The Face

This was how I started my journey on that day. I walked along the banks of river when sun was playing hide and seek behind gray clouds. The contrast was quick. Sometimes the light struck the blue water, making sprinkles, and sometimes the water appeared dark. Oh! it is the drama of nature, I realized. But, it had an association with me. Something was there that was binding this drama with me. Whenever the light, bright light, touched the first layer of billowing water, it took me back, back to those images of past. Colors, faces, expressions, moments, and that life; it knocked my consciousness. I saw myself in the same room, with many humans of my age, I was very young then; I was 15.

My much-preferred place, near a window, opened the view of gushing river. The fast flowing brown water, small boats moving along its crests and troughs, and that wooden bridge, I only watched. Then one day, a face passed by and blocked the river; I never knew it would be blocked forever. From then onwards, I forgot the river, and remembered the face, the beautiful face with almond shaped eyes: its rims darken with kohl, and deep inside the shimmer describing the intensity of love, for me, perhaps. My memories immersed in those eyes, so did the river. But then, I found a contrast. For me, it was beautiful, for them, it was ugly. They called it arrogance and I called it innocence. “How could one be so arrogant?,” they would say. “It is no arrogance, it is innocence” I would reply. Never did I remember that distance, or, the ways of maintaining that distance. I was ignored, and that deliberate distance was an excuse, but it was no excuse, I know. So, time moved on, life moved on, and I didn’t stop at all. I laughed, I smiled, and sometimes I fought my tears and acted brave; I lived with the images, the images of one face.

The evening was cold. The sun was behind the thick blankets of clouds, gone for three months of vacation. But the white snow had simonized the road. The road was long and empty. On both the sides the leafless trees of different families and sizes, wearing thick layers of snow, stood guard. This is life, my life, I realized in the depths of the hazel eyes. The snow gave warmth, it acted as a caring host, my buddy: snow, and my love: the face with hazel eyes, what a life, I thought. I shared my beautiful secret with my buddy. I told him that this is love. “I am in love,” I whispered. “You are my love,” I said it, loudly, finally. The fog came down, snaking through the mountains, sneaking through the trees, touching my face, and perhaps kissing it too. Is this a dream? I asked myself in my dream. I was dreaming in my dream. Dreaming in dreams becomes a reality, I believe. One day I will see the face, in the snow, on the same road, and the trees will stand guard, I know.

A Stolen Thief

He was looking at it, like a thief, thinking to snatch it once for all. What he was playing I could see. He entered with an enforced smile, discouraging movements, badly knotted necktie, and he waded awkwardly. His appearance made him repulsive. Men didn’t even look at him, women maintained a distance, and wine waiter never passed by him. He was there but did not exist at all. Now he knew his place, a table in the corner. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a few circles of smoke. He peeped through one of the circles and his eye struck a figure. The figure was fantastic, and the deep gold brocade complemented each of its gesture. He ambled toward the figure, he kept looking at it, looking at the most attractive parts: eyes, bosom, waistline, and lips. He was in his senses, but he looked drunk, drunk on the beauty. Walked past stares, pathetic expressions, and pockets of aroma, he halted some three hands away from it. He was offered a glass of wine, finally. “Feel comfortable,” the figure said to him. A gleam of confidence emerged from his eyes, and his disheartened heart began to thump. He found life. He found a companion. The glass was filled red and he drank like slowly, elegantly, ensuring to spend more time so that the moments last for long. But he was wrong. Long white hands held its beautiful black arms with shimmering diamond bracelets. The hands were making slow frequent movements, from its shoulder to back and down, then up and down again. The companion was in the wrong hands. Facing seized figure he walked back and sat on the same table. He quaffed wine staring at the flagon. The flagon was empty and earlier the lips of his companion had touched its embellished walls. He was shifting his gaze quite frequently: flagon to companion to long white hands to flagon. He broke the rhythm. He turned his face towards a giggle. The giggle came from behind, he turned back. His companion had disappeared, he saw. He looked for long white hands, and he too had disappeared. Perhaps both have disappeared together, he thought. He imagined that fantastic figure lay naked on the bed. Its curves being touched by the long white hands, he imagined. His heart sank further he pushed the walls of his imagination. Again he caught the view of empty flagon. The flagon had a red stain too. He was looking at it, like a thief, and he snatched it once for all. He was caught, the thief was caught, he was beaten, and the thief was beaten. “We knew you have come to steal,” he was ridiculed. “I am stolen,” he cried.

Darkness

I heard something, something in a coarse. A man standing beside me was staring at me perpetually not shifting his gaze and only looking at my face. It was the man who was talking to me saying something. I gave a brimming look at him and saw his crooked nose moving with his lips. “I saw you when you saw me,” he said. He was wearing a long fur coat too heavy for the weather and his hands were in black gloves. A black hat he was wearing and his neck covered by a muffler suggested that he was someone who feels chill when it is pleasant. The man must have been in his late seventies but looked in forties. “You saw me, didn’t you?,” he asked in an attempt to break my silence. My silence had a longing of thousands of years. I’ve been doing sins since many years, I was impure, did all the devilish acts. Things were haunting me. I was confused. Not knowing what to do. I wasn’t worried at all, don’t know why and wasn’t strong too, coward I was. The thoughts were streaming in my consciousness. “So, didn’t you see me?,” he asked again. I was that moment regaining the present and I heard the same voice that I had been hearing since years of my existence in the world of hope. The voice was filled with love and promise. The love for my soul, which I reckon is still pure, and promise for the images of dreams that I had been seeing every night. But this night was different; I wasn’t dreaming at all. I shook my head, pinched my skin, rubbed my eyes, it was no more a dream I realized. “Are you alone,” he asked. The words stopped, didn’t come out. I wanted to tell him, yes, I am. One part of me is alone and other filled with care. My parents’ care for me, cared for me, will care for me always, I know. The time was entering into the darkness of night and the dogs were barking a far cry from the man, and the man was firm on his belief that night was no more a threat. I was afraid. I am scared of darkness. I fear darkness. I hate darkness. I got panicked. Questions of the man, barking of the dogs, and emptiness of the night, I wanted to go home, and my home was too far. I needed light. I needed to see path. I was pathless. The man put his hand on my shoulder. It was warm. “I am scared,” finally I replied. All his queries were answered, he saw a man who needed help. Not manly help, spiritual help. He wanted to wash off all his sins. He wanted to clean his dark heart, and he wanted to walk fearless in the dark nights. The man smiled and said: “Follow your dreams because dreams are pure”. He left me in the middle of night. I knew my dream, I knew it was pure; I dragged out fear, and walked on the road, passed the dark alleys and passed the barking dogs. I was fearless.

Waiting

How am I supposed to know that you have met me? I haven’t met anyone since last 22 years, so meeting you is impossible. I am sorry, you have got it wrong, may be I am not the one you are looking for. I only remember my long wait for the one who never came up to see what I had. I had a painting of flower and pen and had some toffees too. I thought of telling that I have a heart and it beats for you, but I did not tell this to anyone, not even to myself. I fought this feeling for many years, never knew that I will succumb to it, and finally what I was afraid of happened on that day when I burned the panting, its flower and its pen; it burned my heart too. I could see rain drops falling down on the broken boulevard; the road was empty and so was my mind. I yearned to think something, I could not even think of my painting, not of my heart, not of the meeting. I was blank, and ahead of me was the road of despair. This was the third time I was waiting, I kept waiting, again felt lonely, and it was the third rain of the spring. We didn’t meet at all. This was the fate. What was the reason—not meeting at all? Who was to blame? I was to blame; I was the one guilty of doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing, and believing in everything. Things will never be yours, unless you embrace them, unless you express something to them, unless you share joy with them, they say, I don’t say, I say what they don’t say, they don’t hear, they don’t think. I am still waiting, and I will keep waiting. I will wait. This was the fate, I know, but this is not the fate.

This is the first fuck, read it or don't read it.

This is my first fuck thing I am posting with the fucking thoughts in my mind. I’ve been a confused soul since my childhood, perhaps since birth too. But I am not ready to accept this fact because I believe this is not a fact as I am working hard to reach at a place where I can say to world that look I am not confused at all. Anyways, things have changed a lot and waters have been polluted a lot and life has changed a lot and the whole thing revolving around has changed a lot. It has to change. It is a big movie being played in the cinemas of seven heavens. I don’t know who the fuck is going to disagree with me. I would always say that this fucking person is not knowing what he is doing and at the same time he intervenes like an interventionist and plays his cards to let other people down just to prove something out of nothing only to get that fucking recognition and then get a girl and get a fuck from that fucking girl in the end. Does this world end up on this fucking pussy? I don’t think so, but sometimes I do, and most of the times I disagree over it. Don’t misconstrue this pussy as a beautiful female organ--which is amazing while one does love making with a woman—what I mean is the fingering done power to powerless. This fingering has been going on since ages, and I am fucking surprised over the techniques of fingerings which power has adopted over powerless. First the powerless is ridiculed, then blamed, and in the end proved guilty. Guilty of what? Guilty of Powerlessness. This fucking powerless guilty has no one, alone this fucking asshole is being screwed by ruthless fingers, and screwed, and screwed again. And you know what this whore, democracy, does in the end. It masturbates over the bleeding powerless ass, which earlier tries to save itself from getting badly punctured, but the powerful pressure of ferocious fingers gets through it as harshly as it can and scores the each portion of it. Then this democracy after ejaculating out the last drops of lust on this charred ass starts talking about justice. It claims that the ass would definitely get justice. Many powerless asses, shattered after witnessing the incident of their co-ass, live with a false hope that someone is talking on their behalf. The incident slowly fades away from the memory of asses and their life starts ambling again. I told you earlier that this fucking mind has lost it, did I?