sheer inertia

every word that i think of as the first word to begin the first sentence of a first paragaraph seems cliched. if not cliched, then it seems utterly useless, or else if everything fails it seems un-necessary.......................................................................................................................................

short story

the chicken and the duck

softly kneaded into the senses was the taste of honey
she put her tongue to it cautiously
exploding in a fury of rain drenched skin

hands that sought another's
lips that craved another's
chocolate and vanilla rum truffles

senses tested beyond their limit
all other deviations shut down one by one
until sunlight poured in through the cobwebbed window panes



a small corner of the room was lit up
she sat there gazing into her soul
as he lay sleeping, content and caressed by spent love from last night

of love and other demons...

“Jesus won’t save you.”
“No. Momma He will.”
“He won’t because you have sinned. He will save you only if He loves you.”
“Momma, Jesus loves everybody; sinners, even me.”

Telling isn’t it? Little children scared by their parents into submission to the world of religion that the child doesn’t understand, more often than not, the parent doesn’t. God has to love us sinners more than the saints for we need him the most. He shall have to put faith in us, for we need most forgiveness. He shall have to pay more attention to us, for we need Him.

The little novel by Marquez talks of good, of evil, of love, of passion, of deceit, of gods that Christian religion doesn’t understand, of madness, of solitary sorrow, of debauched misgivings, of addictions, of the eternal human caprice to want to reach a place where morality can be left at the doorstep and deep breaths in the arms of the forbidden beloved shall not be looked upon with a disapproving eye.

The little girl Sierva Maria found peace in the lies that she told her European parents, in the songs she sang for the African housemaids, in the arms of the priest Cayetano Delaura in the cold dreary prison cell of the convent, in the moment when she knew that it was her last breath. The priest was doomed by his education and direction in life when it was confronted with the bounteous beauty of life. Vows of celibacy are just so trite. Love is what steps out of the hackneyed path. The Marquis’ love for the mad woman, Abrenuncio’s love of horses, the Bishop’s love of the motherland… the Abbess’ love for herself all lead to but one path.

Madness, solitude, anger, tantrums, love, sex, drugs are all sedatives that set humans on the track of domesticity. Some hide these afflictions better than others. Others hide their illicit affairs. Each act of pure physical love gets mired in terms of adultery or prostitution. Each act of romantic love is an act of cheating. We sinners need God most. God needs us sinners the most. Ours is the symbiotic relationship.

Walk in, flit out, sift through, take stock, have some recourse, make demands, let go, hang on… where does it all lead us? Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide; look for kindred spirits, look for redemption, look for those arms that never was for us in the first place. He doesn’t exist. If he does, he loves someone else. He wants someone else. He lies in bed with you but he sleeps with her. You sleep with someone else. You’re all alone. You’re on your own. You drink, you forget, you see someone else.

When was the last time you woke up to someone you expected to wake up next to??

here's the look see

okay people, unless you're absolutely sure you won't throw up, don't open this link. these are pictures of me right before i was stitched up in the operation theatre. it's bloody and gory. my sincere apologies for ruining your day..

http://picasaweb.google.co.in/xanjukta/GraphicPhotosIMSorryIfTheyDisturbYou?authkey=2NkOVp9HfhI

silkworm

nimble hands sewed up tattered pieces of skin for a good many hours. the story started as we froze like deer in the headlights of the oncoming vehicle or did the grand plan start before that. did i know anything while i cleaned up my room and made space for puru's stuff in my cupboard. did anyone have an inkling? did someone laugh in the great big blue sky or wherever the halleluiah strumming lute carrying angels park their white fluffy clouds??

frankly speaking for some strange reason i can't seem to relate to people who've come and told me if only you'd waited for some time... i'd rather get on with my life (i mean work, marriage. books, music etc) i mean i just wanna laugh. there are just so many corny jokes and one liners that come into my edema'ed brain, and i say then aloud, but it's no fun laughing at yourself unless you can manage a good racous laugh yourself. otherwise, people feel a little uncomfortable and odd at laughing at a smashed up woman. i mean god!! they're quite polite, aren't they?

i've been meaning to write for a long time now. just haven't had the time, and now i've all the time in the world. at least for a few days. (boy! Am i bored out of my wits?) i've contemplated on smell for now. with a smashed nose nothing much works in the olfactory department. i couldn't smell the three day old dried and caked blood in my fingers. nor the fact that i've not brushed for the last three days. what to say of the fresh smell of shampoo that emanated from my head wash today. i can't smell his breath, i can't smell his skin, i can't smell his love. i can only see everything. and i'm scared to soak it all in cos i may start crying being so overwhelmed, which i can't afford cos i can't blow my bloody broken nose.

spread open the anus of a cadaver. a sudden whiff of smell shall burst and shock you. i call it 'the final fart'. what of the teeming masses all around? what should i call that?

systems are down

i always thought that there would be a defining moment which i'd recognise, which would characterise me or bring to light my possible place... all i find is one day blending into the insignificant other.. is it cowardice to kill oneself or is it an act of courage? i can't seem to find the answer.. is that the only philosophical question left?? whether or not to live!!!

resurrection...or is it?

The burgeoning of an idea seems so very momentous to the generator that he/she gets carried away in the multiple variants of its expression and implementation. There is never the thought that it might just be a personal matter. People wash it, cook it, clean it, bake it, fry it, ornament it and put it out to dry where the winds of the rest of the human minds may see it, touch it, sense it, feel it, taste it, smell it and revel in it…or just as well criticize and pan it.

Well an idea is just that. There is nothing original, momentous or extraordinary about it. Everyone has them. Everyone constructs them. Everyone discards them. There’s nothing grand about having one of them, a million of them or having none at all. It’s all very simple. Life is just the way it is. Each day merges into each night, which in turn merges into the next morning.

We strive so hard to make ourselves indispensable to the ones we love, to the ones we aid, to the ones at our mercy, to the ones whose mercy we rely on, to every goddamn person, thing or event we think is of value. It is all in vain. There is no place for immortality. We can’t live on in the lives of our children… they can’t search for meaning in our lives, or even answers. We each seek our own answers. What we need are the really good questions… Or are they just fanciful ideas?