Creatures

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

as I make my way through the trees.

Stepping ever so lightly on the leaves below,

Lest anyone hears my breathing shallow.

Through the shrubs I stealthily move,

with a steady pace I tighten the noose,

the invisible rope with which I track the prey,

Tugging at which gently brings it close.

 

Driven with pure instinct I decide to pounce,

a quick rustle the prey hears and turns around.

Doesn't see me there and his fear starts to grow.

That it'll be soon over is such a terrible thing to know.

 

Satisfied I'm making my way to my bed,

But stories of the mysterious forest creatures

run through my head.

Who hasn't heard the tales of old?

from generation to generation they're greedily told,

the stories curdle your blood and chill your bones,

though always told in whispering tones.

 

They were always about someone distant you didn't know,

Suddenly it happened to someone you did know.

Young & careless, you still brush them away,

It's something that couldn't happen to you.

 

That while walking alone in the jungle

one must constantly be wary,

lest you encounter these abominations

once you're tired and weary.

Only when you venture far enough from your den,

where the jungle grows different in unfamiliar terrain.

Then you see them looking silently at you.

They look like you, only slightly askew.

 

Their bodies are slender with similar proportion,

fur is thin and bright, it's your perverted version.

As if meant to stand out in twilight, not hide,

everything about them seems unjustified.

Their eyes are a little too black,

face a little too long,

ears a little too sharp,

and their stench a little too strong.

 

My instincts twitch before my senses detect,

Today I've ventured from my den a little too far ahead,

After the kill proudly as I stood,

I see the monster in the woods.

Gently gazing at me from a distance, covered in pure white fur,

The eyes seemed like black Opals in snow,

Oh! someone for company I would prefer.

 

It opens its mouth, I hear it's garbled words,

Seems like a cacophony of a thousand birds.

It's trying hard to mimic your voice you feel,

But it's not your kind, a fact that 'it' can't conceal.

No matter how it tries, the creature is not true,

It is but a parody of you.

It has caught you now, you cannot go,

Oh! It is such a terrible thing to know.

A THOUGHT PROVKING DAY!

It was grey all around! I mean, the most perfect shade of grey anyone has ever laid their eyes on. It was perfect. By grey I do not mean that the heart of the observer was filled with so much sorrow, that his whole world had crashed and burned around him and that his heart had broken irreparably. No! I mean the overall view was so “heavy” and thought inducing that one could not help but think about the past. It somehow forced the reel of the tape to rewind with a pencil and forced you to live through your most thought proving moments. Your Top 10 Moments! 

The view from the sixth floor of the apartment building at four o clock that evening was indeed thought provoking. The rain had slowed down into a gentle shower, silent but persistent, like a very efficient employee letting his actions, rather than words, do the talking. Approximately 1.5 Kms towards the North West of the apartment building, the massive ‘Vidyasagar Setu’ across the Hooghly river had come back into view after the opaque rain curtain had slid back up into the clouds, with the iconic ‘Welcome’ sign on top of the bridge, still silhouetted but legible. The wisps of clouds immediately above the area streaking across the near-distance sky seemingly in a hurry to get home as though they too had been delayed by the preceding thunderstorm, not very unlike the vehicles that could now be seen on top of the bridge. 

The whole ground around the building, across the perimeter road, was saturated with standing water, not muddy and turbid, but brilliant reflective water hiding in plain sight between the perfect carpet grass. It’s presence only seen in places where the grass cover was thin and which were still being peppered with rain. The well pruned grass, which seemed disciplined in its bearing, was green, shiny and full of life. The whole area beyond the grassy patch was encircled with an area of thick, full trees. No half measures there. The trees, seemed old, quite old, and seemed as if they had made friends with the grass, which had now creeped and climbed it’s way on top of them to have a better view from ‘up there’. God knows how many ants, spiders and snakes hid behind those thick creepers, as though they were the dirty little secrets that any true and long friendship has. These secrets are generally well hidden from the world and only shared among each other when a bottle of scotch is opened, as aromatic and intoxicating as this afternoon’s rain. The tree cover seemed endless. It spread till the bridge and beyond with a different endless array of black water tanks, damp moss-covered walls of apartments, dark windows, high rise buildings, tin & plastic roofs of sheds of various solid colors, old white colonial era watchtowers and overhead tanks. 

If not for the heavy gloom that only a four o'clock thunderstorm and streetlights can bring to a city, one might have thought that this is a nice little part of the world to live in. Not this time, not today. On the other side of the apartment, down below, an old amma was carefully wading across the grass, across the remnants of a disused concrete badminton court, of which dirty blue paint had started to peel away, towards a mango tree, to collect the mangoes that were strewn about underneath, probably for chutney later. A partially constructed building whose foundation had just been laid stood drowned in muddy water along with heaps of fly-ash bricks, sand and aggregate, with its naked shutter-less iron rods sticking out of the water like sunken ships with their sails torn. 

The peculiarity about sudden late-afternoon thunderstorms is that it signals the end of the day quite early and abruptly, not giving the living beings enough chance to properly close out their day, which is generally at about six o clock. Therefore, in a sense, it does not give an appropriate closure to someone towards his day, the day that he had so carefully planned at the start. The day ends abruptly and quite suddenly, like the untimely death of a loved one. One is cold, wet and left stranded wherever he is at that moment, alone in his thoughts about what the day might have been. The colors of the sky are no longer seen, the birds go missing, the unnatural look of vehicle headlights, streetlamps, house lights all at a time seem very out of place and makes one wonder if he has suddenly been transported to a very different world that he can no longer recognize. Physically and superficially the world still looks the same, but the emotional connection, the warmth is suddenly lost. Quite like two lovers, together for years and then suddenly one falling out of love with the other. 

Since the fifth afternoon thunderstorm of the week had died down into a steady rain, distant ambulances could now constantly be heard on the two main roads which were towards West and South east of the building. As the sky grew darker still with threat of more strong winds and rain, their Blue and white lights could also be seen streaking silently across the bridge, certainly carrying someone’s loved one for his yet another struggle of the day, this time at the hospital. 

The weather truly was Melancholy!

In the mind of a Writer

Bent over a book, cigarette on his lips,

a dull black light glows above,

slow swirling smoke forming overhead,

a pen moves swiftly in his hand.

His every stroke, as sharp as sword,

in every thought a revolution lies,

His every line is a drop of gold,

in every verse the humanity dies.

His mind is like a beast of burden,

His eyes have stopped to blink,

His gaze can pierce through a mask,

or so he likes to think!

Every so often he closes his eyes,

for an idea's conception or it's sad demise,

hunting for thoughts within his boundless soul,

to produce that which the world has never seen before.

He listens to Zepp, Sabbath, Lemmy and Floyd,

even reads Hemingway, Tolstoy and Freud,

Dissecting every line they sung

or every prose so beautifully strung,

in search for something to match his mood,

willing to forgo his drink and food.

Tormenting his mind in search for thoughts

and baring his soul in search for words,

Imagining the most convenient way,

for the vital subject he must convey.

At last his thoughts are vomited out,

in blue, black, red or grey,

through the paper they look up and shout,

A final draft so carefully written,

which shines among the drafts torn and stewn about.

Another work joins the rest,

as the writer sits back at ease,

where does this piece stand he thinks,

Is this what he could do best?

At the end it is not for himself,

he thinks his work can inspire the world,

He let's it out into the web,

hoping the world to do the rest.

But morons are many, he knows, thoughtful few,

for this piece will be discarded too.

Somewhere in the heart of the Valley

Covered in White, Yellow & Purple
and every possible hue,
Lies stretched before my eyes
a living, breathing paradise,
To some old devil someone owed a due,
turning every eye red and every skin blue.

Cloudy eyes hide the abyss of pain
as the wise old men calmly explain,
A whole generation was lost they say,
when a podium given to foxes had their way,
and the lovable fool of the mohalla went away.

Impact of every stone is a dent in a bone
Squeeze of every trigger was once somebody's treasure,
The bright flash and the smell of gunpowder
with every chanted slogan the ensuing silence grows louder.

Somewhere in the heart of the valley
Where the bloddy river flows uncheked
providing life to every cell, cleansing it in return,
breaking the banks ever so often,
healing every wound and burn,
Washing away saint and sinner alike
bodies washed ashore at every turn.

Somewhere in the heart of the valley
Where the chaos showers from above
washing away the slime and muck,
blowing away the sting from every cut
These showers cause the crimson river to swell
hearts to melt and minds to dwell,
A land of contradiction, land of harmony,
a place where hope lives and dies
Somewhere in the heart of the valley where every heart lies.

Journey to Utopistan!

     


       The first light at 0445 hrs started us off towards Rohtang. Pretty soon we caught up with the teaming traffic and started snaking upwards. All the treks I had been to, all the vacations I had taken to far off places, all the sights I had seen (save for one) could not prepare me for what the nature was about to unveil before me.

      The bare uneven and rocky vertical mountain range, alternating constantly to my left and right with every turn, was fully awash with the morning light. The lower slopes had a grassy albeit boulder studded surface. These grassy slopes with tall pine trees had spread themselves unevenly throughout its side wherever they could find a flat enough surface. This physics vs nature matchup looked as though it had time as the referee, one who had a slight soft corner for nature and was allowing it to silently win. On the lower slopes there was one, just one, palatial size house in ruins. Someone with a lot of money must've had a great idea of building his home in a paradise of a place but soon realized his folly when boulders from the mountain rained down on him. It was nature's way of saying he was not welcome there any more. And in places high above streams of white mist were seen which had a long conical shape but then disappeared midair. On closer examination they were found to be mini waterfalls.

      Ahead of me the sun had painted one half of the yet another mammoth mountain side golden, with bare granite areas all over it shining like small diamonds. The other half still in the shadows was made darker still due to the contrast. The mountains had clouds safely under their wings as if they were their secret masters and the clouds returned the favour by trying their best to hide how high the mountains really were. In places where the clouds did cross the top, it looked as if there were pillows of steam coming off the mountain where somewhere within its heart giant machines operated.

      In the vast stillness of the mountain a small, almost indiscernible but continuous, movement could be seen. Huge trucks, Army convoys, big SUVs were nothing more than a tiny spec on this vast canvass. With this as a brief introduction we began our trip proper towards the martian landscape of Eastern Ladakh.

The Final Nightmare

She glided down suddenly out of the deep nothingness. Using the vast labyrinth of my emotions as props to freeze me in my sleep. One part of my mind realized it was too good to be true while the other was busy being scared stiff. The angel of death had reappeared.

I saw myself climbing an old apartment block of some long forgotten utopian world. It was my first time there but I knew where I was heading to. I didn’t know what I’m going to find but I knew it would surface soon enough. Then I saw her, the object of my subconscious, the actuator of all my emotions, sitting casually behind an open door, on a carpet in a barely furnitured house. Both her legs folded behind her on one side and resting her body on one hand while the other was on her thighs. She sat there with another man lying a few feet away, resting on one side of his body, facing her and his bare back towards me. They sat there motionless, not speaking, as if made of fine china. Her expressions were all too familiar. Then she saw me.

I always knew somewhere deep below in the ocean of my subconscious lurked a monster. I knew it was there hence preferred the vastness of the conscious  world above the still surface. I would occasionally take a dip but would come out fast, not giving it the scent of my blood. However I never dried myself. I loved the feel of the wetness of my subconscious in the cool air above and let it dry it out naturally. She was in my thoughts last night, more than usual, before I went to bed. It felt so good that this time I inadvertently stayed too far into the deep end not leaving enough time to come out.

As I saw her looking at me, I knew the monster which had been hiding for a long time had surfaced. It dragged me down effortlessly; I did not try to escape. I went down so fast that the light above me disappeared as quickly as turning off a bulb. She slowly got up and in an instant appeared just inches from me. I didn’t remember what she was wearing. It was just her face, her pretty face, clouding everything, my thoughts, my movements, my every cell. Seeing her stand so close to me again sent icy buckets of sweat down my spine. I suddenly felt my lungs sag inside my chest, my knees began to melt and my body began to crumble. I let out a scream as I fell straight down to the floor clutching my chest panting for a wisp of air to fill my deflated lungs. She just stood there over me, not talking, just looking at me with nonchalant eyes. It’s seeing that face and those eyes that I began to experience pure fear.

As I lay down convulsing like a snake all I could see was the monster’s face. Those eyes, not pretty anymore but dark bottomless pits. Her hair was like the web of a thousand spiders. Her precise nose, a vulture’s beak, her perfect skin seemed like white handcrafted plastic but her lips still seemed like rose petals, inviting me and her face, well…., my monster finally had a face.

As I lay writhing on the floor like a pathetic animal, I slowly began to loose consciousness, and as I did, I began to wake up. The deeper I went the more my senses began to stir. As I felt loosing the feel of the hard ground I started to feel the softness of my bed. As I began to loose touch of my dream I started gaining control of my muscles and started moving my limbs hungrily feeding on the feel of my soft pillow and quilt. But her face still held the final strands refusing to let me fully let go of my worst nightmare in years.

I finally heard a soft “What’s wrong daddy?” as I felt a hand on my chest. I could feel concern through the quivering fingers. I could feel heat spreading though my veins like a chain reaction. My little girl’s voice hit the final nail as it tore me away from her. Her face finally began to dissolve into the dark mist and, as I slowly opened my eyes, gradually took the shape of my daughter. I screamed and screamed. The monster was out.

The Tree

In the middle of the rainforest,
Stands a lone tree, proud and tall,
With naked branched reaching up,
waiting to be seen by all.

As if asking for forgiveness
from the thunder god,
For a long lost sin that
the world easily forgot.

As it proudly remembers the days of old,
Those mighty fires and biting cold,
Still in his heart, hiding the nests and burrows,
While the distant cousins were cut and sold.

Now having all it's greatness stripped,
The leaves, the bark, the fruits
and flowers, that it no longer missed,
It grew its arms
Still eager to touch the sky,
It tries to touch the untouchable,
It cries an inaudible cry

Until a day a swallow around it flies,
In gentle circles it glides,
Perches on a branch and begins to build,
Blade by blade and twig by twig.
It's on its branches and within its roots
Below the leaves and under its shoots,
The tree soon comes to realize,
Therein hides the true meaning of life.