Thursday, July 04, 2013

Khoon Chala

"Kuch kar guzarne ko, khoon chala, khoon chala.........
Sawaalon ki ungli, jawaabo ki mutthi, sang leke khoon chala....."


There are days when you want to climb up graciously on your desk, clench your fists, embrace a meanness new to you and yell at the ugly creatures around you, telling them to "***k off!" For all the trauma, for all the distress, for all the injustices done to you, you want to avenge yourself, or whatever is left of it. You want to be angry because it emboldens you; you want to let it control you for once, in contrast to all the times you had to swallow that hot liquid down your throat and sit silent and sullen. 

There so much you want to do on a day like this. Throw things at them, shoot them in the head, slap them, abuse them. And finally feel lighter after having indulged in some childish vengeance. 

Still waiting to see what freedom feels like. Freedom from those ugly faces, rotten inside. Freedom from all that is unpleasant, decaying, nasty, malicious and dishonest. To walk away proudly knowing that you never became one of them. And never would.

Patience is running dry. And auto pilot seems to be having some technical issues from overloading. A straight, stony face is painful after a while, not to mention disturbing especially when you look into the mirror and find someone so metamorphosed. What have they done to you?? Why??

But not for long. Relief shall arrive soon. And then you will fly, mocking those who hurt you and tried hard to convince themselves that you're no good. Then you shall walk out never to look back at that ugliness again.

Sometimes, there is no turning the other cheek.     

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The insidious enemy

She struck again last night. 
Her horrible face flashed in the lightning and disappeared in spurts.
What did she want? What was she after this time?
The same, the same.
Her motives never change, she never evolves.
Pain, misery, loss, dejection - all for her sister,
Her bright, happy sister whose laughter can lighten up a cloudy day.
We thought she was dead, never to destroy again.
But she crept up and uncorked a bottle of sweet smelling poison.
He lay unsuspecting, smiling with loving thoughts and words,
Eyes filled with her pretty face, head resounding with her songs.
Until she stuck the dagger into his side, slowly.
An evil relish, some dark laughter.
While the good sister screamed to be let out to rescue him.
But once again, she stepped out too late,
To catch the pieces in her hand. 

But you know what, bitch??!
She's gonna be ready for you next time. 
No more goody girl, no more helpless pleading.
Next time, you're dead.
Because for him, she will pick up the sword.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The writer I was

Reviewing and updating web content that I'd written two years ago, I am surprised. It reads nothing like what I'd write today and I ask myself, "Did I really write this?? Gosh! What was I thinking?"And then it begins to dawn on me, how writers change, as people, how their circumstances change, their muses, their beliefs, their streams of thought - it all changes. And with that changes what we write. It reflects it perfectly. That latest preference for short sentences, the extra heed to tenses, sometimes the unfortunate lack of vocabulary.The signs are all in there. Just as the wrinkles on our faces depict age, maturity and wisdom (hopefully), our writing speaks volumes. We can either evolve as writers or stay where we always were. I'd like to take my chances and discover new quirks in myself. And in what I write...