A Murder

So, the first stone hit, not me though, but the zircon ruby I had nicked off Nisha’s bathroom window. Quite an achievement, I tell you, since I had to brave my way through thick steamed smog, with zero visibility and an over powering scent of jasmine. But the red, blood red twinkle that reflected against my eyes was completely covetable. It made that arduous journey quite an adventure.

Being in possession of that ruby, which I decided to call Rubina, brought my ex girl Peri gliding like a swan towards me. Days of snogging, snuggling and basically Peri rubbing herself all over me, still did not convince me to give away Rubina.

And that is why, before the second stone hit me, I realized that I had been a celibate for six months now. Although I still say, Rubina was completely worth the celibacy.

The second stone, scraped deep through my right thigh, before lodging into Mr. Knuckles. No…no…no not Mr. Knuckles!

I had to fight Dodo continuously for three hours before I could deeply injure him and acquire Mr. Knuckles. The fight eventually resulted in Dodo’s death, being squished by a tire.

Hell, I didn’t care. Mr. Knuckles was the most beautiful stone I had ever set my eyes on. Amber and smooth in texture, I could look into Mr. Knuckles for hours at a stretch and forget about anything else, except for the mystical adventures Mr. Knuckles promised.

I screeched as Mr. Knuckles fell off the branch, and shattered onto the pebbled road below. My screech was cut short just as a pebble lodged into my mouth, and I had to sputter for at least a minute to spit it out.

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The Hollow

The Hollow comes crawling up to you in the dead of the night,

A night when you are tucked in safe, when you sleep amidst the memories of mommy singing you a lullaby.

A night, when you thank God for the warm duvet you have to snuggle.

A night when comfort is the soft yellow light, shining outside.

A night when the sturdy lock on your main door, lulls you into thinking you are safe.

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The Hollow lies in wait,

Sometimes in your closet,

Sometimes on the branch of a tree outside your window,

Sometimes in dark corners of the passage,

Sometimes peeking through the keyhole of your main door.

The Hollow lies in wait,

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You are home

You walk further and you breathe heavily—like you saw a ghost in a man. This breeze on your face is cold, but comforting, like the layers of your jacket insulating your jittery spine. This breeze is your only companion, it always has been and it always will be.

You are mad, but you’re not stressing, no, not today. Your head is on your shoulders, your chin is up, your eyes see the way things are, your mind is in your own hands and your hands … your hands are in your pocket, holding a peace-rock; it’s cold too. That’s how it’s meant to be; you clasp it, rub it, rock it. Sometimes, you also throw it high up in the air and catch it—for hours.post

You’re forgotten, by her, by him, by them, by everyone, but that’s okay, you are at peace. You smile at all kinds of animals, but a mere human eye contact is agonizing.  So you look away when they are around or when they approach you. Continue reading

Dystopian indulgence…

“When was the last time you indulged?” my therapist asked. The rim of her glasses sat at the bridge of her nose, and her piercing blue eyes penetrated mine as if she already knew the answer to her questions. Daring me to defy her, daring me to lie.

I swallowed, hard. Well, it had been long, long enough, since I indulged. Definitely, longer than the government prescribed abstinence period.

“Answer my question, Anya.” Her voice threatened to drown me in her fury. But somehow, what comforted me was the fact that I wont have to face the brunt of that fire vividly raging inside my therapist. I decided to be truthful. Continue reading

I have had these suicidal thoughts …

“Jesus Christ! I could die”, I thought in that moment, standing on that busy road divider.

“I could get my head split open under a speedy truck and die—and that would be it. That would be the end of all that I ever was or could ever be.”

I have had these thoughts before. You know, the blade on wrist kind of thoughts, the rat poison in pastry, or the classic hang by the fan, or the gun in mouth, kind of thoughts. But I never really attempted any of those. Did not even get close to one. They were just thoughts.

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Living alone for so many years, I had come to terms with the fact that if I died, no one would know that I am dead for days. Until of course, I swelled up and started to smell, or till someone noticed the scattered piles of uncollected newspapers and flyers on my front door or till scavengers left a trail on the front yard telling a probable story of their own of, “what might have happened”. Continue reading