Acrylic on Canvas.

Forsaken
[for a boy, a man, a society, a god.]

To Erase a Third

“it was evening and
it was morning;
a Third day,”
Genesis speaks,
in might.
for the earth and the waters
the trees and their fruits
a blessing

The Weight on my Chest

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

—

“Excuse me? Can you.. help me? Is there a church near here? I am.. I am looking for a women’s shelter. I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m not a crazy woman. My name is Julienne. I’m not crazy… I just crawled out of a window this morning.. And I don’t know.. I’m not crazy.. I am just pregnant. I need to get to 30th street but I don’t have money for the taxi or the train.”
“Uhmm the church is..-”
“No no, I don’t want the church. I need money to get somewhere. I’m trying to run away from him.. I’m not crazy. Really really… I’m not.”
“There’s a church on your right side if you go out this road..”
“Is it open now?”
“I’m pretty sure…”
“Okay… thank you.. thank you..”
“.. good luck..”

Sleepless Nights.

The window is half-open. It’s one o’clock. Don’t these kids sleep? No, not here. This is the place where noons become midnights and evenings become mornings. Everyone wears timeless watches and clocks tick in beats of solid whispers, fading away into nothingness the second- sorry, the antisecond- they are made.

The figure in the window is huddled over the desk. The loose, dark hooded sweatshirt and shorts are unisexual. The figure is a student and that is all the definition It needs. SheHe doesn’t need an identity beyond the name of the university stamped on HisHer identity card. These buildings define. Imagine the people, they tell you, who walked through these same hallways. Can you imagine?
Oh God!
I trip again on the protruding edge of an old pavement stone. This is what I get for taking random walks in the middle of the night, staring at random windows and pretending to understand what someone else thinks.. I forget where I am going. hah! Double entendre.
Philosophy.

The Butterfly In My Throat.

 

I was six years old and Papa’s Bullet was the coolest thing in the world. The Bullet was red and its engine roared when I sat on it. My dad’s village, which was always one of my favorite places to visit, was known for its hills and rubber trees. The ride up the hill was not particularly fun but as any native would know, every up has an associated down. And unlike in life, here, the ride down would always be the most fun! The bike would change its sound from a roar to a loud hum and the wind would push my face into my dad. I could feel the edge of his helmet on my head.

“Journey To Life”

Note: This post contains an excessive amount of “pictures” and might make absolutely NO sense on mobile phones and the likes.=P

Considering I’m suffering a serious ailment of writer’s block, lack of inspiring thoughts, etc etc, I thought I’d post something from a little girl. Well, this particular little girl is in 5th grade. She likes painting, playing badminton, planting flowers and riding horses, okay? Any problems with that? Thought so.=] Her plans for the future are to study hard. Don’t laugh! Yes, she’s a dork! But kind of proud of it too.. I mean look at those badges shine.
haha I was cleaning my room today and this is what I found. A big shoutout to all my 5th grade classmates. Our little books were meant to prepare us for the big scary middle school we were going into.. I guess, we all kind of survived.. kind of.

To think those were the days I actually used to get prizes in art! Really?

When the Heavens Distract..

..aren’t we, mere mortals, fully helpless?

How do I study when the World outside is performing Her masterpiece? The wind is singing her beautiful song, an old melody that I’ve learnt by heart; much more brilliant than Rahman and Dvořák (yes, they surely belong in the same sentence). The trees and the grasses perform a dance of their own. Opening the window next to this table I sit at is like encountering a whole another world.
Another World.
One in which there is a porch with three white chairs, made of a kind of straw.

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He must have read my mind.

We Are Many
Pablo Neruda

Of the many men who I am, who we are,
I can't find a single one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they've left for another city.
 

For Those Sisters…

Three. It’s not that there are only three. Or that these are the three most important. But I just feel like ending at three today.

Three sisters. Not by blood but by childhood memories. Sisters, not to go on in a female chauvinistic manner, but because I feel like it today. I’ll add one about  the boys later.

And childhood refers to before the age of ten. Not for any particular reason, just.. for practical purposes. =]

Yes, that is me. And these were three friends; two- true partners in crime and the third- a bit of my blood. =]

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The Elaborations.

pretty long rant.. ready?

Every word has a meaning. Seems simple enough. Words are words and well, they have meanings.. otherwise, what would be the point of them? But the thing is, we rarely remember this simple fact. That they DO have meaning.  In the air, we hear silent assassins travel. Lethal- sharpened, shining and ready to kill.

My Fair Stealer

It began with that circle of teachers outside the mess hall. As a Malayalee in an Ooty school, I had the bad luck privilege to eavesdrop on the school’s hot gossip mangled in my mother tongue due to the excessive amounts of Keralite teachers and staff.

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a Drink per Memory.

Once upon a time, a little girl would take long walks with her Appachen in this little town called Tiruvalla, where people spoke this crazed-out language called Malayalam and heat was actually hot. And on the way (to nowhere in particular), they’d stop at this little tiny store that sold random yet necessary things (sambranis, bar soaps, chewing gum & neelam). And this little girl would sit on top of the counter and drink a fizzy carbonated drink called Thums Up while her Appachen and the storekeeper discussed the INC (kaipathi!), CPI (‘M’ may or may not be added) and white-white kerala politics (Munshi and Asianet News at 7!).

And then, somewhere in between, the little girl grew out of that adjective and forgot the ease in language, the strength of the heat, the name of that shopkeeper and of course, the taste of Thums Up.

Then, somewhere further down, asian supermarkets came into the picture and at least one of the aforementioned was turned right. True loves reunited ♥

In the reflection of that dirty glass bottle remains everything that truly matters.

——————————-

“What we remember from childhood we remember forever – permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.”

-Cynthia Ozickey

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Words on Mute

I have always believed in the power of words. Literature, words, fragments, sentences. No matter what language they’re in, they hold power. With the stroke of a pen,I had argued, the writer takes the reader from a mortal, simplistic world to an elaborate wonderland. Words-a magician’s wand, a king’s bright scepter.

But today, I disagree. Not words but thoughts. Because I can only write words, I lack the ability to speak. Thoughts hold that silent power. I want to yell this out, scream at those deaf ears but my words stop in my throat. Silenced, as though by the bristle of a gun. I am the gun and I am the victim. I am my own worst enemy. I lack the power of words.