Love and hate.
Yet polar opposites.
Divided by a fine line
that doesn't take
long to cross.
A single sentence
can pull the trigger
to spill over
the other side.
Heart beating blood
on the ledge
and musty grass
and a scent
he had long forgotten
the scent of hope
away from the stronghold
but it is a road
with daunting tasks
so little done
so much to do
I had a first time experience of making a paratha today. I was on my own and that was actually good!
So I rolled a portion of dough on the flour board and it took up a strange shape, not a circle, not a square but like an irregular blotch of ink. While working with the rolling pin I could not help but reminisce about my childhood when my elder sister and I used to make bread with play dough in a kitchen set up with toy utensils in front of the mirror on the dresser.
It was the time when food was almost any colour and plasticy in texture, could be served cold ans stored for months. Good were those innocent days!
Sunlight slashed through the blinds sending a bar code of rays onto her pale, slumberous face. They caressed her, tickled her awake, till he eyes were fully open, reflecting the golden flecks. The white cotton sheets, the satin of her fantasies, rustled as she freed herself of them. The bed creaked with relief as she stood to support her own weight; it wouldn’t be long before it gave way, hopefully she wouldn’t be in it when it did. She dreamed of making it big one day, becoming larger than life. But that would have to wait, right now the leaky faucet beckoned.
I bury myself deep into my mathematics textbook, allowing calculus and analytic geometry to wreak havoc in my brain, in the hope that it’ll help me absorb some theorems. I have no idea why I let my mom talk me into taking mathematics in college. It makes a weird combination with my other majors; Economics and English Literature. I hate Math, numbers play tricks on me. Words are a lot friendlier; they go with a flow, almost liquid. And at least x doesn’t have a million different possible meanings in English.
The brush flew over the pale canvass lazily. The tint darkened with each stroke. The babyish glow turned to a faint blush, delicate and flattering against the pallor. The artist kept on working to get the desired shade. The brush swept and rose, swept and rose for the last time; perfection reached. She looked it into the mirror and smiled at her work of art.
Last night I drove. I drove my car to the end of city limits and myself to the edge of sanity. “Bullet For My Valentine” pouring from the speakers and flooding my brain helped keep out the sadistic thoughts bent on hijacking me. Shrill guitar riffs and heavy drumbeats have a way of doing that. But I was too preoccupied to head bang. Good thing, I always end up with a crick in my neck after doing that.
This is a really weird poem that I wrote some time ago. It's my take on what Hell will be like... Repetition of what you dread.
The phone rings. She picks it up. Shock. And the receiver falls. ***** The phone rings. She hesitates, picks it up. Shock. And the receiver falls. ***** The phone rings. She sits tight. Prays the deja-vu would end. She picks it up. Horror. And the receiver drops. ***** The phone rings. She wont pick it up. She wont. But she does. Shock. Horror. And the receiver drops.
He walked in, donned in a polo neck and dark green slacks, with his typical messed-up hair, she knew before even looking up that he had arrived. The strong aroma of his cologne was hard to ignore.
Finally, she lifted her head of burnished, burgundy tresses; her green eyes darting towards his face. He slowly bent over the table, waiting for her pent up anger to erupt...
She stood up, pushed her chair in and trampled to the door,
"Don't you ever be this late again." She muttered, fuming with rage.
"Alright." He mumbled under his breath as he picked up her baggage. 'Is that all?' he has wanted to ask but knew it would make her explode again. So he silently stuffed his blue Maserati with the bags, slipped on his sun-glasses and whiffed off to their ultimate escape.
He stumbled, fell and phased out. And the grimace held even in unconsciousness, even though you'd expect the muscles to relax. The alcohol coursed freely in his veins, poisoning blood and his already poisoned existence. The belt in his hand lay like a snake slithering to kill it's own master. His wife regained her senses and ordered herself under control. And then she wiped her bloody lip and dialed 911.
She watched her favorite piece of crockery float away from her while she stood on the only visible chunk of land for miles at end. She had always loved water, dreamed of traveling south to the shore to see the beauty that was the ocean. But now she had lost everything to water, her family, her home, her belongings, and her life. Drenched to the bone with only the clothes on her back and an ache in her belly that was unmistakably hunger, she waited to be rescued. Day gave way to night and the sun took over again. And she’s still there, waiting.
Yesterday she turned 63 though she looks much older than that, weak, feeble and frail. Socially ostracized, drowned in debts and flood water and mourning the loss of its off springs to extremists and foreign drone attacks, she is left on the mercy and kindness of others. Tears of blood are shed each passing day as she witnesses her impending doom. She can only be saved if her children unite against the powers bent on destroying her. Only they can bring her back to her former glory. For she is their motherland, Pakistan – the land that once resounded with songs of peace.
The old man told him not to run after perfection but find contentment in what he gets otherwise; and never regret anything because everything happens for a reason. But the youthful lad had yet to see the trials that led to conclusions; and the course of life showed the young man how true the sage was after all. Years after, the tombstone of the youth read, "Here lies the one who didn't strive for perfection and never regretted anything and lived a peaceful life." Strange are the ways of the world.
It was love at first sight. Just one look at her was like a kick in the gut, hard and potent. She was flawless, exquisite in her beauty. And then she looked at him with those languorous, chocolate brown, dream filled eyes and he felt giddy with excitement about what would happen next. A smile played at her lips and she pawed into her Chanel quilt bag and took out something, but he was transfixed by those pools of brown to notice anything else. She walked up to him, or rather sashayed, and slipped a note into his fingers; Michelle 1362-935-11 xoxoxoxo in red-is-the-color-of-sin lipstick. Love drunk, that’s what he was, and the hangover beast that would rear its head in the morning would be a mighty big one
Ben Johnson couldn’t predict the future; he couldn’t even predict the next few hours’ weather. But at this point in life he needed to know what way fate would take him. The feeble attempts he made to fix the errors hadn’t really worked, they had just reinforced that he was a loser, a failure at everything he did. Defeated, he mixed up a cocktail and gulped it down, a drink of shame, humiliation and trepidation. He then sat down and waited. Waited for the drink of death to do its work.
PROLOGUE: He was a simple man with simple needs; content with life and the way it treated him. He didn’t ask for much from people, just that they respect him and the relationship they had. He was an introvert and the only person who knew him front to back was the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to marry and grow old with. The woman who was his and his alone. He wanted nothing else from life. Just a little assistance from fate to make his world complete. She was really sporty, but while others usually played with balls, she played with hearts. She juggled them, her position strong and concentration on the mark. Why have one man when you could have another in line, better yet, a third one on stand-by? Deception was the name of the game, lies were the rules and she was a champion at it. But juggling is a difficult stunt; balls fall but bounce back, hearts fall and turn to dust. And then she searched for more. ************
He entered the diner and was hit by a cloud of grease; he walked towards the back and slid into the last red vinyl booth. A woman with a voice like heartbreak was belting out a song about love while a mini-skirt clad waitress went about fueling customers with caffeine. He had agreed to meet her one last time, to hear her version of the story of his heart's murder. She would probably come up with a thousand excuses and explanations about the accusation he had thrown at her. She hadn't realized that she had permanently scarred him; she was too self-absorbed for that. He wasn't ready to let her in again; he just wanted to see her cry, one last time. A smug smile covered her face as she spotted his car at the end of the parking lot; she made her way inside ready with apologies and counter accusations. She was glad for the thick greasy diner air, it would make the tears come quick; she had chosen the setting well. He was sitting at the far end, his black shirt screaming character and good taste, paired with old money; she couldn't afford to let him go. She changed her expression to grim and slid into the booth, facing him. His expression blank he stared at her face, probably searching for a give-away that the remorse in her eyes was fake, but she was too good an actress, she covered all grounds. She smiled inwardly, this wouldn't take long, and after all, he was head over heels in love with her. He watched her dab at her eyes, the plastic bitch, faking tears just so he would melt like a sugar cube in her mug of black coffee. He'd wanted to see tears, but these just sent a wave of revulsion through him. She seemed to think she had layers, that it was hard to know who she really was, what she didn't realize was that after all these years of knowing her he knew her better than his own self. She was transparent as a glass to him, albeit a cheap one that distorts reality for the untrained eye.He could predict what she wanted. She expected him to comfort her, to tell her he was wrong to doubt her faithfulness, and he did just that. He wanted to lure her to the peak, just to push her off. He was falling for her fake tears; she had triumphed again. She put her fingers into his offered hand and let him stroke them lightly, an attempt to stop the waterworks but she willed more tears into her eyes to hang on her lashes; pearl drops of sorrow. She wanted more than comfort, she wanted an apology for doubting her, she wanted an admission of his unrequited love and then she'd give one back, so what if she didn't mean it, he would lap it up like a thirsty dog. He would believe her. She just wanted a 180° turn on the road towards their break up, she'd play some more, teach him new tricks, get him even more dependent on her and then she'd turn another 180° and dump him. She had never been dumped, it was always the other way round and he wouldn't be an exception. He had loved her like crazy and that was his biggest mistake, the other was that he had trusted her with his heart. She still thought she had a stronghold on that poor thing and she was using her tears to make sure of that; was she wrong or what. He was going to play along for a while, be the old him who was mesmerized by her charm, and then he would drop the bomb. He ordered them more coffee and sat back with a lazy smile and eyes half closed,drinking his. She was too busy with her tissue and scheming mind to notice his sudden nonchalance. He cleared his throat to get her attention, then leaned forward, looked straight into her eyes and apologized for doubting her, the sinister gleam in her eyes left as quickly as it had come; but he had seen what he wanted, everything was going according to plan.
EPILOGUE A month later.... He was still a simple man and she was still sporty. Besides that, they were changed people. He turned to granite, trust and love for the female species completely gone. She became careful, her previous escapades having left her severely bruised and feeble. Juggling is after all a difficult stunt, once the balls fall its the juggler who gets thrown out of the ring. The same fate awaits the juggler of hearts.
The minutes roll on to centuries as time slips through my fingers. I have my heart in my mouth, my strength continually sinking to my feet. I toss and turn, restless; consumed by anxiety as night after night sleep escapes me. My head spins in circles as I wake to greet the sunrise day after day, With pulsating beats and fragile limbs I creep through the days like a lurking spirit. I feel no more myself.
The orb hung, pale and murky, on the dark blue canvas. Surrounded by a thousand twinkling stars, guardians of the tainted beauty. Its reign of luminosity scared away the demons of darkness. It’s pallor, icy yet warm, lulled many an insomniacs to sleep. As dawn approached, the earth got moist with dew. Tears shed by the moon as the sun stole its limelight.