half drawn faces...

I gritted my teeth, and shielded myself against the cold, my fingers too numb to work anymore. Tears poured from my eyes as perhaps blood would from an open wound…yet blood flows for a reason. I shut my eyes tight, drew my legs against my chest, my chin resting on my knees and I rocked myself… softly to and fro, almost dreading the moment when long forgotten, dreaded memories would return to haunt me again. It was time they would arrive… the painting is finished… ready to be framed…and I kept softly rocking to and fro… that’s what ma did when I was young…

The wind shall whisper for you my child… and soothe you when distressed…your tears will cool their warmth when the breeze blows softly against your cheek…

Softly rocking to and fro…to and fro… I did not want to plunge into the depths of despair again… I did not want to feel its icy-cold grip on my neck… rocking to and fro still…
Ma… she’d hold me warm against her and pat so softly on my back…

The wind shall whisper for you my child…she whispered.

And then the silence was shattered by another voice…

Worthless creature he hissed…my child…he spat…to be a painter?! Never…never…

And I rocked on…my pale red shawl now turned crimson…a steady drip drip changed its hue…

Let her be what she wants to... she pleaded for me.

I wanted to paint…perhaps to escape the reality of this drab existence…to paint my canvas the way I could never colour life… I would paint skies of azure… golden eyes… winding lanes going nowhere… a lady’s face half sketched…

Never! She’d be a doctor… she’d be my dream… I have so many dreams yet to fulfill…he had shouted.

My faces are still obscure… despondent eyes…half drawn… masked faces… lurid lips…

Throw that cursed easel into the fire… and he destroyed my brushes that day.

Softly rocking to and fro…

The room seemed to have shrunk around me…stifling me… the single window still wide open…there I keep my colours, beside the window… my easel and a painting yet not dry.


I remained sitting there for a long time…and then I heard my labored breathing ease… and a sliver of light crossed the room… I stopped rocking then… and reached out towards my painting… a part of my soul encased in its layered colours… black…grey…blue…

Morning brought with it a fresh wave of sanity… panic and despair seemed to have disappeared with the stars that have always been deceptive to me… stars that misled… I wrapped the painting in crisp new paper and ready it stood to be framed.

I was free now… at least until I finished another piece… I knew that this depression would return in an even more appalling form next time… it happened every time I finished a painting…as soon as I rested my brush… as soon as there remained no more strokes I could confer upon my canvas…

Reminiscences, a little nostalgia and some incoherent babbling.

Last week was Saraswati Puja. There was this unmistakable heady scent of ‘kuls’ in the air, and everything wore a paint of yellow- bringing back memories of all those days spent here, all those Saraswati Pujas we always looked forward to…the paper chains to be made, the goddess to be adorned… the ‘alpana’ to be made without any delay…

I have grown up in this four-storied building with about five or six people roughly the same age as mine. Every evening, we would descend to the basement and play. Be it basketball, badminton or even carom- play we must. The walls would echo our laughter, and there was so much of sunshine in our lives! Every occasion was looked forward to, and every little thing made us happy… we gave roses on ‘Rose Day’, painstakingly made friendships bands for each other along with hand painted cards… little tokens of appreciation and love. Picnic would be one of those halcyon days… we would be up before the sun itself, filled with energy as we pushed our heads up sweaters too tight for us and wore sneakers caked with dirt. Who cared? All we wanted was fun.
There came a bus and we poured in, trying to get a seat near the hallowed ones:
All ‘DADAS’ and ‘DIDIS’.

The little attention they bestowed on us would send us into spasms of delight. And why not? After all, we were six school-goers, hardly qualifying as teenagers while they were all college-goers then. They were the ‘cool’ people. Besides we wanted to spy on them, and find out who was dating whom. Theirs was a larger group- about six boys and seven girls in all.

Impromptu feasts would keep taking place throughout the year without rhyme or reason, and enjoyed immensely! We were infamous for having weird games up our sleeve for every occasion. Be it a game called ‘lalure’ (something we made up ourselves, and I would rather not burden you with its details), or dumb-charades (where we ended up talking, coughing, spluttering and what not)

Today almost nothing remains. All the didis are married, and have left the city… all dadas too busy with their office work to even care about petty things like feasts… and even our group has scattered. Some gone to different engineering colleges, some busy preparing for their board exams. And others who do not care. Every year at least during the Durga Puja we try to interact… but something is still missing. These people have been able to break the bonds holding them back. I have not. There is no sense of security in the fact that I belong here. No one else does.

No longer can you see us midgets jumping up and down trying to retrieve the ball that got stuck in someone’s kitchen pipe. Or dipping our hands into a plateful of ‘biriyani’ during the feasts, to get the biggest piece of mutton… or perhaps the running wildly…freely… and hiding in the dirtiest corner ever, only to hear someone call “I spy!”

I miss those days. I miss my friends. I miss laughing my head off at stupid jokes. I miss those evenings when we were made to clean up the basement walls (as we had scribbled on them- a prank)… hauling buckets of water and splashing them on the walls...
I miss the warmth that this building lent me once; it was a cocoon, a shelter for us all…
How I wish I could go back five years and relive those days again!

I am an emotional dork.

She Sang for the Last Time

“How few, of all the hearts that loved,
Are grieving for thee now!
And why should mine, tonight, be moved
With such a sense of woe?”
~ Emily Bronte




Her pale, diminutive figure drew compassionate glances that entire evening. I have never seen her wearing black… yet, here she was- dressed in her mourning attire, receiving bouquets of white roses and condolences.

“Does it not break your heart to see such a young girl…widowed so soon!” someone whispered to me, and left before I could answer.
What could I have answered?
That perhaps grief has lent an unearthly beauty to her eyes…
That there was a touch of moonlight on her pale skin this night…
That I perceived memories flowing in her veins…

She moved towards the piano and threw open the window facing the instrument. Everyone stopped to look at her as she sat down at the piano and ran her fingers lightly over the worn out keys… humming to herself a soft tune for some time. And then her clear voice rang out as she sang.

She sang for the last time that night. Somewhere her voice got lost amidst tears…she broke off and fell into a reverie, only to begin again. Sometimes she sang clearly, her soulful voice haunting us all- there was an unmistakable tinge of melancholy that pervaded all those verses she chose to sing. Her tears traced their ways down her cheek like serpentine rivers…salty streams…

She refused to close the window facing her. The harsh, bitter wind whipped her face and she simply said: ‘It keeps the wound fresh…’
For the first time in weeks she let her hair loose, they hung like twined brown tendrils, softly caressing her neck, her cheek…those gentle tears too…

Next morning we found her dead. Her delicate figure leaning against the piano… the window still wide open. No wind blew this morning. And here she sat, blue with cold…her tear-stained face lifted towards the skies.
I pried open her clenched fist, those numb fingers opened to reveal crushed rose petals lying in her stained palm… and a smile seemed to hover on those blue lips.

How unbelievable it seems when we say that she died for love, that she died of a broken heart…perhaps she will rest in peace. Perhaps not. Perhaps on such cold December nights she will come back to this room and sing for us…loud and clear, emotions clouding her voice at times, the wind chilling this very room… singing of something so commonplace…singing of love that rises like a phoenix from the flames…

idle ramblings...

Hmmm… I seem to be posting more personal stuff here than writing the stories I was initially supposed to. But, this is probably because blogging is actually an efficient outlet- I feel much better after having typed frantically on my keyboard for at least an hour. This also explains why I stopped maintaining a diary- something I have been doing for the past five years. Daily.

Well then let’s get on with business. I was wondering what kind of a year 2007 will turn out to be. 2006 had been…let’s just say… ‘happening’. Why?
Because so many things happened.
I passed my board exams, escaped the clutches of law… i.e. I was supposed to get into law, specifically NUJS- probably would have been there too by now, slogging my way through the mush, had I not firmly put my foot down and opted to stay on in J.U.
This kind of broke my dad’s heart, and I hated myself for it for a few days. But J.U.D.E. is where I am meant to be, I guess he too understands and appreciates it now.

My best friend passed her boards too, with great marks, befriended a guy she really liked, he proposed to her in December… and she refused. Don’t ask me why! I think she’ll melt soon and give in.

As for me, I made wonderful friends in J.U. They are more close to me than most of my school friends… and I feel blessed and lucky to be in a group of such like minded people- people who appreciated me for what I am. Life did rock in 2006!

But 2007 began rather strangely- Valentine’s Day is just one month away and everyone I know is ‘breaking up’. Kind of sad really. And people who are not breaking up are getting over their crushes. Humph. It is gonna be a lackluster Valentine’s Day this time.
I certainly hope things change for the better soon.

Oh! I forgot to mention something. I have got ‘blogging buddies’ now. Ha-ha! Go figure it out…except suki and lost poet of course. Suki was right- no one else seems to read our blogs, sometimes it feels as if our blogs are actually group discussions restricted to ourselves! Not that I’m complaining but why don’t others read them too?

Right now, I AM forcing some of my school friends to read my blog or else… I might just resort to tortures like the rack…*evil smiles galore*

If people have friends like me, who needs enemies?

RED RIBBON

It rained heavily that night. It was a torrential downpour, something so unusual in these parts. Perhaps it rained for a reason. Perhaps it rained for me. I walked through that narrow lane after fifteen years… will I still be able to recognize that house? Will she still stand over the balcony, looking forward to my visit?

Countless seasons have brushed by me…by us… it did change me… but her? Does she still smell like those lemon blossoms she hid in her sari? Does her wet hair still caress her face, hanging like limp tendrils?

I walked on for some time, reflecting on my past while the raindrops shot towards the street like bullets… my salty tears indiscernible from the drops that splashed my face. The empty street heightened my isolation, and somewhere I melted into nature herself. I was the rain…I was the storm…
The raindrops kept on pelting me- numbing me to their soft sharp blows…my muddy shoes whined perceptibly, the umbrella hung limply from my arm.
I wished it would rain harder- hard enough to drown me…keeping me cold and wet till sleep or death, the latter more preferred, overcame me.

I saw the end of her sari trailing behind her, following her languorous footsteps the way memories do… I heard her soft voice spell out dreams and felt her breath on my cheek… or was I imagining it?

Will she look forward to my return?

I saw her flushed face near a window, half opened to cool the air inside… or was I dreaming again?

A house loomed large in front of me like a giant rising from the abyss… I remembered the verandah…there it was… decrepit though. The windows were closed, the door securely locked. She locked me out even now. The house looked vacant- perhaps it had been so for a long time. Not another soul shared the silence amidst which I stood so lost.
The rain blurred my vision for a while.

I do not recall when I had reached my hotel. Or how. All I remember is a comfortable bed, solid oak chairs and a bulb that glowed dimly at all hours beside the mirror. I recall seeing a frail, pallid creature in the mirror…a vacant, listless look in his eyes… and I remember my nightmares. Or was it reality?

A twenty something Sheta… an affection that lasted a few months, something that happened fifteen years ago. I needed someone to share my story with. Almost feverish with passion and overcome with torrid emotions I began writing.

I met Sheta almost fifteen years ago. A fine young girl, with doe-like eyes… I called her my ‘dusky princess’… many a times have I visited that house that looked so forbidding and forlorn now. She lived with her grandparents there. Did we fall in love? She did. Did I? The question still reverberates in silence…even after so many years…
She was my muse awhile. I might have painted her portrait a thousand times, trying to capture every emotion that flitted by. I might have dedicated to her a hundred poems, and she wound them all up with a red ribbon. I might have gifted her many wild roses…so safely she pressed them in her diary… and I have kissed those red soft lips and run my fingers through her hair…

I returned to Calcutta after spending about six months in those hills. Without telling her. I was too afraid of facing her wrath… I never saw those silent tears fall, or her lips open to half utter a word…

I had quite forgotten her in all these years, but something changed it all. Last month I received a small envelope, enclosed within were some yellowed pages… and a red ribbon binding them all…
Within days I rushed back to this place, haunted by memories… haunted by guilt. And I walked through that lane again… the only difference being her absence.




‘I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,
I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
And I shall traverse old love’s domain
Never again.’

- ‘At Castle Boterel’
Thomas Hardy

half past one

Half past one.

The train raced on. Sandhya sat near her window and looked outside…the steady hum of the railway tracks, the distant glimmer of the countless stars and the hyenas’ call- everything seemed to merge into one mesmeric force, lulling her into a pleasant state of numbness, yet keeping her awake.

Rishi had fallen asleep. A pillow rested comfortably tucked under his head while his hands were wrapped protectively around a small leather case. Even in sleep, his features were contorted into an expression of extreme distrust.

Sandhya pulled her shawl closer to her face, half hiding it. She could make out the shadowy silhouettes of countless mud huts that had mushroomed over the years around those tracks, or the wheat fields that seemed to encompass the entire landscape. Everything had assumed an eerie and unearthly glow at this hour of the night. It seemed as if there was nothing that could convince her of human habitation in these distant parts of the country. Yet this thought seemed to afford her much peace… more than the thought of Delhi ever did. The night air had begun to work its charm, drowsiness lay heavily on her eyes- and she fell asleep.

“Shut the goddamned window, you!”

The shriek broke Sandhya’s reverie. Before she could comprehend anything, someone stepped on her toes, elbowed her out of the way and slammed the window shut. The lights in the compartment dimmed, flickered for a while and went out. The train screeched to a halt almost instantly. Rishi had woken up by now and hurriedly sat beside Sandhya, tucking his leather case between them.

The entire compartment broke out in excited whispers which continued till one of the passengers yelled, “Listen!”

Everyone fell silent at once. Sandhya strained her ears. For a while she heard nothing. Yes… there it was. Something must have happened out there. She could hear a shrill cry- more inhuman than anything she had ever heard. And then rose a mixture of frenzied voices…was that a gunshot?

Perhaps because it was pitch dark, and no one had to submit to public scrutiny, everyone felt courageous enough to air their views.

“Danga”, someone said. “It’s Bihar guys, hota hi rehta hai…”

“Nonsense. At this unearthly hour? An animal must have been hit by the train. It can be an elephant.” A gentleman proclaimed with much conviction.

“Yeah right- an elephant. And they are gunning it down to make sure it’s dead.” Sandhya heard herself remark quite audibly, perhaps much louder than she had intended to.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Had there been enough light, Sandhya could have seen Rishi staring at her- or at least trying to-with considerable reproach and consternation. He clutched his case even more tightly. The passengers got over their discomfort and started talking again; however in much more hushed tones this time.

Almost as if people were gunning THEM down, Sandhya thought contemptuously.

“Nobody asked for your clever quips, you know”, Rishi sneered.

Sandhya did not answer him. She knew she would not be able to conceal the note of derision in her voice if she did, not even if her answer had been a clipped ‘sorry’. Instead she turned towards her window and pried it open a little.

To her surprise she saw hordes of people walking by, silently and stealthily- some carrying flashlights and others carried blazing torches. They were forming a human chain around the train, preventing the escape of passengers quite effectively. Almost without any warning, the train started moving very slowly. This sudden development had thrown everyone- both inside and outside- into frenzy. Amidst the panic and mayhem, the lights came back to life. Everyone had crouched back into their seats, looking pale and almost terrorized.

Suddenly they heard someone thump loudly on their door.

“Let me in! Please let me in… they will kill me!” A man wailed outside their compartment. “Please… let me in! Open the door! Save me…”

They could hear his strenuous breaths as he pleaded on. “Can you not hear me?! Have mercy… please save me… open this door.”

No one moved a muscle inside the carriage, yet all eyes were fixed on the shaking door. Sandhya’s blood had turned cold on hearing his voice- a voice which shook with the prospect of imminent death, a voice which stirred sympathy in even the hardest of all hearts- yet nobody dared to move forward to help him.

“Please…” He cried again, weeping copiously perhaps. Everyone could hear the mob closing down on him. Their wild cries and feverish laughter filled the entire compartment. Sandhya heard their taunting cries, “No one will save you! No one shall pity a worthless creature like you…” They hissed at him and laughed at his helpless state.

Sandhya could not sit still any longer. She lunged forward towards the door which barred the victim’s entry- when her husband caught her arm and forced her down.

“Sit!” he hissed.

“Help him Rishi! The brutes outside will kill him!” Even through her tortured despair she knew those cold grey eyes looking at her would never melt. The door continued shaking for sometime, as did his wails. They could hear the mob ascend on him, with their torches and chains. A last ringing scream broke the deathly calm. It hung like a shroud over them blocking out emotions and leaving everyone numb. Not even a look of shock surfaced on their immobile faces. The train picked up speed and moved on.

Sandhya crept into a dark corner and wept. She was the only one in the entire compartment who could vent her grief.

If only I could save him… if only Rishi had not stopped me…if only…

It has been over three years now. Rishi and the other passengers who had spent that fateful night in her compartment had successfully obliterated their memories.

Yet Sandhya continues to experience that night over and over again. She still hears his plaintive cries in her sleep. His wails still echo in her mind ‘Save me…’ conjuring up ghastly images and resulting in grim nightmares… of shadowy figures and blazing torches… of smoke and moans that thickened the atmosphere with gloom…of blood and despair… of imminent death…of elusive hope…of inhumanity…and at times she dreamt of a leather case…she saw herself flinging it out of the window, and letting the man in… she saw the bloodshot eyes of insane men challenging her endeavour… she dreamt of his soul too, which perhaps rose up like mist from his frightened chest… a soul not afraid of chains and sticks…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

here goes nothing...

Perhaps I should have written this down in the first entry itself…but then, my exams were on and I seemed to be in a perpetual hurry to finish ‘this’ or revise ‘that’ and hence I got nowhere. Blog-wise or exam-wise.
Shailpik’s ‘beginning’ had been rather instrumental in my realizing that a concrete introduction to a blog is always welcome and is helpful too. So, here goes nothing!

One of my favourite poems, written by Percy Bysshe Shelley, is called ‘The Serpent is Shut Out From Paradise’- and hence I named this blog ‘shut out from paradise’… the ‘serpent’ part has been excluded for obvious reasons! The following lines confirmed my choice quite easily:

“I asked her yesterday if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had
Would ne’er have thus relieved
His heart with words…”

My entries can seldom be expected to be regular; it does take a long time to write stories. The ideas come often enough…but I’m rather slow when it comes to typing. I am never satisfied with the outcome, and almost rip the entire story apart trying to edit it. Reasons enough, I guess, to convince my readers that I need time to put up new entries. And all of the above has just been a rather lousy cover-up… I’m plain LAZY.

Well, contrary to my own expectations this entry has been rather short. I’m not in a mood to get profound, and thus I’ll take my leave- promising to put up a prose piece as soon as possible.