Surrender

“Yes, I did. I murdered him. I took the knife and ran it right through his chest. I also gagged him so I wouldn’t hear him scream.

“He was two days away from turning a year old. Yes, I had nurtured him for a year and I loved him to bits, but I knew that when he grows up, he won’t be able to see or walk or talk like other children… How did I know? I was his mother. Mothers know. I knew.

“Yes, I know there are mothers who spend their lives looking after their handicapped babies and don’t even wince. I happen to be not one of those mothers. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to bear the load of seeing my child feeling lesser than the others every single day of his life. His soul didn’t need to stay trapped for a lifetime like that. She could move on to more colourful happier lives. And I hope she has.

“So, one night, when he was deep in sleep, I just picked up the knife, covered his mouth with my hand, and stabbed him. He woke up… from my touch or from the pain, I don’t know. But he woke up, and he looked at me. I don’t know what that look meant. Until then, he had never experienced any feeling except love. This was a new experience. I don’t think he knew what it meant. I still wonder whether he thought this was love too. I hope he knows that it was. I don’t think there was accusation in his eyes, but as I looked into them, it seemed like there was a knife in my throat.

“Finally, when he stopped making those screams that I didn’t hear and he stopped twisting his hands and feet in the air, his eyes looked stunned. He had stopped breathing. I took my hand away from his mouth, threw the knife on the floor and sat by his side looking at him.

“Yes, it had been a month when they found me sitting there. How was I alive? I had been eating him. He was a part of me. He had started inside me. It was only fair that he should end there. When they found me, only his eyes were left. Yes, I had eaten his heart too. I had been thinking of eating his eyes for many days now, but I couldn’t. They were his eyes.

“I’m a cannibal, you say? But what I ate was a non-living thing. If I could bring fatal pain to my own child, this was not worse. Haven’t you ever given pain to someone who loved you to bits? Haven’t you EVER done something wrong to make amends for another wrong? Haven’t you ever been selfish? You haven’t, you say? You must be God then.

“So yes, when they found me, I quickly hid his eyes in my dress. Yes, I still have them, but I won’t give them to you. I want to meet his father and cremate them with him. I want his father to slap me, beat me, kill me, and let me cry on his shoulder one last time before you execute your sentence on me. You say he doesn’t want to look at my face? You don’t have to tell me that. I know it. Yet, can you please let him know that this is for our baby? We owe it to him. His soul might still be trapped in these eyes. One night, when I sat behind the bars crying, I thought I saw tears in his eyes too. Yes, I know. Maybe, it was my tears which had fallen there, but maybe, they were his soul’s. I want to release her. And I can only do it together with his father. He was OUR baby.

“All those people outside, shouting ‘Bitch’, ‘Cruel’, ‘Cannibal’, ‘Heartless’ still affect me, although they shouldn’t. I have seen a lot in life to be affected by them. But I am, still. For I know that they have a reasonable reason.

“You know, when I gave birth to my baby, I had been on top of the world. I had never known the feeling of such joy. But then, I hadn’t known that he was going to have to live a lesser life. When I realized it, I didn’t want him to suffer any more. I didn’t want myself to suffer because of him, either. I really thought the agony would end with him gone. I didn’t know better.

“Yes, I ran the knife right through his chest, and I gagged him, so that I wouldn’t have to hear him scream. Did I tell you that as I did that, I also ran a knife through my own throat?”

The Girl and the Diamond

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was very sad. All her friends wore pretty dresses and looked like princesses, but whatever she might wear, she always looked ugly. Everybody would stare at her and talk in whispers when she walked by them. She wouldn’t turn to look but she knew it in her heart that they were laughing at her after she had passed by. She would ask her mother, “Mother, why am I not beautiful like you?” Her mother would reply in surprise, “But you are so beautiful, my dear.” “Why can’t I see it then?” she would ask. And the mother would smile knowingly and say, “… because you’re choosing not to.”

The little girl would only get confused, turn to the mirror and try to see where the beauty that her mother could see, lay. She smiled to see if she looked pretty when she smiled. She frowned to see if she looked pretty when she frowned. She cried to see if she looked pretty when she cried. And then, she cried and cried and cried for she didn’t look pretty whatever she might do. In the middle of all the crying, she didn’t realize when she had fallen asleep. She never came to know that all the tears which had fallen off her eyes were going to do something magical for her…

When she awoke and opened her sad eyes, her vision was blinded by something that lay next to her pillow – something that dazzled like a full moon. Slowly she sat up and took a close look at this magical object. When she touched it, it felt as though she had touched cool water. She felt a balm-like sensation run through the very bones of her body. It was a Diamond. A breathtakingly beautiful heart-shaped Diamond of the size of a heart. It felt so precious, more precious than anything she had ever owned in her lifetime.

As she stood in front of the mirror with the Diamond around her neck, she felt what she had never felt before. The Diamond shone like a star and when its light fell on her cheeks, it made them look like porcelain. They reflected the light to her eyes turning them into little Diamonds themselves, making her whole face come alive like a painting. She smiled and saw that she looked prettier than she had ever felt. She frowned and suddenly, the light went off her face, and she was again ugly as ever. Shocked, she broke into tears and the light was back. Her Diamond shone the brightest when she cried and she paused in the middle just to see how beautiful she looked as streams of tears rolled down her cheeks.

That day onwards, her life changed. The huge Diamond hanging from her neck made her feel like she was the most beautiful girl in the world. It touched her heart every now and then, tickling it, making her laugh and feel so desirable. When people looked at her, they were awestruck, for they had never seen such radiance, such absolute perfection on a countenance. When they whispered, she knew they were discussing her charm. When they pointed her out to others, it was only because words had deserted them. She was having the best time of her life. The Diamond made her complete and she was so grateful to it for that, “Thank you Diamond! I love you too!”

One morning, when she woke up, the back of her neck and her shoulders throbbed with pain – such that she had never known before. For long, she had been ignoring the subtle signs of imminent problems. When a sudden pain would shoot through her neck, she would make herself believe that she had slept in the wrong posture. When her shoulders would become stiff, she would think, “Oh, it’s been so long since I got them massaged.” But today, the pain, the stiffness wouldn’t go. She was in extreme agony.

And yet, she wouldn’t take the Diamond off herself, for it was all she had. “It has given me so much. It has turned the world around for me. I can’t let it go. I can’t leave my Diamond.” So, on she went with the Diamond still around her neck, but slowly, the sensation of exhilaration that it had brought had been overtaken by the overbearing pain in her neck.

“It has given me a lot. I can’t let it go” she would kiss it every night before she went to sleep, hoping that the agony would be a little lesser the next day. But it only increased with each passing day.

“At least it makes me look pretty” she would smile and think, but somewhere deep within her, the pain was churning out rivers of tears – tears which she wouldn’t acknowledge, tears which she never showed the way out to.

One day, she realized that it had been months since she had looked at herself in the mirror. As the thought gripped her, she ran to the mirror, her neck feeling like it would fall off any minute. When she paused to look into the mirror, the light from the Diamond blinded her. But gradually, as her face emerged from behind the dazzle, she saw a pale frail face with eyes that looked like stones. The Diamond still shone just as brilliantly, but her skin had stopped reflecting its light. Her shoulders were drooping and her neck was a disturbing red in colour. In that moment, the tears inside her found their way out and flowed like they would never stop flowing… “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” she kept saying, not knowing whether she was saying it to the Diamond or herself.

Exhausted, she sat on her bed and slowly, almost like a ritual, took the Diamond off her neck. Even as the pain lifted from her neck, a huge weight set in on her heart. She took the Diamond in her hands looking at it forever, she kissed it and as she did that, a tear drop fell on the Diamond. The spot where it fell turned into a tear and gradually, the whole Diamond became a blob of tears and flowed out of her hands. She howled to see what she had done to the Diamond, even though deep within her, she knew that it was her very own tears which had turned into the Diamond that night long ago.

“I’m sorry” she cried out aloud. Only, this time, she knew that she meant it for the Diamond.

For you... Dear Thread

(Something I wrote almost 10 months ago... A lot has changed... A lot hasn't)

I was trapped inside myself.
You became my one thread to the world.

I was cold and shivering.
You became my yarn.

I was parched and the well deep.
You became my rope.

I ached to hear the music of joy.
You became my strings.

I lay in the darkest of nights.
You became my wick.

I knew no directions, nor the path.
You became my halter.

I am foolish maybe… that I have picked the scissors.
But do know, my dear Thread, that as I cut you off
I cut away my World.

Perhaps I need to, perhaps I don’t.
But oh dear Thread, do know, that I must become
All that you became for me.
I must become my own yarn and rope
My own strings, wick, my own halter
And it is only then, dear Thread, that it would make
For a good Knot.

Today, however, will remain a sad day
Because I’ve cut away my World.
Because when I was trapped inside myself
You were my one thread to the world.
In many ways, you WERE the world.

Irreparable

Tranquility. Follows the storm. You're not moaning. Or mourning. Anymore. Just tranquil. Numb perhaps. The worst has happened. And the devastation lies in front of you. Or within you. A battered heart, tattered self-worth and shattered faith. Destroyed beyond recognition. Oh, at least the storm is over.

Spoke too soon. Here it comes. Back again. But then, what’s left for it to take?

Acute Damage

I thought dogs are locked in when guests come home.

And beggars are blocked out when they ask for more.

I still do hope that I’m not the dog.

I do know for sure, though, that I was the beggar.

In need of a Pensieve...

Someday, when I am getting bored in somebody’s company,

I want to be able to not think –

“They must think I’m so boring”

Someday, when I am being stared at continually by somebody,

I want to be able to not think –

“They think I’m strange”

Someday, when I notice somebody in the street talking to somebody else,

I want to be able to not think –

“They’re talking about me”

Someday, when I get a compliment from somebody,

I want to be able to not think –

“They don’t know the truth”

Someday, when I am going to meet somebody for the first time,

I want to be able to not think –

“They will know!”

Someday...

I want to be able to not think.

So much.

Unacceptable Excuse

I can’t really balance the weights of my thoughts today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t wash away the redness of my eyes today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t be the can’t-do-without-you employee today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t stifle the numb banging inside my head today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t keep up the pretenses and the charms today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t be the understanding accommodating fool today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t make myself believe in care, today. I haven’t slept enough…

I can’t figure whether it is all worth it, that today, I haven’t slept enough…

Alas!

I can’t ask Life for a day’s break by saying - Today, I haven’t slept enough!

The Waiting Game

Expectation, they say, is the root of suffering…

And if you ask me, they’re not wrong! But then, am I the right person to decide? My opinion could be biased because my expectations have almost always led me to pain. But then, there are those in the world too, who know the recipe to make Happiness, with just the correct amount of Expectation and the accurate amount of Commitment. (If you happen to be one of them, please do share the recipe for the benefit of those who are hopelessly starved)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before M painted my world red, I had actually never expected anything like that to happen in my life. I never thought it was possible, given my circumstances. And yet, when he came, I surprised myself with the realization that I had waited for it all along. There he was – an impossible dream that became my reality; but even before I could get a hang of the new wings my life had given me, he had turned back into a dream, more impossible than ever before. I had expected too much, asked for too much, and life had shown me where I belonged.

Night after day after night after day, I used to wait to treasure each syllable uttered by him for me, wait to capture each glance he would be kind enough to throw my way, wait to cherish every little touch of his on my skin. Yes, I was hopeless, I was helpless. I had completely lost myself in that waiting game, so much so, that I didn’t even realize that soon, I was the only one playing the game. The waits had slowly become longer, and eventually, turned endless.

A little part of me, perhaps, still plays that game, and I wish I could, but I just don’t have the heart to kill that part. I heard this somewhere… and I know how true it is:

“The most difficult to do in the world is not killing a man, but killing your dream”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VS was not a dream. Nothing after M was. Whether anything or anybody could ever be, remains to be seen.

VS was a fantasy though. A passionate fantasy. When I look back at it today, I can remember almost nothing. It has all turned smoky, almost as if it had happened in a faraway place to somebody I don’t know. In fact, I might even be able to make myself believe that it had never happened at all, were it not for the potholes it has left for me on the road to Trust. I do often find myself analyzing those potholes and waiting for answers to pop out of them, even though I know that those answers will change nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waiting is a game. It comes packed with excitement, frustration, anticipation, joy, sorrow – every damn thing you look forward to in a sport. And hence, there have to be rules for the Waiting Game.

But I don’t know what they are, or whatever I do know are the wrong ones, for I have certainly always found myself at the losing end of the game… I seem to always start as the one who is waited for, and end as the one who waits. It makes me edgy if I know that someone I care for is WAITING for me. I almost look at it as a punishment to them, and can’t relax until I have ended it for them. And yet, season after season, I find myself serving the very punishment I hate.

There is something certainly wrong somewhere. Is it that I expect too much? Can you be happy if you don’t expect? Can you be human if you don’t expect? If expectation is the root of pain, is it not the source of happiness too? Must I know the rules of this game, to stop losing?

I want to stop Waiting… I’m tired of this game… And there are two ways for my being able to STOP the game… One of them is not in my hands, though… And the one that is, might be just as painful as the game. Yet… I’m sick and tired of this game.

Big Bad Beautiful Blogging Borld

It’s amazing! This world of blogging! Too bad, I’ve remained unknown to it for so long. But then, I’ve remained unknown to many wonderful things in the world. Books, to start with. World cinema (Terrible, Monsoon! Terrible! Terrible!) And… Dates (;_;).

My mother just came in and we had this little dialogue…

Mamma: What do you keep doing on computer all day? Don’t you get tired?
Monsoon: (lost in a wonderful blog) Hmmm…?
Mamma: What’re you doing?
Monsoon: (still lost; mumbles) Nothing.

Mother goes away.

I didn’t quite get to notice her expression as she left, but I bet you can imagine it, just as I can. Of course, I don’t keep doing blogs all day [as you would know if you’ve read my previous post]! But for the most part of today, I have. And oh my! There’re so many brilliant writers out there. And most have been blogging for over 3 years! I seriously have a lot of catching up to do.

Of late, however, I’ve found myself wondering just how much or how little of myself must I pour into my blog. Who am I writing it for? Who SHOULD I write it for? Myself, right? But then, isn’t the whole thing about a blog to let others read you? Why WOULD they want to do that, unless of course, they happen to be my friends, lovers, family, or random people I’ve bribed?
Or… unless if I write well enough?
OR… if there’s something extraordinary about this blog or this blogger?

Which is where my next dilemma begins. How right or wrong is it to flash your extraordinariness to increase your number of hits per day? Would it have been better if the likes of Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan had not projected their true identities along with their blogs? [Oh by the way… hehehe… If you’re trying to read between the lines… THIS blogger is not a celebrity!] Yeah, I know, I know! They want to reach out to the public at large and all that. But just how many of the actual number of ‘public’ can they reach through a high-tech thing (it still IS one in India, if you ask me) like a blog?

Well, I haven’t visited any of the celebrity blogs myself. Even from a distance, they somehow smell fake… And much like KG, ‘fake’ is my turn-off.

Coming back to the dilemma of this freshly-baked blogger… How much of me should go into my blog? And how much of my blog should occupy me?

Expert suggestions… opinions… experiences… Welcome! The door to the Comments room is right below!

My First... Visitor

May 10. He enters my life.
May 27. He becomes the first person to enter this space.

Orkut.
G-Talk.
Facebook.
Vodafone.
Gmail.
Blogger.

Checklist!
Male? Mmmm… Y.. y.. yes.
Caring? Yes.
Cute? Yes.
Rich? No.
Tall? NOOOOOO! (;_;)
Sense of humour? YES!!!
Confused? Who me or him?

5-6 “I like you”s in a day.
5-6 G-Talk hours in a day.
5-6 calls in a day.
1 fight in 20 days.
5-6 “Sorry”s in a day.

Trust Psychology issues.
Height Geometry issues.
Sociology issues.
Geography issues.
History issues.
Chemistry – no issues!

The fastest “I love you”.
Actually, “I think I’m falling in love with you”.
Without a single meeting.

Unreal!
Immature.
Foolish.
Nutcase.
INSANE!

Sweet.


P.S The fastest “We’re just friends”.
Status quo.

The Blow

“Kehta tha aap sab majoori karte ho… Main service karoonga. Kehta tha main kuchh banoonga”… {“He used to say – You all may do labour work… But I’ll do a job. He used to say - I’ll become something”}

Not a trace of dampness in them, and yet so hollow were his eyes as he spoke of his son, that they sent a chill down my very bones. Hollow, just like his skeletal structure – eaten from within by the moths of poverty all his life; and now in the past few hours, every morsel of hope left in there chewed away to nothingness… This time, by the moths outside – the ones he doesn’t know, would never know. And there’s one more thing that he would perhaps never know – the answer to one simple question… Why?

As I sat eating a sumptuous lunch watching news on NDTV this afternoon, one after another, came on screen faces of people who I might have seen sometime, maybe passed by them, perhaps bought something from their shops. They had all lost some part of their existence today – a dear one had left them forever, and they had had no chance to hug them or wish them goodbye. One of the most peaceful cities in my country, the city dearest to my heart – Jaipur – has, instead, said goodbye to peace. “Friends, no more!”

7 bomb blasts… 70 dead bodies… 70 multiplied by a diverse range of number of years of LIFE multiplied by 365… days of LIFE, of memories, laughs, promises, cheers, dreams… turned to dust. Nothing left. Not a thing. The universe has a strange way of absorbing the most beautiful things about life. The things which are not things at all. Because… they don’t REMAIN when life doesn’t remain. And yet, they’re all that life is about!

The headline of today’s Punjabi newspaper Ajit reads “Pink city turned blood red”. It shakes my core everytime I read it. The pink city is the city where I spent the pink years of my life. Not once had it crossed my mind then that someone could even think of bombing this place, these people. And today when I know for sure that it has happened, I’m still trying to convince myself that someone DID after all think of bombing that place, those people.

I’m a firm believer in the Ways of God. That He knows best, and that He’ll make sure that whatever happens is for the best. On such days, though, I find my faith standing on rickety grounds. Why? Just why should an old man who doesn’t get enough water to drink have to shed it from his eyes, in the name of a son who was supposed to quench the thirst of his entire lifetime? Why can these people whom we call terrorists not see their own fathers in this man? And just why can they not see that their God, whoever He is, did not give them the right to create dead bodies? – Neither the ones they’ve left motionless, nor the ones they’ve left moving.

Not Always

Sometimes, days begin like this – early, yet purposeless…
Sometimes, they end that way too.

Sometimes, when I sit to write, I end up thinking – What was I thinking?
Sometimes, when I finish writing, I still think – What was I thinking?

Sometimes, when I get gooseflesh, I wonder – Is it cold or is it scary?

Sometimes, when the mirror acts friendly, I can see a breezy monsoon in it.
Sometimes, when it still acts friendly, I can see the summer in her eyes, and then, it doesn’t act friendly anymore.

Sometimes, I imagine myself in other people’s shoes, and realize that they can never step into mine, because I can never step into theirs.

Sometimes, when I gulp my pills, I wonder whether I’m fooling myself or the world.

Sometimes, I find it hard to remember the last time when I was really tired.
Sometimes, I’m so tired of the monsoons that I wish the winter back.

Sometimes, when I look at my mum’s face, I can see that she’s living in the past.
Sometimes, on that face, I see so much fear that I know the thought of future just crawled by.

Sometimes, we know what’s best for us, and we just do it.
Sometimes, when we do it, we know that it wasn’t the best for us anyway.

Sometimes, I think I could have been anybody I chose to, and I made my choice.