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

Thrifty Glamour?

This article is written in the first person of a male prostitute who is trying to sustain a lifestyle in the glamorous New York City. Read on to find out more. 

I looked across the vast hotel lobby ahead of me -- bright, gaudy, bustling with people and yet dark, cold and lonely.  The drooping chandelier on the ceiling, the tweaked and plastered walls, the two day old flowers in the vases told a story similar to mine.  Drink in hand and despair in step, I roamed the hall waiting for my chance to make my share of money for the night.  The smell of perfumes and wine filled the air, light glistened off the creamy pearls and diamonds that lay around the ladies’ throats.  A dozen women of calibre, known and yet  unreachable to me and a dozen men just like me stood in that pompous hall together, brought together for purposes as different as ice and fire itself.

New York city might be the city of dreams and what not, but in order to one to sustain in this beautiful city, one must pay a price.  The price I pay is none too high and yet too high -- dreams, here, can only be bought in order to achieve them.  The glamour here is thrifty for it only lies superficially in the sparkle of fake jewelry and the skyscrapers of New York city.  The glamour here is so thrifty that being a part of it, amidst the wealthiest housewives of the city, I can see through the thin veil separating fact from fiction.  If you opened your eyes, you would see it too -- beneath all the painted pomp of this plastic world.

The smell of carnal hunger and the unmistakable clicking of stilettos had hardly approached me, then I turned to look into the face of my predator for the night.  The burning desire in those blue eyes bore a hole into my head and stilled me for words.  I simply did nothing but stare back for a moment or two at the woman who stood ahead of me.  Tall and thin, she wore about her an air of faux sophistication. The sheer material of her extremely tight and short dress clung to her in such a way, that to one, it might seem as if the dress were a mould of her body.  The rubies in her ears glinted in the yellow light as if in warning when her red painted lips curved upward in an unmistakable manner of decision.  A thin finger was raised and I was beckoned towards the elevator.  Following the stranger and my client for the night, I entered that confined room of metal -- feeling as cold in my heart, as the fingers that now touched my neck.  

This is New York city, I thought to myself, as I shut my eyes and the doors of the elevator shut in on me for the night.

Written on 24th November, 2013

Namma Bengaluru

The garden city of a bygone era, silicon valley of India -- Bangalore is perhaps one of the most happening cities in the world.  Vibrant and busy, this city is a whole world in itself. In this hub-bub of our dynamic day to day lives, each one of us s but a star in the majestic night sky that Bangalore city is.

Like the myriad assortments that are the contents of potpourri, Bangaloreans are the perfect farrago of people one might find living in an area of this size.  Here is where roots of some of the oldest traditions lie and some of the newest find refuge. Colourful it is, for it is here that silk saris and cheap neon lights bedazzle one’s eyes; almost simultaneously.  The smell of roasted peanuts and road side chaat fill the air, only to be complimented by the aromas of food from some other part of the world.  While Bangalore is home and origin to carnatic music, it is the rock capital of India and in recent times, host to the genre of Electronic Dance music (popularly known as EDM).  Skyscrapers tower above every nook and corner of the city; overlooking the lush, green parks that are but mementos of Bangalore’s past glory.  The party lights here at night turn bright like a thousand suns and the music drowns the traffic of the evenings.  After all, Bangalore city is also home to the kind of good times, albeit once upon a time, Vijay Mallya!

There is freedom in the air of Bangalore; there is love in the air of Bangalore.  Individuals feel a genuine sense of comfort here, a sense of security and acceptance.  This city is a city of hopes and dreams come true; a paradise of limitless possibilities.  It is a city of utter extremes and contrasts such that ‘judgmental’ is a quality almost none have the right to possess here and thus do not.

Bangalore is a city of varied cultures and life styles out this is what makes people fall in love with it.  The magic of a thousand different lives coming together in Bangalore.  The colour, the love, the addiction, the differences, the darkness, the brightness, the eagerness -- this is Namma Bengaluru!

Written on 17th July, 2013

Envy and Spite.

“Baby, Baby”

The radio blared in my car as Justin Bieber’s hit song ‘Baby’ assaulted my ears. This was sweet, sweet torture at its best. It was a Monday evening and there I was seated in the back of my car; on my way to the piano class. It was five in the evening and my class was scheduled to start at six, but my class was literally on the other side of town and I knew I was going to be late. I rapped my knuckles in irritation hailing from both the traffic and Justin Bieber’s voice. I shut my eyes for a whole minute, wishing myself in my bed at home. The radio jockeys loud and cheerful voice, however, dragged me all the way out of my thoughts. I listened keenly, hoping for a nice song to play. A smile crept to my lips at the thought of that new song I’d heard just yesterday. It had kept me enthralled. I asked the driver to turn up the volume just in case a good song played. But Prudence was testing me that day; for yet again a Justin Bieber song started playing. I growled at the driver to turn the radio off. With nothing else to do now, I soon drifted off to sleep.

“HONK HONK”

I was woken by the loud honking by the BMTC bus next to my car. Looking out the window , I saw that the sky was dark and it was raining cats and dogs. Looking at the digital clock on the dashboard ahead of me, I saw that the  time was 7:42 pm. Puzzled, I asked my driver what had happened. He politely explained that due to the heavy rains my piano teacher had been unable to make it to class and had called it off. I sighed helplessly and after a few minutes of silence, asked the driver to turn the radio on. The annoying voice of this new radio jockey filled the car and soon enough, I made the driver switch the radio off. I then pulled my phone out of my pocket – I had calls to return and some of own to make! As I have mentioned earlier, Prudence was merely toying with me that day. The battery was dead. Groaning and throwing my phone across to the seat, I returned to staring out the window.

This is Bangalore city – bright, colourful, happening, wild, sleazy and entertaining. When at first we passed mall after mall, I was comforted. Banners proclaiming “SALE” and “70% OFF” had me thinking ‘I must make a trip here with my friends this weekend!’ But here’s one more thing about Bangalore – it’s a big, crowded place. So inevitably, we got caught at the traffic signal.

It had been two minutes since we had come to a stop at the traffic signal and the traffic had not moved by even an inch. Sighing, I found myself looking out the window and was quickly getting bored. I looked down at my shoes for a second when there came a feeble rap at my window. Looking up, I saw a lady with an arms outstretched in front of me. She was clad in the dirtiest sari I had ever seen- whether it was brown or red, I couldn't tell. There were holes everywhere and it looked like it would disintegrate in the rain. The rain was causing streaks of dirt to appear on her face that looked like tears had been imprinted on them. The thinning hair was matted and dirty like the rest of her and her arms were as thin as they come. But it was her eyes that caused my breath to get caught. What I saw there was an unfathomable well of pain, hurt, and destruction. They told a tale of poverty, a tale of having being crushed and made to beg for a living; to beg for a place in this world. They shone of a suppression I had never known, oppression by the rich – by people like me. Along with the sadness I saw in her eyes, I saw a sense of accusation. ‘You have made me what I am’, those eyes seemed to tell me. It was then for the first time in my life that I felt truly a victim of spite, of envy. Those eyes seemed to say ‘Why must you have all that I don’t?”

The traffic light turned green and my car sped off into the night, with me in it  -  sheltered from the same world. But what I had seen that day, will never leave my memory for one might say, what I uncovered then is the universal truth.

Written on 15th August, 2013

The Mind Is A Bowl.

This essay was written in the first person of a boy; an elder brother. Read on to find out more.

You are probably aware that it is not everyday that one is placed in a position of utter despair.  Despair and longing for something that now seems to have never been yours.  But I assure you, she was mine.  She was mine to begin with and both she and i knew it.  She is gone now and no matter how hard I try, I cannot bring myself to even imagine her by my side.  

When she was six, the doctors told us that she had the Down's syndrome.  They told us she wouldn't live beyond forty years.  Maybe even less, And she knew, but she couldn't care.  She was my little sister and I, her big, bad, brave brother.  Life was sweet, unfortunately short for her.  She would get on the couch, everyday, and watch Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory.  She loved that movie and all the songs in it, the characters, the costumes and the candies.  It was out of sheer curiosity one day, that I asked her what she understood of the movie.  ‘The mind is a BOWL’ she said and after a pause and I laughed.  Since that day, she would ask me to inscribe it for her on her bedroom walls, in notebooks, in storybooks and even on her t-shirts. Laughingly I obliged, never understanding the sense in it all. But now I know. The mind is indeed a bowl.

For the oompa-loompas in the movie, their minds were bowls that had chocolates -- all that they thought about was chocolates.  But the human mind -- it is a bowl that holds our thoughts, feelings and deepest emotions.  While it is still held high, we come to cherish those feelings and resort to them in times of unfamiliarity, awkwardness and negativity.  It is our strength, but mind you -- it is not strong.  When it (the bowl)  is dropped from that high pedestal we place it on, we fall into a pit of despair and distraught feelings.  The negativity and sadness closes in and clams  us up like a predator would a prey.  Remember that bowl up there is made of glass, and once shattered it does take a long long time to find one just like it -- full of the joys that light up our lives. 

Strangers in black, who called themselves family were now pouring into the church. It was my sister's funeral. The once familiar faces all seemed so distant and strange. They all came up to me one after the other, like little black ants, condoling. She was gone, utterly gone and they simply didn't understand. To them, she just didn't exist. It's as if she never was a part of their world. Blinking back the waterfall that was threatening to break free, I stepped out of the church. From the window I could see everything and my eyes came to lie upon the little black coffin in front of the altar. The coffin was open and there lay my beautiful sister, at peace. Perhaps a smile played upon her lips, I'll never know-- but it was then that I realized the truth. Like the glass bowl, I will take time and I will mend, knowing that she is in a better place, hopefully Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. 

It was time to tuck my little sister into bed and close her eyes once again, tonight. Except this time, she wouldn't have to wake up.

Written on 14th September, 2011