a conflict inside. one third of a moment #21

"finally, i've had it with her", someone inside his brain screamed as he threw his phone on the cushion, subconsciously careful of it not hitting anywhere else. it was a phone gifted by her. then, he threw himself on the bed and switched on the tv. he pushed the volume button up until the speakers couldn't push themselves anymore, just to drown the contrasting voices inside his head. but such attempts, more often than not, go in vain.
         "it has been two years now, you nerd, asshole, you fool. stop tailing her."
         "i am not tailing her and i am no fool, i think deep down she loves me"
         "hahaha you keep telling yourself that. i just know one thing, if it was supposed to happen..."
         "yeah yeah i know, it should have happened till now. but two years man, it'd be hard to let go now"
         "are you clinging on because you can't let go of her, is that the reason enough"
         "ah you talk about reasons, i'd give you plenty of that"
         "go on (scuffs)"
         "only a week before she told me that i am the only true friend she has right now"
         "beep. you win the housecup of the school of friendzone. next"
         "okay asshole, what about this. she told me once that i am one of the best things that has happened to her"
         "man she is a player..."
         "you are such a pessimistic scoundrel, you swine, you..."
         "woah man, all i am saying is deep down, you ask yourself that once, do you even like her. i have seen                  
            you crying like a pussy when she does not pick up your phone, or poses like a bitch with other guys,
             guys tenfold smarter than you. you've had it with her man, you do not like her, just move on..."
        "you devil, yeah maybe i do not like some of her habits or herself sometimes, but..is something ringing?"
he jumps out of his bed like a flying ninja, runs up to the couch and checks out his phone. a text that read,
        "sorry dear, dozed off, please call me asap. got something to tell you"
his own voice got some ground.
         "yeah maybe i do not like her, but the scene is, my dear brain, i love her." 

a perfect phoenix metaphor. one third of a moment #20

he used to visit the whore-house every other week. not because of his uncontrollable sexual desires that are satisfied by cheap prostitutes, but only to be with the women he was madly in love with. any other day, he is a working mule with his childhood dreams buried deep down his pile of regrets. his schedules were overbrimming with tasks of pleasing the people he does not like, greasing the palms of officers with the history of brutal cases of moral degradation and licking the assholes of real assholes, like the literal ones who could as well be in the pictorial description of the word. he was married to a girl his parents found for him, and had the two most beautiful kids whom, deep down, he did not love.
                       do not be judgmental. dads often do not love their children, just as often as children put them in retirement homes. its an uneven, chaotic world, very different than the happy ending bollywood movies we grew up watching and believing in.
                       for a couple of times, to release the stress, he walked to the taboo-ed place with hushed paces. but the third time he was there behind the curtains, and was waiting for them to open and let the over-expensive game begin, walked in a girl so explicitly beautiful, so unimaginably charming, that the blood rushed back to his heart. he did not do what he paid for, for what happened, then and there, was something he could not put a price on, let alone renting it for one night.
                      what began from there is a love story that would never make it to the same shelves where romeo-juliet are adored, but is equally, if not more, ironical. its always you find the most precious where you never think of looking. and when you find it, when you stop looking, that is when you really start understanding why this whole system of human codes, despite their stakes of tremendous fallibility, sustain.  for him, that was it. but with it also came the code, the society, that could not let him desert those whom he would never love, to be with someone he does. its the same conduct that has established love to be rare, yet is pierced with utter ferocity of the needles of the same vicious code, when it bubbles up in the naive, alive hearts. but those who want to be together, shall be together. and all those who defile them shall perish. its very strange sometimes to see how the "coincidences" have their own swag of unraveling.
                    he kissed his wife on the cheek, stroked the kids' hairs and departed for a week-long business trip with a small suitcase. this is something annual that he had been doing for three years, when the pressure of living under others' thumbs go well above the explosion limit and he feels a dire need to feel alive rather than just live. instead of the airport, he took a wretched road to the whore-house. but he bought  the ticket just to be on the safer side.
                   the plane went missing the next day. all the passengers were presumed dead. so was he. but on the contrary, he took the liberty of taking birth, once again. 

i scored, mother. one third of a moment #19

as the ears went deaf to the crowd wailing and cursing in the stadium and the veins burnt as they pumped blood, he launched himself in the air. higher than the hands trying to pull him down, higher than every sarcasm  thrown upon him, higher than every agony he suffered to reach here and higher than the higher truth.
           at age 13, he was diagonized with a very rare syndrome that makes the whole nervous system awry. by the age 14, he couldn't catch a ball or write his home work. by the age 15, he understood the gravity of the problem and the things he could never do in life. but when he thought it couldn't be worse, it did. by the age of 16, he started walking like a drunkard coming out of a whore-house. and by 17, he was on wheel-chair. his friends depleted and his mother was went into depression. his coward of a father left his job and his family, and shifted somewhere upstate in the search of solace that was unattainable near a depressed woman and weirdly handicapped teen.
          as he stormed out of the room with his bags and baggage and she stood there numb, her broken posture supported with a wall behind her, he found within himself a surge of power, like never before, to get up and hold her. to help someone stand who did not run away, while she could have, just because she still believes in the bond of love. that is when he dreamed of one day. and that is today. at the age of 18.
         he scored. and the national baskeball trophy belonged to his school. the team surged towards him and within seconds he was in air again, but this time not because of his trained limbs but the proud shoulders of his team-mates. he shushed them, and found a circle of them. the whole howling turned down to perplexed susurrus. it seemed like the top scorer of the series was to execute something he had been planning for years.
        the circle broke into people, and all of them aligned facing the row where his mother was sitting, with tears in eyes and tissues in hand. and all of them knelt infront of the real champion.

one third of a moment #18

just like every other day, without fail, she stopped her dilapidated scooter near to the yellow-black lane of stones that separates footpath from the bridge. the precision in taking the everyday halt was so intense, that the side-stand fell right into the notch made by it over months. she removed her scarf and headphones and stood on the specific spot with her palms resting on the cold, wet railing. there was the the thing she likes to watch, and hates to acknowledge its existence.
               right below her, amidst the fog, was the train she coveted so much. the train that leaves for the place of her desire everyday. yet, here she was, over the top of it, still unable to bring herself to be inside it. and just like a habit, the next thought of the line popped up inside her head, again for the umpteenth time. since some time, she had been talking her body to be a barrier. a roadblock between where she was and where heart was. the social protocols, the emotional blockades, are all for the flesh and bones. the soul, on its own, can be where it wants to be. can do what it wants to do. because its neither he or she, or rich or poor. or engaged in a perpetual commitment to anyone either.
              but way far, there is one man, who is eager to meet her, but with flesh and bones. and for him, she has to dwell in the hideous meatsuit for a while longer. she was disposed of one thing though, that one day she will fly away from the miserably mess, for a single thread of hope is all she always wanted. very soon.
             she kick-started her scooter and zoomed away!

fighting arena/dance floor!

i pity the people around me. i pity them, all and sundry, and not because they are ugly or poor, or in some cases beautiful or rich. i pity them because they are afraid. sometimes, i try and kick this feeling off and sit back on my comfortable chair and enjoy the view that prevails around me. sometimes, i just go the the hill behind my college, climbing around a century of stairs, and look at the view (that is what i call the "god's-eye view"). and i see people running like trained ants. hungry, tired, frustrated. sometimes for obvious reasons, sometimes not. trotting, limping, crawling. an ocean of emotions surge in my heart as i try to transfer myself into one of the ant. the way i feel range from mesmerizing to painful, all to the extreme ends. but fear, i find, is present in all of them.
                  why is their face hung low? why is the spirit so down-trodden? why people expect so less of life? is something no one could answer genuinely. "find something you love, and kill it" this is what happens according to my guess. in the very early day of our lives, we learn to love ourselves. we dream, we dance, we are carefree. its not like we are free from the sins. laziness, gluttony, lust, wrath, we are born with them. and we would die with them. but as children, we know how to make peace with the sins, the demons. we accept the drawbacks, the loopholes of human race and we carry on with our life. but as we grow up, we start fighting them. and the fight engenders fear. and the fear is the thing that prevails.
                 you fight with yourself, you fear yourself, and when the time comes, you kill yourself. do you ever think why you were born? why 128 probabilities happened together so that you can evolve into your present form. to give a damn to what world thinks about you? this answer is a little hard for me to digest. what i guess, as i could only guess, is that you take birth to enjoy the journey that has taken years to come this far, and to take it an inch further. the world is an open ground, its no one's choice but yours, either to take it as a fighting arena, or as a dance floor. but, then literally, there is a fight of mike tyson and a dance of shakira, whose tickets would you buy? 

are you poisoned?

are you poisoned? obviously you are. the question is, can you be cured? obviously not. once you are in, you are in for the rest of your days. the adolescence will pass, the furs of manhood would shed and before you will know, you will be shitting in a plastic bag and popping pills for arthritis. now the only question is, how badly are you affected. now that is the question you would have to answer for yourself.
           now, let me guess. it started from 'how i met your mother', a group of people whom you refer to as friends, gathered up on a house couch or a hostel bed and set up a trend. but as your hunger grew, the quality of the episodes deteriorated. then and there, you decided to move to something else, and you do not anymore give a damn to how he met the mother. but now, the world was full of options and choices, you start feeling like a bird who has just left the crib of a nest and is out in the air, eyeing for a new tree to dwell on, feed on. game of thrones, was it? or breaking bad, i suppose? but you just can't stop can you? didn't i tell you, you are poisoned!
          you sit before the screen for hours at a stretch, staring and staring. sometimes squeaking, sometimes gasping, as the story demands. sometimes yelling 'fuck, fuck' as some guy appears shouting 'did you miss me' with a joker face, or if some beloved stark is beheaded suddenly. for a moment, as the episode ends and you find yourself looking at yourself through the black screen. do you love seeing yourself. or are you even able to see past the red eyed face of yours and have a peep into the miserable, sucking life of yours. a perfectly mellow series of days and nights with no interesting friends and no class of enemies. so, you trade.
          you trade, in the life saving sticks, the drugs. the poisons. the getaways. the mini windows to the appealing life of others, that you live 48-55 minutes at a time. and you dwell on, what starts from the pilot, occasionally the unaired one, ends with a suspense that you just can't live with. you wait, and you wait, you see the trailors, dig for the clues, and you do not see it ending.
         now read the first line!
         aren't you?

there is a word!

a versatile poet once said, "out beyond the world of the wrongdoings, and the rightdoing, there is a field. i will meet you there". he must have been really versatile to lie right on the face of the king or the god he served when he penned these words along with a bunch of other crap. the words that are pleasing to the ear, the words that give a sense of 'a higher truth' for a second, the words which you stumble upon occasionally, and they take you out strolling in 'the field beyond wrongdoings and rightdoings', and you spin into the numbness, talking to your beloved, ramming the one you lust, driving the car whose paper cuttings you collect. but in the end, the dream-spin finds an end as you fall back, headfirst, on the earth. let me tell you one thing. there is no fucking field like that.
              the poets are a clever species. they do not need equipments or masks or methlabs. they can write drugs. anytime they want, free at their will. and the drugs they create, are more powerful than the namely ones you could go to jail for. because they leave no trace of guilt. they only leave delusion, sedation, and a pinch of sorrow. after reading a bunch of lines, you feel as if a hole has been punched in your chest by a molten rod. while sometimes you find yourself wandering in the bushes of your own mind, merrily, with beer in your grip. i am telling you, they are a clever species. see, many drugs come and go, but poetry survives. evolves.
              those who have contracted an addiction, folks like me, you could never go back. so don't even try. yes, love has torn us, friendship has shredded us, the lambs we pet will evolve into lions and wolves and will turn against us. that is how it goes. but finding solace through jumbled words ain't no bravery. spending your new year's eve on a terrace, with a bunch of mere acquaintances, drunk and drugged and whistling and humming, reading out the lines you thought were written for you by famous men, and applauding while the other broken people do so, ain't no comfort. remember, comfort comes from confrontation. and pasts do leave stains. nuns do get pregnant and saadhus do fuck. make peace with youself and dance for the rest of your days. and say no to drugs.
           till the nature's last call.
           make peace.