Listen.

For the first time, I'm uploading something very different: this is a creative piece from my latest english exam paper. The topic for my essay was 'Write a story titled 'Listen' in which the protagonist becomes the antagonist or vice versa. Create a sense of timing and setting.'
So here goes. 

Listen.

Listen very closely.

Can you hear that feeble sound, like autumn leaves crunching crunching underfoot?  Can you hear the light footfall coming your way?

Keep listening. 

Can you hear raspy breaths like a hot summer wind blowing against rags?  Can you hear the rhythm of the breaths as you hear them approaching you?

Close your eyes and listen.

The darkness is closing in on you but listen or it will swallow you.  Close your eyes tight and hide in the darkness beneath your lids for that is your only solace.

Listen- what do you hear now?

The footsteps are coming closer.  The breaths are growing louder.

What else do you hear?

The slow thudding of your beating heart like a sledge-hammer in your chest.   

The darkness is warm around you; yet you feel shivers running down your spine.  Your fists clench in anticipation but instead of feeling any hope, all you feel when you do this is sweat and anxiety.  Your knees are shaking now and your lower lip is faintly trembling.  Sweat gathers on your forehead like fresh dew might, in the mornings on young green leaves.  Even in the darkness, your face is visibly losing colour.

Keep listening.

As I watch you, I wonder, do you feel any sense of remorse for all that you've done?  Do you  remember now, in this moment, that all the women you slaughtered just to see their life and blood ebb out of an incision you made; stood right here before you- just like this?  Does it thrill you to take their place, in the way that it thrilled you to put the women in this place at all?  The sweat beaded on their foreheads too and mingled with the tears on their faces.  Did you care?

You should have listened.

You should have listened to them screaming and crying, praying and pleading.  Instead, all you did was hear them.  It excited you, to see them before you silenced them forever.  It was music to your ears, to hear them cry and scream.

I know all this because I listened.

You have shattered families, you have shed blood that left children orphaned, parents child-less and husbands as widowers.  You carefully picked out women with complete families in their homes and love in their hearts.  You meticulously hunted them down, drew them out and walloped them in your darkness.  One quick incision to the life force at their throats and you would let the darkness swallow them forever.

I just saw your eyes flutter wide open in terror.

You can't see anything in the darkness.  Has realisation set in on you?  Do you know why you're here?  Something about the amount of fear I see in your eyes and your quickened thudding heartbeat amidst all this silence, tells me you do.  Don't struggle, your hands and feet have been bound as tightly as you bound the women you killed.  Don't try to scream, your mouth has been gagged because if you scream, you won't be able to listen.

And you need to listen.

Listen to the now faster falling footsteps. 

Listen to the low, throaty chuckle as it comes your way. 

Listen to the raspy breathing almost at you ear.  Listen to the hum of metal as it callously cuts the air, it hasn't touched you yet.

Keep listening.

Listen in your own head to all the screams and cries and pleas of all the innocent women whose lives you took.  Listen, now, instead of hearing them.

Listen to the tears rolling down your cheeks and listen to that scared little heart of yours, pounding away within your chest.

Listen, for I am coming.

Listen to my footsteps.

Listen to my breaths.

Listen to the hum of steel as I send your own instrument of joy, your way.

Listen until the darkness swallows you like it did all those women.

Listen to the heart beating in my chest for all the women you slaughtered and all the women being killed out there.  These killers are going to have to start listening to Me soon.

For now, You listen.

Quicksand.

A friend of mine by the name of Svojas once said 'We all start off on the same boat, without a paddle. Its up to you to take that risk and jump, slowly making your way to the bank. They might call you stupid, forget about them, at least you know where you're headed.' 

He was right.

Do you have the strength to swim out of Quicksand, though?

In the jungle, the mighty jungle:

He had come too far, walking by himself-
Only grasping on to the hanging vines and  branches that he called 'Friends'.
He had come too far, walking by himself-
Trying to find happiness on the way in the same roses that pierced the hands he held them with.

He had  come too far, camouflaging himself-
From the hungry beasts and treacherous birds of feather that flocked together.
He had come too far, camouflaging himself-
Trying to be someone he isn't, feigning pride in what he was trying to become.

He had come too far to see the Quicksand ahead of him.

One foot in, two feet in.
Legs in, torso in.
Up to his neck, in.
Only flailing arms above his head, waving like a white flag.

Now that he was in the Quicksand,
Stuck in sticky Conundrum-
The vines and branches were too far to reach.
The roses were too high up their stems, he could only grab at the thorns.

Now that he was in the Quicksand,
Barely breathing, drowning in Conundrum-
The cawing birds he'd wanted to be a part of, sung merrily of his fast-approaching demise,
And the hyenas he'd once tried to be a part of, stood by the edges of the quagmire baring their teeth.

He was moving too fast in the Quicksand,
Trying too hard to convince his Friends he was one of them.
He called out to the birds, he grabbed hard at the thorns;
He proffered himself to beasts staring at him hungrily, hoping for a miracle.

And then a miracle did come-
Realization.

He put down all he had on him,
Got out of the shoes that he'd been trying to put himself in for too long.
He began to relax and slowly,
He began to let go of his camouflage.

He began breathing,
And very slowly began moving forward.
He lay back and began slowly wading
Towards the muddy shores of the quagmire.

One arm out, two arms out.
Torso out, legs out.
Up to his toes, out.
Only his past self and all that he had carried were now left drowning in the Quicksand.

Epilogue:
In the jungle, the mighty jungle
He walks. 
He walks hand in hand with his new Friends, those who trust in him;
Those who hold his hand for who he really is. 
He's left the hyenas, thorns and vultures behind, 
He's left behind the ghosts of his past. 
Now in the jungle, the mighty jungle, 
He walks.

Masks.

So many times, different events and people change us- some for the better, while some for the worse. But the worst kind of change is when we are  forced to forget or suppress our true selves to bear with the chilly wind of Reality. The worst kind of change occurs then, when we have to put on a Mask.


She knocked,
He let her in.
He opened the door wide,
unsuspecting of treason.

And then another came by,
He opened the door again.
He let this one in too,
And then the next ten.

The door he opened was in his face slammed shut,
so many times that even he couldn't remember.
The day came when it broke, eventually
He couldn't put it back, piece it together.

And so, he set to work- he made himself a Mask,
made it with his own bare hands and a barely thudding heart.
A Mask so strong that it couldn't be shattered;
it took time- but of him, it eventually became a part.

No more doors, no more scattered emotions
At least none that the world could see-
Not even his lover who whispered she loved him,
Though he knew she didn't as much as he did, she didn't truly.

Unlike the people that came and left,
the Mask stayed sturdy through all the hurt.
Strengthening its already firm hold over him,
Leaving him of emotions, seemingly, a dearth.

But nothing can ever be that good,
Oh no, the Mask was far from perfect.
He suffocated in Sadness, drowned in Loneliness inside;
While pretending to hold his head high and back erect.

He cried from within the Mask, silent tears
That couldn't from the grasp of it, flee-
His face inside the Mask, grew contorted with pain;
Lips bitten down to maintain the secrecy.

He couldn't risk the heartbreak
Of everyone leaving, he told himself.
To keep from that, the Mask must stay on-
For now, the secretly beating heart must be put on a shelf.

-
I wish I could hold his hand
And tell him there's another way out, he's gotten it all wrong.
I'll then hope that my words penetrate his Mask
And he'll take it off- allowing me to see that beautiful face I haven't seen in so, so long.

On Libraries:

The One.

If you are reading this, then I guess I can rest assured that you have visited a library at least once in your life. It could have been any sort of library- the virtual kind, the kind that houses literature solely on archaeology, or even your next-door children’s library. 

Now picture walking into a library- there are thousands of books around you. All of them are unique: different colours, shapes, sizes, textures, smells and most importantly- different content.  Some call out to you; willing, teasing and tempting you to pick them up.  Some others you acquaint yourself with, going no further than the blurb for whatever reason. And then there are those that you do not even touch. Those few books looked perhaps too voluminous or too abstract for you- all you needed was one glance to know that you’re not going to be reading them any time soon. You also probably did not touch a couple books because you did not even spot them, in the first place. They were too hidden by the silent noise of the other books surrounding them. The reasons are plenty.

Everybody likes to see the brighter side to things. As cliché as this probably sounds, being positive about things makes us all feel good. But mind you, You and I are no Mary Poppins. While hunting for the happier, better things in life, we tend to leave out a few things- as you would leave certain books untouched. We acquaint ourselves with a lot of books, devouring a certain chosen lot and turning a blind eye to some. This is the magic in Libraries: You win some- finding the best book you've probably read in all your years- and you lose some. Now this may begin to sound like a frivolous rant - but as a book implores you to read further; I beg you to allow me to derail you from this current track you have chosen to ride down with me.

Now picture yourself in a room full of people. It may be at a conference or a party or any sort of gathering. Look around you- this room, it is a library of people.  The same rules apply to people as they did to books in that library I earlier asked you to imagine yourself in. Some people you keep with you while others you acquaint yourself with politely. Of course, there’s still the lot that you don’t even approach or look at. Each person is a story unto themselves- just like the books; of different colours, shapes sizes and content. Some, you tend to gravitate towards at first glance while others take an introduction to and a small conversation with, to attract your attention.  Here too, we all look for the best. The best could be anyone you perceive to be the right one for you. You know the way a hand fits in a glove? They’re the Ones that just happen to fit. It’s like finding that story-line you never knew existed, in a certain book or finding a whole new brilliant book itself. Now that you have found it, you simply cannot put it down.

Sometimes; in this crazy crowded library of a world, you tend to find The One. Yes, he or she could be a person and yes, it could be a book. The One will be the one that clicks, the one that makes you consciously wear your heart and head on your sleeve without thinking about it twice. The One for me was my first ever Harry Potter book- or should I say, the entire series! The One for you could be that boy you met on your first day of school, in the corridor outside your classroom. The One for him could be that copy of Kane and Abel that he carries in his messenger bag, everywhere he goes. The One cannot be defined, the One is for you to find.

I am no romantic. The previous paragraphs may have hinted otherwise, but trust me when I say that I will be the last person on the planet to romanticize things. I am, however, a great new-found believer in pre-planned coincidences and a greater scheme of things. Yes, 'coincidences' are pre-planned: by a greater force, by a friend, by a stranger, by the world- you take your pick. Things do happen incidental to each other and the entire occurrence bears meaning. Ever wonder why you picked up that certain book that you now can’t get off your mind- despite it having had no previous meaning to you? Ever wonder why you met that one person who changed everything?

You have probably heard me say this already, but I’m going to say it again- we all look for the brighter, better things in life. This leads me to believe that finding that One, happens for the best- whether the One is a book or a person. The world is a library- quite literally, if you wish to compare- and Variety is your best friend. You will come across and read people as you will books. You will devour some, you will ignore some.

So take a deep breath as you step into the Library.

Happy Reading. 

Stranger.

Have you ever met a stranger on a train and felt arbitrarily inclined to strike up a conversation with him or her?
Or maybe it was that boy standing in a corner by himself at a party.
Or maybe even that lady sitting next to you at the dentists' office.
Personally, I like meeting new people. I love making new friends. In a way; I like to tell myself that I have succeeded in interacting with the unknown. It's like a glimpse of a parallel universe before I lose it to Reality- life goes on and people move on. I guess new people and friends let you be who you want to be, there are no pre-set notions about you. It's like the world is giving you another chance to be YOU.

How do you smell sounds-
or taste colours,
or listen to nectar?

How do you fly like a bird
over the rainbow?-
When truly you are shackled to the Earth.

You look in the eyes of a Stranger
Windows to a different world,
Portal to a parallel universe.
Oh what secrets do they hold?

Listen to the voice of the Stranger-
Telling you stories of a faraway land.
Speaking of things from here and there,
Of stars that o'er his head spanned.

Feel the love and woe of that Stranger.
Love for his damsel in distress,
Hatred for the reality that separated them-
And remorse for not being Beholder of that longing caress.

Finally, accept the Stranger for all he is
For you; a stranger- unaware
Owe something to him after all:
Your place in his life as a Stranger.

He lets you smell sounds,
taste colours,
listen to nectar.

He lets you fly like a bird
Over the rainbow-
Releasing you of your shackles to the Earth.

To him you can be anything, anyone at all.
Isn't he 'Stranger!' for you to call?

John Doe.

Bullies. 
Bullies can scar you, break you down into rubble. They can leave you as a skeleton of the real you. I know this for a fact.
Bullying is a matter very close to my heart, and this poem is a piece I dedicate to every kid out there being bullied.


Get out.
Just get your voice out of my head.
Who invited you in?
Save yourself the trouble, leave me instead.

Leave me alone.
Just walk out of this space I call my Life.
You wont leave a void here, won't be missed-
Your presence in my heart is a knife.

Stop screaming in my ear,
Stop staring me in the eyes.
Stop laughing in my face,
Everything about you tells me lies.

So let's be honest- I am scared
Scared of you and all those others,
You, who push me around and punch me as you please;
Keep my mouth shut and bind me in tethers.

Come near me no more
I beg; implore you.
I succumb now to your lofty shadow
Left in me of shame now, not a hue.

To understand me,
Of you I shall never ask.
After all, of all creatures, how could I
Put you through such a worthless task?

Can I ask you to get out, leave me?
Can I stop you from trampling all over me?
Can  I ask your soul to be of some reprieve?
Nay, You are Goliath- far too mighty.

In this shadow of a human that I was,
All I am is blind emotion.
Bottled up like a genie in a lamp,
Raging from the inside against all the World's commotion.

I am now your creation-
Your John Doe, don't you see?
Spineless, lifeless, nameless, faceless:
This is what you have made of me.

Nightmare Under A Tree.

I dreamed a dream last night
As I lay under the tree-
The one that canopies us all,
The one we call Humanity.

My vision blurry, my breath slow
I lay beneath the tree
Thinking I was all alone
But then walked you in, to be with me.

We stayed liked that for a century perhaps-
I didn't count, I wouldn't know
We didn't hear the storms, the thunderclaps
We were too busy being each other's own.

The days flew, the hours sped
How could we care, after all,
With you and I there wasn't a tear to shed
Weren't we the 'happily ever after'?

But as silently as you came, you slipped away-
Into the clutches of Reality you stumbled
All the happiness, the love, the life you gave me
Was gone in that instant, it had vanished

The storm pulled you, whirled you into it
Leaving me behind-
I had to watch as you left, in my stomach a pit
No air in my lungs, nothing at all.

Feeling drained, I sat still
I guess I still hoped, yearned like a fool.
But you were gone, never to return at my will
Never to return even at your own whim.

I guess fate has funny ways,
Of bringing people together and then ripping them apart
You were with me in that instant and I'll remember it always
But our end broke something within me- was it my heart?

I will dream a dream again tonight
As I lie under the tree-
The one that canopies us all,
The one we call Humanity.

Colour vision.

This aritcle is dedicated to all the members of the homosexual community, to those who understand that You and I are the same.

She sighed as the moonlight fell upon her face. The stars in the sky seemed to be glowering down at her, in all their glaring luminescence. Even they seemed to think she was wrong. Painfully conscious of the disapproving looks she was getting from the twinkling lights in the sky, she tossed in her bed. Turning away from the window, she looked at the blank white wall on the other side of her bed. At least there, there was peace. There was calm and clarity. She yearned for this sense of calmness; she yearned for white when her head was no better than a jumble yard sale exhibit.  According to her, her head was a multicoloured jumble, an unsolvable puzzle. Slowly, she raised her hand and began tracing shapes on the cold wall. She traced a heart that she almost instantaneously rubbed out. The mere action of drawing that shape seemed wrong. Sighing she asked herself, what can I do? She was all but made this way.

She liked to watch the Girl at school. She loved to watch the Girl laugh and on several occasions, she found herself smiling at the way Her long hair fell over Her shoulders. There were times when she simply could not look away from the Girl; those warm chocolate coloured eyes and baby pink lips kept her transfixed.She had watched the Girl for so long, with a fondness unlike any other that it had taken her but a while to realize this was love.

Shuddering now, she turned in bed once again; attempting to push away any thoughts of the Girl. It was wrong, wasn't it? These thoughts- they were abnormal, weren't they? What would Mother and Father say? Their perfect child had gone to the dogs. The Others had told her that it had to be kept a thing of fiction. It was wrong, abnormal, unnatural and even perverse. They must be right, she thought. How could a girl love another girl? Herein, Problem presented his pompous self to her. She did love the Girl. She couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop noticing the curve of her lips and the sway of her hips as she walked by her everyday in school. She couldn't help feeling like a thousand butterflies were fluttering around in her stomach and her face had been lit on fire. She could feel herself positively glowing at times.Why couldn't she see things the way the Others could?

The Others saw everything clearly, they saw things in black and white. Things were either wrong or right, bad or good, acceptable or not acceptable. She, on the other hand, saw things in colour vision. Things were red at times, blue more often and green too. Sometimes, they were mixed. This world and her heart had joined hands to provide her with room for limitless possibilities but that which the world bestowed upon her so generously, was snatched up in a single swoop by what we call Society. She was wrong and she would have to accept it. Her heart was a sinner, the World was a magician- showing her things that would never be possible.They made her disbelieve everything the Others said; and continue to look at life in colour vision- to love in colour vision. But belief and disbelief were a thing of Silence, in her society. She was wrong and if she wanted to continue sinning by simply dreaming; she would have to take the hand Silence extended out to her and faithfully follow him down the road he walked. She had no choice.

 They didn't understand she thought to herself. Man fears what he does not know and understand and blindly, he condemns it. He doesn't realize that he and his neighbour are one and the same, the love they feel are one and the same- irrespective of who they feel it for. Maybe she was right after all. Sighing resolutely, she finally closed her eyes and prayed that Silence envelop her in his quiet warmth. It was time to dream in colour vision once again.

Someday, somewhere.

This article is written in the first person of a girl; a daughter who goes to visit her father in the Bastille during the French Revolution. Read on to find out more.

Today I finally had my greatest wish come true.  It should be the happiest day of my life.  However, the question arises as to how I can be happy when the man I owe my existence to, languishes in prison.   

The waft of wickedness that one can slightly sniff from the outside of the Bastille grows stronger once you are inside.  The eerie silence sent a chill down my spine for I knew that men lived there.  The thought of the man being driven into silence due to the evil enrapture of these cells made me think of Father.  There were thoughts whirring my mind.  Could father have been driven into silence and madness?  The thought in itself made me shudder.  

The grey, cold walls enveloped me in their icy breath. Each step I took, seemed to be as heavy as the leaden hammer of a heart that beat in my chest. My short and fast breaths were the only sound I could hear. Even the men in the Bastille who were alive, seemed to have lost their souls to the silence. The warden who was leading the way seemed to have lost all hope in this dismal setting- as if he himself was prisoner. It had been precisely three years after my father had been taken captive and it was today, that had shone itself to me as a candle at the end of the dark tunnel that was my life. But Irony had to present itself, fully costumed, in this dark hell hole.

Presently, we were at the door of my father’s cell.  The faint tapping of of something unfamiliar to me, could be heard on the outside of the door.  The grim faced guard gingerly nodded and turned the key in the lock.  At first, all I saw was the dark, the mist and one broad beam of light falling on the floor -- assuring me that I had the ground to hold me from under.  I had just taken a couple of steps into the room, but my eyes had already scoured the whole place. 

 It was a small, dark, misty room with a barred window.  There was a crumbling wooden desk that told of poor craftsmanship  by the window and a worn out stringy cot against the wall.  At the foot of the bed sat the spectral being, making shoes. The spectral being, that was once my father.  It was the hammer that I had heard, tapping away the nail in the shoe.  It was a hushed rasp that escaped my throat - ‘Father’.  He looked up in a slow and sickish manner. The one beam of light in the room then fell upon his face and in that instant, everything seemed to slow down. The lively brown eyes I had always found comfort in were now replaced by two unnaturally yellow orbs in his grey face. Gone was the face I knew, only to be replaced by what could have been a grey rag cloth. His hands did not cease working.  I stood staring, willing myself to say something but the words did not come.  My worst nightmare had come true -- he was driven into silence and his memory was gone. He did not know me, and in that moment I wished I did not know him either. I took a step forward but he only cowered further away. Stuck for a response I stood there. Every few minutes he looked up, as if willing me to leave.  

I had been forgotten, rejected and locked up far away within the Bastille of my father's mind. The man who was my everything was gone, he had vanished in the Silence. And yet, joy soared withing my chest. He is alive if not well.  I'll find my father, the man I knew someday, somewhere.

Written on 25th July, 2011.

Solitude.

Her lashes a crescent upon her pearly cheeks,
A silent tear rolls from beneath
The dark splay above her head, a crown seeks
But there are none to her this bequeath.
The quivering curve of her lip
A silent prayer escapes from them
With trembling fingers she steers this ship
Whose sail may never know wind in this mayhem.
The merciless thudding of her heart-
It doesn't stop despite being broken
This darkness has pulled her apart
And everything alive about her has frozen.
She looks, but she does not see
She hears, but she does not listen
Unshackled, but she isn't free
Named, but never can one her christen.
She shies from the light now before her eyes;
Holds her hand against it,
Desperately searches for the darkness of her sighs-
for that cold, desolate pit.
For she knows that the light never lasts,
It will perish as will all sanity
When it goes, away all happiness it casts
Leaving only growth to Darkness's vanity.
The Dark always looms
Painful and insane
But comfort in its enveloping ever presence blooms,
Rest assured its shadows will never wane.
Once bitten, twice shy-perhaps
But she had loved so she had lived, truly
Somewhere above her, thunder claps
The water churns beneath her ship cruelly.
There is only one way out, she knows
Of the steering wheel she lets go, slowly
This chapter must come to a close
And so it does- as she plummets down into the sea of eternity.

Written on 10th March, 2014