The Curtain Call

She trudged through the bog that normality had in store for her. She had a high paying job which made no sense to her and no use to anyone. The surreal visions of her childhood were rotting in the conformity of the excel sheet. Her world housed 2 kinds of people.

•       The depressing ones who complain they gave up their dream  for a high paying job.
•          The smug assholes, who stood up against the world ,fought their way up by being true to themselves and their conscience, taking up failures more cheerfully for it meant more than success at something they never wanted, and having a honest-to-self, happy life.

Her problem was that she never had a dream job. She hardly aspired to be anything in her life. For her, merely surviving was a tough nut to crack that she left her future to unfold as it took its course. Kindly go ahead judging her for lamenting about “surviving” when she had a comfortable upbringing. 

Are we done? 

Yes? 

Moving on then. She never felt “at home” even at her own house, feeling like an outsider with her kin. A recluse who preferred doing "nothing", doesn't ring normal but she preferred being that. For in all her "nothingness" she saw herself, in the absence of an actual life she felt lively, enjoying the dormant state her life had been pacing for 25 years.

It was not the inert part of her life that had pushed her to contemplating about ending it, but the parts which had activity. She hated being called an idiot for not knowing the coldest place in the world while she sat under the asbestos roof of her classroom on a 40°C day. She hated being slapped when she complained to her mother about the family friend being too friendly with her. She hated having her food taken away for the society felt she was gaining girth. She hated being paraded in front of families that were looking for a mate for their male heir. She hated being ridiculed when she acted a little crazy and tried to blend in with the world. In spite of the hatred, she masked them all to conform. She learned how to spell Vostok Station in Antarctica, smile and participate when the family friend visited them, eat smaller meals and sleep hungry, and put up her best feminine presence for the familial congregations for spousal hunting. Living made her want to die.

She never planned out a suicide or ventured about exploring the various options available. She wanted to embrace death when it came, but she wished it to come soon. What depressed her more than the thought of killing herself was how her long gazes at the knives and razors went unnoticed by her family. Her tear and kohl stained pillow cases drew rage than concern from her mother and discussing about life for her parents after her death, sharing her various insurance details and nominee information got her appreciation from her father. She wondered if this was normal and if it was, she was happy that she was better off being abnormal. Despite the picture she paints about her family, they were good people who were simply ignorant about their daughter’s suicidal thoughts.

The void in her being and the alternate offered to her simply drove her insane. She didn't know what had pushed her over the ledge, but she picked 5^th of November, to stay remembered. She had sorted all her affairs, written her “Letters from Beyond” to her family and the few friends she had, crafted a will regarding to whom she wanted her material possessions to go to and insisting on a burial. Though her rational thoughts were against this, the little part of hope for her family wanted her to be buried so that they can visit her. She felt e-burning to be quick and final, that it robs the mourners of their final moments with the deceased. You at least get to stare at the funeral pyre but to be incinerated by an unknown person behind closed doors seemed sad.

It was a cloudy and dull dawn on the 5^th of November. She woke up to early but stayed in bed admiring as the sky changed its shading by the passing minute. After what seemed to be an awful amount time, she was up and ready. She remembered that she needed to pick up something from the market before she left. As she journeyed to the market, she realized every little thing that she saw would probably be her last experience. She thought about all the books she wouldn't read, all the music she wouldn't listen to, all the movies she wouldn't watch, all the people she wouldn't meet. She laughed at how obscure everything seemed as she waited for 62 seconds for the traffic light to change, to cross the road.

Life, why art thou a female hound?

A Singer. That's what she had wanted to become when she grew up. She did not know if she was a good singer, but since she had been taking classical music lessons on her mother’s insistence, she assumed her singing was good. If not why would her mother send her to those classes. Her career choices had been mundane during her tender years when she did not know what the word “career” meant. She had also wanted to become a teacher,for she had enjoyed playing the "School game" at home, but resented the fact that her elder sister always played the teacher and she got the role of the janitor for the imaginary kids.

Then, an age had come where her choices in life included where to hide while playing Hide-and-Go Seek, or when to strike the ball while playing cricket, or how to hide her scrapped knee from her mother, or what tattoo to choose from the 5 choices that were handed out when she got her chewing gum. Fun years of her life. Her grades were good, her friends were wonderful and there was not one thought of dread that clouded her mind.

Then, the fateful teenage. She was sane enough to cut short on her vanity and but not enough as she wanted to solve the world problems. She wished not to be the princess of the world but to be its leader. She thought she knew the world well enough that she could save it and all the people from their miseries. She imagined herself to be "The Messaiah" , The reckoning, “The One”. It was history and an encouraging teacher who had filled her head with all these notions of God complex. She fell in love with the past and decided that it would be her enabler when she addressed her great calling. Indian golden age, French renaissance, freedom struggle, American history and many other instances of the past fascinated her. Along the same time came English literature. The words and rhymes of the many English poets and bards had cajoled her heart as much as history fascinated her mind. She wanted them both, to sharpen her mind and soften her heart. She satiated her heart by writing bad poetry that she loved. She whetted her mind by learning about the countries and all the events through their existence. 

When her day of reckoning came knocking at her door, her parents chose Engineering. She passed four years there, having no strong footing in anything remotely in regard to the field. She joined the IT band wagon in a large multinational manger for many a sheep like her. Aimless, she wandered around in that world, doing what she was bid to. She found solace in her peers who were complaining as much as she did.

However, there were the ones who stood apart. The ones who chose to chase their dreams. The ones who looked forward to a Monday. In spite of failures, let downs, heart breaks they championed their one true dream passionately and this carped her. Those bloody imbeciles, who cherished their choices and loved their lives. Her inability to stand up for herself made her a cripple,not the differently abled kind, but of the subset Loser.She decided it wasn't too late to catch up on the history and literature and voiced her frustration she had in the field laid out by her parents, by her Alma mater and by her employer. Her parents suggested she might be happy if she switched to another profession like a banker. 

Exactly. 

All that a history loving, English literature aspirant needs is a switch over to banking. She realized as much as she wanted to save the world when she was a kid, she needed to save her life now before it rusted out.

That was the day she got to her feet...

.

.

.

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.

.
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and sat back as she read her credit card statement.

The day She decided to Run Away

There is a certain time during your sleep cycle, when you are neither awake nor asleep. It gets less visual, your hearing is more in use and you are not sure if what you partially see and almost fully hear is from your dream landscape or the reality. You hear things but you are not sure whether you can talk about it later to others, however that silly brain of yours registers the words. She heard venom. Venom spewed for her mere existence. The lazy persona of hers didn't please her overlords. As a mid-twenty spinster, she was a magnet of everything that is wrong with the girls of the time. Add a splosh of good old laziness to it and Voila..!! you get the perfect unwanted daughter to an already stressed out couple who were in the eternal lookout for a son and ended up with three disappointing daughters.

The lady of the house never ceased to complain and seized every opportunity to point out that she was disappointed with her daughter. Be it in an ever loving way or in the most extreme rudeness from a mother to daughter. The beating had stopped years ago, but the daughter preferred a slap or two than this. The sting of a strike and the humiliation of it may last for a few minutes or a couple of hours at the maximum, but the words, they pierce the skin, cut through the flesh and inflict pain somewhere in the thoracic cavity. Mother lady never thought about the damage she did. In actuality she is a lovely women, the best mother one  could hope for, but during her frustrated hours she could be a mean old thing. The words that form at the her lips can push you over the cliff. But do not judge her with this account. She is just another tired, overrun, housewife who had more than her share of miseries crushing her down, thanks to her daughters. Her anger is justified , but the daughter just doesn't get it.

The Father  is a tired old man. He had passed the cut off age for an elderly citizen and just wanted this last daughter of his out of the house, so he could enjoy his life peaceful for may be a few months, for in his life, there will be no peace. Thanks again to the daughters.

Coming back to the day she decided to runaway, it was a Christmas morning and it had nothing to do with this family. The daughter, a working woman, whose days start early but not too early, wanted to sleep in an extra 3 hours, while the mother wanted her to wake up with the sun and get her fat bottom to stop being so. The daughter hated it, but she did it anyway because she knows the her overlords meant it in a good way, but that particular day she was too tired. The dark comedy she watched the previous night did not come to her rescue when she heard her mother rant about how a lazy, ungrateful, worthless spawn she turned out to be. The daughter ,whose head was in the space between "fully awake" and "Gosh that dream was good , let me try if I can extend it a little bit more", was growing tired of the Mother lady's complaints just screamed,

 "Oh stop screaming will you?"

The Mother lady will not take such back talk lightly. She just continued her monologue in a more loud, irritated and rude tone. The daughter was awake now, but still in bed. Her anger was getting to her head and messed up the very little work her early morning brain could afford. She decided to runaway.

Through tears wiping away her toothpaste foam formed near her mouth, and an uncontrollable shake of rage she affirmed, she really wanted to leave. The last 2 years have been tough but today? Early in the morning? The day she wanted to rest in? She had had enough. As the last lather of soap was washed off, she took one deep breath and began to plan her get away.The famous bookstore at the center of the city popped up immediately, for apparently no good reason. She saw herself reading books and buying a few that could keep her company. One of the sane parts of her brain reminded her to get the list of books she wanted to read out from the folds of her old clothes.

She heard a chuckle.

Then suddenly her expensive dress came to her head, she needed a better stole for it. So next stop, clothes stores in the famous market place in the city. Another part that dealt with navigation reminded her that the market place would be much closer than the bookstore. So change in plan, market place and then the bookstore. The part of the brain that dealt with her innate shyness and introverted nature quipped up as to how embarrassing it would be for her to carry clothes bag to the high end book store, but Navigation asked the Introvert to shut up.

She heard a chuckle.

The Foreseer part asked what was the point of all the shopping and if she was going away for good, will she be coming back the same day, where she would stay, what about food, as she is in a well planned diet now that the Mother lady is feeding her. The Pride part said that she will figure it out as the day went by.

She heard a chuckle.

The Foreseer was pacified for the time being but also reminded her to plan the thing with her mobile so she cannot be tracked. The daughter felt it was a good start,came out of the bathroom and picked out a good dress to wear. The bookstore demanded she dresses well.

She heard a chuckle. She wondered why she kept hearing it, when suddenly the chuckle burst out a full blown howl. Someone was laughing their heads off. It was the part of her brain that dealt with Figures. It reminded her, she had no money, whatsoever. Her credit cards were maxed out, she owed a good deal of money to her she-sibling, a moral obligatory pay off to her Mother lady. Even her travel to the marketplace required her to borrow money from her Father.

She was looking for help from the other parts that were very much vocal a few minutes ago, but silence ringed as the figures part kept laughing. The eyes picked up the absence of any activity from the other brain parts and opened the flood gates. Tears were dissolving in the shower. The anger was back again not at the overlords, not at the things she thought was wrong with the world, not at the dark comedy from previous night, nothing but herself.

She stepped out of the shower, picked up her home clothes from her cupboard, and walked out of her room to the kitchen. Mother lady was still boiling with anger that her back talk had inflicted. When the daughter reached to get a bowl for the cereal, Mother lady guffawed and said "I thought you were better than this" .Pride cried out in protest, but accepted defeat and moved to a dark corner. Figures pulled some strings and managed to write a smile on the daughter's face. She moved back to her room, got the nice dress she had laid out for her get away, put it back in her cupboard and closed the door.

To Diana,with love.

A glimpse of your bearing

Through the veiled evening sky I caught.

Dazzling me with your sheer presence,

Lighting my darkest paths unaware.

You said I’d never be alone.

Miles apart, yet together we’d stay at heart.

You coasted through the clouded sky,

yearning for the sun that never came by.

As the drizzle filled with your pain

rained down on the world,

behind the dark clouds you vanished.

Never a moment had passed,

without me looking up there.

Searching for a ray of light,

searching for my ally,

Evading me for what seemed like an eon,

I still looked out.

Waiting for that one beam of hope.

And when you did,

when you peeked out

through the gloomy sky,

My sky lit up in your thereness,

It felt like not a minute had gone by.

For I am radiance and you are the moon.

Beyond blood and kinship,

Beyond distance and time,

Beyond now and eternity,

This bond shall go.
 Demanding not like, but the great love.

Not happiness, but euphoria.

Not a partner, but a companion.

Not some, but all.

Demanding infinity, we stand united.

Alone against the world,

but together we shall endure.

Through the loud music and light verses,

the withered pages and new leaves,

the moving frames of make believe.

Through life as it seems,

In search of the knights for our darkness,

who do not smother our luminescence.

We may fail at our cause,

But you will always know, you had an ally in me

Miles apart, yet together we remained at heart.

                                                                                                - The Illuminated

Your average Mommy day post..!!

I am assuming that mother’s day is around the corner for there are so many promotional campaigns and advertisements about how to impress your mother by sending her gifts. I have never been a fan of the Hallmark holidays, celebrating a relationship or an emotion or a gender; things we need to cherish everyday rather than downsizing it to one particular calendar day. Do you just need one day for love and one day for the women?

For all that she does, just one day for a mother? But what does she do? At least what does my mother do?

Like every other woman with unbearable children, my mother was strict, expected obedience, and good marks. My siblings and I complied to this with utmost devotion in our younger years, but as years went by following the norms of teenage, we rebelled now and then. My mother grew tired of our antics so she gave up on her firm hold and became a tad cooler. My sisters were married and out of our house, so I had the cool mom all to myself.

Almost all the children never call their mothers by name. My mother had scared my sisters so much about telling her name out loud, that they dared not to mention it even when they were asked. But then, I called her “J”. That’s how we roll.

Rather than instructing me to do things, she listened to what I had to say. She believed in my judgment and took suggestions from me. This may not be a big deal to the present generation “Hip-Mommas”, but my J is from a different century. She hailed from a small town, born in a big family with humble means, never had much experience with the world and became a mother when my friend’s mothers were either in school or in the crib. She was taught to comply, never to question. Your typical 1970’s Indian women.

In the flavours of her cooking, the vibrant shades of her neatly tied saris, her fragrance in the house, the unchanging way of how she rings the pooja bell, her bargaining skills, the way she stomachs our sickness, her curly hair, the vermilion stain on the center of her parted hair, her cracked heels and calloused hands, the rare smiles, the vapours of her medicinal oils, my mother was everywhere without being there.

She lived with a sense of selflessness, being the eldest sister to a big bunch of siblings. Even after all these years, with the size of our family down to three, my mother remains the same. The simple things she does, like taking the burnt dosa or chapati and offering the good ones to me and dad, not taking second helpings of that tasty dish she had made, buying something for her but give it up in a heartbeat, because my eyes had lit up seeing it, letting me sleep whilst holding on to her sari - even now, enjoying cricket with us and so many more things stand as a testament of the love she has for us. Small obscure things that she doesn’t mind, she doesn’t draw attention to, but they make me feel immensely gifted to be with her for they never go unnoticed.

Of course it is not roses and love all the days. There are days that I feel like throwing things at her. No matter what goes wrong between us or how long I decide not to talk to her, my mother never gave up on me. Every time I fall, she holds out a hand for me to get up. My refusal to rise doesn't deter her tenacity to get me up and going. She believes in every promise that I eventually fail to keep up. She holds on to me fiercely even when I walk away from everything. She cherishes my dreams, however obscure they may be. With all her love, that woman shames me for my mere existence.

I have always wondered if people can truly find their one great love.

I know have.

My J is my one true love, my knight in shining armor who really wants me to be saved from me. Nobody could ever love me unconditionally as much as she does. She is my hero, the one I look up to, the one I fail, the one I hurt, the one I care for, the one I wish to be someday, the one who means the world to me. She is the one. Everything and everybody come after her.

Most people feel this special about their mothers as well. I write this because this is the only honest emotion that I harbor. Her love is basis of my life. Everything good and bad that has stemmed out from there is my doing, but all this is impossible without my J.

My sweet J.

Timing, a well known Bitch

      She hated the mirror that hung near the mantle in her drawing room. The mantle held quite a few pictures from her younger days, framed in antique brass skeletons. It reminded her of the split screen comparisons shown in TV commercials. Her youthful, lively, sexy younger self on one side and a careworn, dull, ordinary face that sported the wrinkles of her mid thirties on the other side. Marriage had slowed down the free spirit that Ana was, but it was the three hyperactive children who had completely halted the flow through her interests in life. She had divided her time between the kitchen, her cabin and the kids room that it left little time to pause and scan through, in search of her life. She believed she had lost it somewhere between the diaper changing and attending the numerous PTA meetings, after Dev had come into her life.

        Dev, the love of her life, that her parents chose. She had no romantic relationships before him so she had no scale to compare the love she and Dev had shared, but she felt no sparsity. He respected her space, loved the kids, took her out now and then, cooked the Sunday lunch, kissed her forehead when he left for office, made love when they thought it had been quite a while, stayed home with the kids during the holidays when Ana had an important meeting, balanced the home budget, sang quiet well as he carried on with his mundane activities. He was a well raised, honest gentleman, whom Ana adored. Love grew into their marriage, slow yet unwavering.

      After 14 years of wedlock, everything in their life had found a normal course, except Ana felt few things were going wrong in the recent days. She felt changes in their marital life, subtle changes to the third pair of eyes, but to Ana, they were glaring right at her. Dev was a little more cheerful, but it felt vastly put on. He had long meetings quiet frequently, going beyond midnight, atleast twice a week. He remained occupied with his phone and texting had improved quiet drastically but Ana found no traces of it when she peeked at his phone. That worried her more. His drinking days had increased a little and their love making decreased. The fore head pecks, the gentle smiles, the hugs from behind, the hand holding had almost become obsolete and the ones that came by  felt feigned.

     Ana was not the jealous or suspicious type, but the mirror near the mantle induced a paranoia. Her crows feet seemed a little too deep, her dark circles looked darker, her hair looked thinner and lighter, her age spots looked prominent, her skin felt loose, her breast looked saggy, her whole posture seemed drooped. She confined to her close friend about these changes as any worried wife would do and as any friend of a worried wife would advice, her friend assured her that this may be the menopause talking and probably Dev was busy at work but it doesn't mean her suspicions may be wrong. This left Ana even more confused. She feared the answer she might get, if she confronted Dev, but staying in this grey area of not knowing anything concrete seemed even more painful. That was when she came across the advertisement for a detective agency in the obscure little magazine she had found in the bunch of old papers and periodicals at the dentist.

   Ana fixed her appointment with the detective agency and gave all the information regarding Dev. She kept asking about the confidentiality of the investigation and whether Dev would ever find out about this. The private investigator assured that everything would go fine. It took 3 weeks of restless nights for Ana and for the investigator to get back with his report, according to which Dev was not having an extra marital affair but he had been consulting a therapist for his stress related health issues. All his business meetings were real and that he had not been straying. As much as the confirmation of the affair being non existent elated Ana, the lack of her focus on Dev and his deteriorating health shocked her and the very crude idea to doubt Dev shamed her. She went home that night and had a long talk with Dev, asked him about his work, the stress at office and many other things. She hugged Dev tight and said that she loved him more than anything in her life and apologised if she had been selfish and overlooked his needs. Ana even suggested that she could take a break from work to help him out. Dev was utterly confused at his wife's strange behaviour, but he welcomed the change. He kissed the top of her head as she wept on his chest. He felt it would be inappropriate if he suggested make up sex as he was not sure if they had a fight and reconciled and also as Ana's ride on the emotional roller coaster was still in progress.

   That night Ana had a peaceful sleep, knowing everything was back to normal. Dev stayed awake wondering what could have prompted this development in his marital life when suddenly his phone buzzed. A Text. He read it twice, smiled and deleted the text and went back to sleep.

"The 5 week vacation was fun. It would have been more fun if you had been there with me.
I miss you, your kiss, your touch, your cooking, Most of all, I miss us, together.
Can't wait to see you tonight."

   Dev had a peaceful sleep, knowing that everything was back to normal.




 

Vis Viva

"Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It changes from one form to another"
                                                                  - Law of Conservation of Energy


The seconds expecting a breakdown at the door was as painful as the bullet lodged in his gut. His breathing was heavy and uneven. He knew there was no escape from here, but the killer in him was half mad at the kind of end his assassin's life was coming to,a bullet from a rookie's gun. He thought he would go in a much grand way, like after a long fight sequence similar to a Tarantino movie or at least after a few rounds of shots fired, using up all the clips he had, the anticipation of a shot, hitting the target, feeling the heat of the gun, sweat in his skin, and finally give up to the bullets that would sieve him. He wanted be gone a legend after an intense gun fight. This, was pathetic. Damn the rookie cop with the unsteady hands. He ruined his "Glorious Exit".

His profile was impressive.More than two dozen hits, all clean with nothing tracing back to him or the ones who wanted the dead, dead. He was the best. He was the unknown and unseen strike that got you out. He was off the grid and it was as if he never existed. That's what he believed until he found the trace and now he was cornered, literally , at some random room in some random floor of some random  building, waiting for his Rain of Bullets. He had not one regret with his life. He was powerful. The scythe that reaped the lives. He knew nothing about the lives of the ones he had slayed and he didn't care for them. Yet with the final grains of his sand clock slipping down, he thought he would feel remorse, for all the lives he had claimed, the tears he was accountable for, the looks of terror, the pleas of mercy, the foul stench of death, and the vacantness that filled their eyes afterwards.

As he heard the hard soles closing around him, he recalled his every kill. From the very first to his recent one. He was proud of some of his work and thought he could have done much better at some others. The money, the life, the comforts that came with the blood, all brought a small grin. He was good at what he did no matter how evil it was. He could hear the voices now. It took them full two minutes to figure out the room he was in. "Good call Sherlock.Was it the blood trail that gave away?", he guffawed. They were taking positions as they closed in on the door. He felt it. He was there, the state at which his victims felt right before he made his kill. Death's cruel hand crushing down with a side of helplessness and a generous serving of fear. But, unlike them, he was not afraid of dying. He knew it would all come to this one day. His heart rate quickened, his body was drenched in his sweat, blood all around him. That damn bullet in his gut.

The door burst open ,a dozen black suits stormed in. All guns pointing at him. At this point, he was so vulnerable that the rookie who shot him can get over with this with an old musket. There was no need for twelve semi automatics pointed at his chest. They were making snide comments about how a "celebrated" assassin like him had ended up huddled in a corner like a stinking coward. He had a few witty comebacks, but the pain had broken the threshold and it was to the point that he was looking forward to the end. He wanted them to get over with it. Yet they kept talking. His consciousness was not slipping but pain kept clawing at his life and the blood didn't stop seeping. At last it happened, the black suits shot him several times as he thought they would as he made a move. A slight motion, that's all it took for his life to come to an end. His glorious life as the master of death. As the shots were fired, finally the thought came to him.

 What if?

It happened so quick he hadn't had the time to catch a breath. He knew he was crying out loud, but didn't know why. He heard strangers around him. There was a women sobbing somewhere around in the vicinity. He felt running water and a soft towel followed. He felt was being handled like a small doll. Suddenly he heard the sobbing women up close. He had finally stopped crying and ever so slightly opened his eyes. A worn out women and a balding man, of gigantic proportions were looking at him. They were laughing and crying at the same time. She mouthed something he couldn't comprehend to. It dawned on him, finally, and this thought came to him.

"Oh its on".

P. S. This is totally inspired. My own words but a borrowed idea.