Just Another Day

Sitting on the stone bench, Anwar stared ahead. It was just another day- Anwar thought. Men and women walked about. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

Would she come ? He began to wonder. The afternoon had been hectic. In fact the whole of last week had been totally turbulent. Filled with mixed emotions now sitting in the railway station, he began recollecting the happenings of the last week. Ever since he broke out his love affair to his father, his life hadn't been the same. A weeping mother and threats from my older brother seemed minute compared to the treatment his father now gave him. His father refused to talk to Anwar, his father promised he would take every measure necessary to disrupt this relationship.

But Anwar had made up his mind. He had even decided what he was to do. He was even more pleased that Mary had readily accepted his offer. She was willing to leave her parents behind. She would come with Anwar , a new life.

Anwar's thoughts were interrupted abruptly by the noisy old woman who had just occupied the seat on the railway bench beside him. She was screaming into her phone. Anwar couldn't make out what she was saying. He ignored her, just as he had been ignoring the noisy Mumbai railway station the last half hour.

Mary's aunt had made arrangements for their stay in Chennai for a couple of months. Anwar was still doubtful. Though Mary had promised she was very much willing to do this, Anwar was still unconvinced. Just another week at work and we'll leave- he thought. Leave this city behind us and go ahead with our lives.

Anwar's train would arrive in ten minutes, at eight, he hoped it wouldn't be late. He had to get to work on time. Earn his last paycheck with a good recommendation from his boss.

His thoughts were again interrupted. Anwar could here gunshots. He looked around to see two heavily armed men walking with their guns firing indiscriminately. Anwar felt a sudden jab through his right thigh. Within moments he felt another bullet hit him square on his chest. His eyesight went dizzy. He could feel the pain, but what pained him more was the thought of Mary. How would she cope with this loss.
It wasn't just another day after all.
With that thought Anwar passed into the void.

There was pandemonium all around Chatrapathi Shivaji Terminus that evening, 26 November 2008.

I Wonder

I dreamed a dream


Far, far away, stranded upon ice near black
The shadows, they whispered behind my back


I stumbled alone; I hoped for someone near
To drive the weak of my bones, rid me of this fear


Of the cruel sisters of Emptiness, Loneliness
Quiet Nothingness


But lo, that’s when I looked up and saw
Forces raw and pure floating o’er the tor


An eerie midnight gathering of Souls
Swirling spirits, nigh centuries old


Where the Lost Hearts warm themselves o’er the fire
Pearls in the dust; gleaming desire


A Fire in the Blizzard, Sanctuary for the Cold
The Dance of Life, by the dead we’ve buried in gold


And then a voice told me I was now part
Of Something more; there shone the warmth in my heart


I wonder


Do many Losts make a Found?

Stone Warriors

I see the sadness in his eyes,
The horrors of the war past
Hands and Faces twisted aghast

They say the eyes are the reflections of memory

There's enough to make him blind

Comrades’ deaths over and over in his drenched mind
Soldiers of stone they are,

Forever walking, forever striving for the unattainable flag

Each one a limp rag


Nothing more than a shade of the real thing

Just a sculpture
Life in Rock, little known to their creator.

Dies Mali

The Greeks believed there were two days, two days each month which were unusually very unlucky. The seers couldn't predict these days. You would know only when dawn broke the next day. These two, evil days were called the Dies Mali.
On hindsight Its obvious that day was one of the Dies Mali. But again how would I know?

The Eloctrocutor. That's what the press called me. I liked it. It had a nice ring to it. I am a man who derives pleasure from electrocuting people. They never survive. I don't stand and watch them die. I leave knowing I am the cause of their doom. My life which is supposed to be mine to control was never such. I have always had someone else make decisions for me. I never had the power of choice. Never.
Just before I send electric currents through my victims body, I always, always asked my self this question- Should I or Should I not. My answer was always yes. But asking that question gave me a choice, something I rarely experienced.

That day everything went out as planned. I picked this lonely bachelor who lived a street from my new residence. His quite nature meant he would have few or even better ,no visitors, making my job a whole lot easier.

I left as the clock struck twelve. The night was on my side. I just had to blend with my powerful ally. I made my way to his building. Picked his lock. Everything seemed awkwardly quiet.I checked all his rooms, he was asleep. The room was very stuffy, very humid. Which was unnatural the season being winter.

I unzipped my pack. Carefully placing 'The Killing Machine' , My fancy name for the wire which I place on my victims feet. The wire that would send such chasms rippling through their body such that their heart would stop beating. I found a socket and plugged the wire in. Taking care not to wake him up I placed the open ended wire on his feet. Walked up to the socket, Switched it on.

Fifteen minutes later I hit my bed. Sweating from head to toe. The job complete, I couldn't wait to find out how many people this victim would gather outside his house. Would the press be there? With these questions still ringing in my mind I fell asleep.

I woke the next day , the sun hadn't risen yet. A cold winter day , the sun would rise only by nine.

Something about this particular episode troubled me. My head asked me questions. What if the man woke up would he cry out , would someone here his cries and save him? Or will he have a slow painful death? .I decided to take a walk and check on my theories. As I entered the street I saw a couple of police cars outside the house. Ahh I thought , everything went as planned. How long before he died was the only question on my head now? Putting on my cool face I casually walked by the cop standing outside the victims residence. I innocently asked him "What's going on officer?"

You could see dawn breaking a splendid view. The screw replied "Nothing much lad, The man who lives here woke up this morning with an electric wire on his leg. Its a good thing he hasn't paid the electricity bill in a month".

Paradise Lost

He watched as the light, molten gold , faded to grey.
He watched as the gates, the gates that had been his to command, swung shut on his tormented soul.
He fell through the air, as paradise blurred and reality, horryifying reality burned at him.
He fell through the air, his body broken, his wings burnt, his soul twisted.
He screamed, as the fires of purgatory seared the remnant of him to nothingness.
He screamed, not for the pain that he felt, but for the pain of paradise lost.
Pity Him, for I am he.
Call me Ishmael.

Requiem for an Apprentice

A withered leaf flitted across the dry forest floor, the wind carrying it from under Slithice’s legs. His pointy nostrils contracted, as he sniffed the air, eyes narrowed. For a moment, he allowed himself a glance to his right, cocking his head ever so slightly. A shadow of doubt crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it.

The lack of a decent scent did not discourage him as the forest was his companion. The trampled brambles spoke of his quarry’s hasty flight. The chipped oak bark showed signs of his flailing hands, grazing across the tree side. He had to be here.

Then suddenly the wind shifted its direction, carrying a strong and musty scent. The hunter jerked to his right, bow raised, arrow notched. His wide eyes dashed across the dark forest, realizing his obvious mistake. He had underestimated his prey. This was no ordinary fugitive. In fact, he had been watching him.

A dark figure burst out from the bushes, hurtling towards the hunter. He released his arrow desperately but missed by a league. The figure dove into the mass of leaves, throwing clouds of soil and dust into the air. Slithice lunged out of the way, his lithe figure moving swiftly up the nearest tree. As he secured his position on the lowest branch he turned back, frantically searching for his prey, for whom, he now had an increased sense of respect, and wariness. But it was already too late.

It was the 23^rd day of the hunt. And Arboreal Mastix, the condemned rogue trader had continued to elude the grasp of the greatest bounty hunter that the Kingdom of Assarda had seen.

*****************

Slithice had never been tested this long, usually killing his prey in the second day of tracking. But something was different this time.

His quarry was a condemned black merchant, guilty of supplying the resistance with armor and weapons. And now he was to meet his judgment. Just that the kingdom did not realize who they were dealing with.

Nevertheless, Slithice would prevail, he told himself. He had tracked nearly invisible, invincible foes, chasing them across the Kingdom, and he had always succeeded. How could a mere trader survive.

******************

His back was sore from crouching, eyes dry and red. But he seemed to have finally cornered him. The incident in the forest was simply an underestimation. But now he was prepared.

He had made his movements stark and obvious as he trailed off his prey’s wake, taking the false trail that he had left him. He trudged off into the mountain pass of A’Kroth, wary that Mastix’s eyes watched his every footfall.

Dawn had set in and the pass had become dark with the jagged shadows of the lofty peaks.

It was easy to get lost inside. Easy to lose.

And now he had finally convinced the trader that he had him off his trail. He watched as the dark figure of the trader got out of his concealment and set off towards the town. He allowed himself a grin. Finally

His arrow aligned with the left thigh, aiming for the femoral artery. He increased the tension on the sinew of his bow, ready to release the month of fatigue and toil into the last few moments of the kill.

A loud pang indicated the release of an arrow.

Only, the arrow wasn’t his.

His eyes widened in shock as the brutal realization dawned upon him. He had been fooled once again. A sharp pain exploded from his shoulders as an arrow burst through his chest, soaring through the other end. His eyesight blurred as he let out a wail of surprise, anger, and defeat.

As he dropped to the ground, the dark figure of his quarry appeared from behind him. A sliver of moonlight played across the contours of his familiar weathered face.

Gasping for his last breaths, he could still see the remorse behind his old mentor’s steely eyes.

Coughing and spluttering he managed to bring his eyes level to his.

“You.”

Please note all the characters mentioned are fictitious and any resemblance to someone you know or have met is horseshit.

Fields of Clay

Expectation is a terrible thing.

Binding everyone to first impressions and misunderstandings.

Its like when you see someone you form a mold, shape it to what you see.

But what do you do when it's cast in fire?

Now the unchanging impression will be the constant frame of reference,

a mold that binds you from the beauty of discovery, and to the twisted disability of expectation.

The closer the minds get, the more they begin to see only what they want,what they EXPECT to see.

Because the mold of their world is already put in the sun, and all they do,

by dragging on through their pitiable lives is stare at the fields of clay,

that decides their opinions, ignoring whats beyond it.

Damn the fields of clay.

Whatever happened to the likes of Columbus and Magellan.

Inkblot

Pools of thoughts,

fed to our souls from the same sea.

From these pools words shall flow.

They shall flow through the purest paths,

from silvery river to black,

five shades of it,

shall reinforce one another,

worlds will be created,

and through a silent sinister metaphor,

the universe and life itself shall play on paper.

And as i let my pool refill,

an inkblot forms where my thoughts touch paper.

L.R

Do you need to be fooled?

I am not the one, you would expect, to go to the audience
and say, it's just a trick
Most of them already know it.
But they want to be mystified. They NEED it.

The catch is, that even though the trick involves,
the audience, believing in it,
they are still fooled. For a short moment they believe,
and this gives them strength. Who am i
to say, it's not magic.

The trick is so good, that even if there is a logical explanation,
the audience, needing it to be real, ignores it.

In Ignorance there is Strength.

If they werent so, they would realise,
there is no magic, we are all alone. Weak.

Who am I the cynical rationalist, the unfortunate intellectual, the one who lives in a world with only ourselves and the darkness.

Who am I, to tell the audience
its just a trick ?

I can only curse the day I rationalised.

I am The Empath. And I Lament.

So Long

Hello, V

Her head on my shoulder

Eyes red, maybe

My heart’s heavy

Just strangers two moons ago

Goodbye, she whispered to me

(Everything’s so incomplete)

“I should get going”

I returned her warm embrace

And said ... Nothing.

Unleashing the Zeroness

Invisible I am
Lurking within the shadows
Unnoticed.

Hiding in the darkness
Imploding with ideas
Waiting, waiting.

My time is close
I will come out of my little shell
Conquer all.

You will know me soon
Realistaion will hit you
Ignored me you have.

Regret it you will.
Hello there, I'm Zero and I Dream.

You Aren't One to Judge Me

You arent One to Judge me.




Do you know what freedom is, truly?

Look at the puppets around you

And don’t tell me you don't have strings too

 

Forget about you, I’ll walk on by

The roads can bleed me dry

 

But if my thoughts are my own

Wont need a home

(I will find my Silence, my Truth)

 

..I am The Wanderer.

Mon Dieu

The sight of my child sucked all the life from me
Tears rolled down my face
"What have I done O Lord, to deserve this." I asked
I waited in silenceI heard no reply.
She awoke, the drugs in her system wearing off
She looked at me expectantly
Hoping to find the face of a joyous father
Finding instead eyes filled with loss
She asked me "What's wrong love?"She heard no reply.
My daughter, our daughter had been born still
I had to tell her
Her eyes bore into mine, she had to know
"She was born dead." I said
I heard no reply.

I could feel her pain
She walked up to the open window squinting at the sun
She threw herself out of the window
I heard a 'thud' nine floors below
I ran to the window, screamed her nameI heard no reply.