It’s been three years.
So, I decided to try my hand at Haiku with no regard to technique…
When the sand trickles down
My mind rushes
Like a little fish
Chased by a large shark
An arching curve
lying flat on the ground
how often ignored
Poor, directionless feet
The sun shines carefully
Through a canopy of trees
A lonely leaf hangs
on the bare branches
A spring drizzle
brightens up the day
but the rain
brings out the shit
A teacher in class
has all the power
over the students
only when they care
Bye Bye Bangalore.
The next four months in Mumbai. And after that?
Life I suppose
Been on a fic reading marathon for a month now.
GREAT escape from reality.
A reality which includes a year worth of research work.
Please let my guide forgive me?
The day is warm and sleepy. The village lies under the sun, the fields slowly baking in the heat of summer. Kishan takes one last look around the fields – the earth is cracked brown like Madura’s feet, the stalks are withered and dying – before returning home for his afternoon meal.
The road back is filled with people and the host glare of sympathy. What would you have done in my place, he wants to shout at them. Anything to change their gaze, anything except their pity. The road is littered with the remnants of yesterday’s market. Madura would have been here, buying onions because they were cheap and potatoes for their starch. He saw her now, her torn red sari flicking around the corner, her brown hand holding the vegetable, examining it with a close eye, her mouth dark and cavernous as she haggled with the shop keeper. He shakes his head a little, his matted hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and the vision disappears.
His house is up ahead. A small shack, all that they could afford once the drought struck. Outside, a few bedraggled chickens run about pecking noisily on the ground. Among them sprawl a few men lazily. They are new to the village and as they observe him come, they laugh.
“Look…he’s come back home. Why bother? Your wife doesn’t want you anyway. See…”
But he’s shut them out. It’s nothing new, he hears it everyday. The door is slightly open. But even though he knows what’s going on, what would be going on behind that door, he still hesitates. Just for a moment to gather his head before slowly stepping in.
Madura is on the bed, her sari rucked up over her thighs. A fair skinned back hides her face from him and for that he is glad. He watched the thrusting for some time before turning away. The man’s grunts collide in that space between his brain and his ears and he can’t hear himself think, he can’t hear anything else – the hot breeze pushing up gales of dust outside, the jeers of the men, the soft click-clacking of a cart going by – even as he serves himself the food which has been set out for him. Two spoons of rice, a small bowl of dal and a little curd. He takes each mouthful and chews. The sound of his teeth grinding fills his mind, unconsciously trying to block the noises from behind. Take a mouthful, chew, swallow, take another, chew, swallow, chew, swallow, chew. And that is when he realises that the sounds have stopped. The food still in his mouth he turns around. Madura is sitting up, hair dishevelled, sari pulled down halfway to cover her knees. Their eyes meet. She makes as if to get up but he shakes his head. Swallowing quietly, he stacks his plate with the other dishes to be washed, cleans his hands at the tap outside, picks up his hoe and leaves for the fields, ignoring the catcalls behind him.
They need the money after all.
I’ve been very bad at blogging, I know.
There’s something about a new laptop (yep!), sudden influx of work, and a writing spree (because of my new ‘paper’ journal!)
Yep. I’ve rediscovered the joys of writing on paper
Slightly dickensian…I’d like some feedback
So this was to be his new home.
The station lay, small and dark along the fossil like tracks. It was a bright day and Thomas had to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he followed them with his eyes. The distance was playing tricks with his eyes, as the tracks seemed to converge just at the horizon, forming a sort of giant arrow. Where did they lead, he thought. Maybe London, the city where his father was; maybe Paris even though he did not really know where it was; maybe even Australia, vague murmurs of big ships and open blue seas echoing in his head.
His head shot up. Yes. That was Mr.Braithwaite. A big man with a corpulent nose who had come to his house and had done a bit of trade. Two pounds for a life. Yes.
“Boy! Stop dreaming and get over here!”
So this was to be his new home.
Thomas tried to make himself comfortable in the hard gravel on which he lay. The tunnel was damp and dark and he could hear what sounded like rats but he couldn’t be afraid. His eyes were drooping and heavy but he couldn’t sleep. A train would be coming soon, the 5.12 to Manchester.
But the visitor was no train, no innocent yet purposeful machine of the railways, but he. He, of the railway guard. He, of the hooked nose and blackened teeth with bright eyes and breath quickened by something that Tom did not understand. A touch on his thighbone was his only warning. A train passed by. The 5.12 to Manchester. But Tom was invisible.
Thomas did not know what home was.
He stood at the doorway, leaning against the heaving wall. The wind stung his face, the scenery-towns, cities, picturesque villages almost fairy-tale like-passed by, left behind by the great hunk of metal Tom stood in.
He watched them, he longed for them but he knew that he could not have them. They weren’t his.
And then the sea. And a ship to clean. Salt in the air and sailors and sea gulls. And a land…far away, far away, whispering of strange animals and convicts.
But it wasn’t going to be home. Thomas didn’t know what home was, after all.
I am part of this bewildering multiplicity that is the cosmos.
I can feel stars, glowing in my chest, mountains pushing out of my mind and life, struggling to live in this body prison.
And history, carving the paths ahead, and history wiping out the road behind.
And constant effort, and ideas and wisdom which forces me to be.
For I swear. To be infinite.
(And now I want to read, the perks of being a wallflower )
Slept. Ate. Slept some more.
Hanging out with old friends, watching really random movies which I randomly liked, breaking my head over whether I should do Nanowrimo or not.
I’ve decided i shall.
And now. A drabble.
The day is weak but the bed has gone cold.
She stares into the mirror, hair hanging stringy down her shoulders, eyes large brown, absolutely unremarkable. She could drown herself in the sharp surface. Throw herself in it and lie, soaking the cool shimmering tones of reflections.
Evening there’s a party. She stands in front of the mirror, hair pulled up in an elaborate confection, eyes accentuated by kohl and mascara, lips lined and filled with blood red.
The surface of the mirror is hard. And hot to touch.
And I havent slept for a week.
Yesterday. Shopping at Colaba. Beer at Leopolds. A jamming session back in the room.
I like my life
So I’m toying around with the idea of taking it up this year.
No plot bunnies in the horizon, though. Unless you count the really inane idea of a struggling writer trying to write 50,000 words in a month but is combating writers block as well.
Sounds familiar, doesn’t it.
Generally exams inspire creativity. This time they’re just dulling my brain.
Wish me luck kiddos