behind her and closed her eyes. 

P.S. A special thanks to Anaz, the talented photographer who was kind enough to allow me to use this image on my blog. He captured the picture in all the right emotions. I don't know if this is their story and I hope not. But this is the story that spoke to me from this picture. The story of Eli kutty and her Chacko. A melancholic one. 

Frozen

Image Source: Ed Ross

Frozen in time she stays 

Pain in her eyes unmasked 

Roses tumbling out of her hair 

She was called the queen of love

Many couples matched by this cupid 

But none saw the agony behind her smile

Nobody asked her for her story 

If they had, they would have known 

Nothing hurts more than unrequited love

Her heart belonged only to him 

But his heart was always another's 

At night she would howl out his name 

He never came, she stood waiting 

Many days and many nights 

To catch a glimpse of him 

Yet he remained hidden in the shadows 

Now they see her as endless beauty 

Melancholy in her eyes 

Waiting to be thawed 

To come back to life 

To breathe once again 

To love just once more

How do I know this? 

In her I see me..,  

Linking this post to Magpie Tales - Mag 301. 

Crimson Red

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You slash me with your words. Invisible wounds inflicted. I bleed. My blood spilling in between my fingers, from the pores of my body and flows into you. A silent sob escapes my throat. 

You dip your pen into me, filling it with my life's essence as you repaint me in your words. You are applauded. How beautifully he writes. So much of pain in his words. How lucky is his muse to be loved so deeply.

But I seem to be the only one who notices that all your words are stained crimson red...