A Pool of Thought

Saintezera

noreply@blogger.com (Akash) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 05:25:00 +0000

They call me the “saint”, not because I'm an altruist, not because I look like one, but simply because they couldn’t pronounce my real name, Saintezera. I’ve always predicted minute bits of my future in the past, and now I’ve made one last prediction. I’m going to die. I know this not because I’m psychic or anything, but simply because they put a bullet in my torso. Those men have more bullets and now more than ever they want to use them. I don’t really blame them, Ranjith and his men. If I were them I’d kill me too. Death is alright, its something that I’ve come to terms with, and its not like any of us have a choice. But to me there is something much worse than death, and its being tied down, being forced to do something.

‘ Your the cutest thing in the world ‘, the last thing my mother told me. I was seven, seated on her lap at the railway station, bored and restless. In a few years I would love diamonds, but until then Chocolate ice cream would be the addiction . A mobile vendor selling ice cream pushed his cart and chanted his eternal sales cry. As always mother said ‘no’, for once I wish she hadn’t. I jumped off her lap and dove into the crowds in pursuit of the vendor. My mother who was pregnant couldn’t keep up. Suddenly a pair of strong hands picked me up, I turned around to find a dirty teenager built like a tank. The fifteen year old version of Ranjith. I was slapped unconscious.

An hour later I woke up in a shady little room. There were four other men and six children. ‘ You know I deserve more for the work, your driver makes more money Amir !” said Ranjith. He spoke to the man in the middle of the room, who looked nothing like the others around him. He was clean, well dressed and wore more jewelry than a newlywed bride.“ One more word and you will bathe in your own blood” he threatened. His eyes searched the room and stopped when they met mine. “ I want that one in my room in half an hour, dress her up like a bride, it’s been a while since we’ve played marriage”. His men burst into a fit of artificial laughter. Smiling he walked out of the room.

Ranjith took me upstairs. He swore under his breath profusely and started picking my little clothes off. A fit of rage ran through my little head, I slashed him in the face. My little nails that were painted green now had drops of red. My actions had left a small scar below his eye. I expected a beating , but instead he smiled “ you don’t like being touched , do you ? “, I said nothing.
“ That man down there will touch you in some very dirty places, he’s not nice. Do you want to go back home ? .

Twenty minutes later I stood outside the lions den, holding milk and fruit in a tray, dressed in a shiny pink silk saree. A round man stood at the door.“So you’ve played marriage before with your friends at school ? “ I nodded. “Well this is going to be a modification of that game. Its more fun than the actual game, more action. Now the boss is a very good player, so he expects all other players to be just like him. He now knelt down and came closer to my face. “If you play well, you can go home tomorrow morning. Now listen carefully ,when you go inside you will look at the boss for a second ,smile and then turn away. Walk towards the bed and give him the milk. Start smiling , but don’t look at him. When he puts the glass down, tell him he looks very handsome. Next he will welcome you to his bed, and you must go and sit next to him, with a very big smile of course. Do all this very slowly, this will prepare the boss mentally. He will guide you through the rest of the game. You understand ?.

I walked into the room. Amir sat back on the bed. As per instruction I smiled and turned away. This in turn widened his smile, he blushed like a child. He picked up the glass and a few grapes. My smile got widened. He put his glass down and I delivered my line, this in turn made him blush even more. He moved over and made space for me. I climbed onto the bed and sat right next to him. He moved close to my face to kiss me, his eyes closed. He fell back suddenly and gasped. The white sheets were stained with blood. There was a green fountain pen sticking out of his neck. Pencils bored me, for months I’ve wanted to use daddy’s fountain pen. But I never for a second imagined it would be used like this.

Ranjith was right, stab him when he closes his eyes, and his body would roll off the bed bleeding. There was no regret, no hesitation. There was a small yell outside,the door opened. Ranjith entered. “ Your special little one, very special indeed. “. He held his hand out , like my father always did. And I held his hand. “Now what's your name ? “ . “ Saintezera” I replied. “ Saint”, that's what we’ll call you. Your safe now”. For a moment there I believed him, but it turned out to be otherwise. In three hours, I had three different owners.

1042. The number of my room in the Hallmark Hotel, It was ironic that today will also be my One thousand four hundred and forty second time. I’ve been in the business for seven years now, and Ranjith had turned out to be anything but a father. He put me to work in Tea shops, sweatshops, factories . A few months later a client wanted to use me, initially Ranjith refused, but then the client threw a number so high that no one in the room spoke. There were a few nods and I was packed off. I was returned after a week , emotionally destroyed, a hollow being. That one week repeated itself everyday for the next seven years, but I didn’t care, because there was something worse than forced prostitution. It was the fact that I couldn’t cry, even when I wanted to. It was like eternal emotional constipation. Matter what, I could never cry. I could never react. I would just look at them and obey. After a point they stopped caging me like the others.

Ranjith now realized that I was in a prison , more mental than physical, he knew that I would never feel the need to escape. The door of room number 1042 opened. A clean young man sat on the bed watching TV. My handler walked in with me. “ Twenty thousand for the night”. Instantly a cut of currency came out of the young man’s pocket. The handler took it and left. Meanwhile I stood there playing a little game in my head. I could deduct the personality of the client based on his first move. If he was nice to me, it meant that it was his first time with a prostitute. If he asked me to join him in bed right away, it meant that he was used to the company of my colleagues occasionally. If it was all action, it meant that he had been living off prostitutes. This one was different, he asked me to jump out the window.

We were on the first floor, and a pick up truck waited outside the window. Startled I looked back at him, “ Are you serious ? I work with some very nasty people, you should just leave”. “ Let’s go now, its alright, I’m a journalist and I’m here to save you, you can testify on live tv and in court, . “ Now move it lets go ! “. I stood there frozen “. He dragged me to the window, and threw me over. I landed on tight cushioned surface, the journalist jumped in right next to me. The driver started the car and headed for the gate. “ It’s safe now, I’m Ram” he said with a gentle smile.

But then every time I hear those words ‘I’m safe’, things go wary. The tires screeched and the truck halted to a stop. My handler stood in front of the car, gun in hand. “ Get out of the car and walk away”. The Driver hit the gas and sped on, a few shots were fired. The handler jumped out of the way and sent three more shots at us from behind. One of them caught Ram in the back. The smile was gone, it was replaced by a cold look. The exact same look that Amir had years ago. I sat there and watched him die a few minutes later. After an hour or so, the car slowed down, we were out of the city. The driver parked clumsily on the road side. He never got out of the car, I laid back and fell asleep.

I heard children running about, screaming and playing when I woke up in the morning. We had stopped outside a school in the outskirts. We were parked across the street, hence no one came over to investigate. The corpse next to me had started to smell a bit. I jumped off the back and walked over to the drivers seat. He lay there dead, his shirt stained with a sea of blood. A bullet had caught him in the chest. He wore an ID card. “CNCC TV“ it read. There were children walking into the entrance, most of them were about my age. Like a zombie I walked in mindlessly. My mind was hazy, and I flowed the crowd. We reached a large building and walked up the stairs. In a few minutes I found myself sitting in a classroom. No one wore uniforms and hence I gelled in seamlessly. I found and occupied an empty seat beside another girl.

‘ Are you new ‘ she asked me in her sweet sing song voice. I replied with a nod. ‘I’m Jyothi, I’m new here too, I’m from....’ She wouldn’t shut up, but I slowly began to like it. As strange as it sounds, I felt human again. A person was talking to me, telling me things, and this time it wasn’t to enquire my hourly rate or to make me move faster. It was because she cared, she genuinely cared. I stared at her for an entire hour and listened to everything she had to say. She spoke about her parents, about her dog, her favorite music artist, her old school, her new boyfriend, who told her he loved her. ‘ That's nonsense ‘ I spat. ‘ What ? ‘. “ I said , its nonsense, he wants your body . Once you give it to him, he will love someone else’. She stared back puzzled, ‘ are you sure ? Have you had a boy friend before ? ‘. “ Yes sort of, but all men want one thing, and they’d say or do anything to get it. Stay away from him, ok ? Promise me you’ll stay away from him! ‘Yeah.... I will, she still looked puzzled. “”Saintezera” that's my name, you can all me “Saint”, now go on keep blabbering, I think I like it.”

A teacher popped into the class, and everyone fell automatically. She called out names and people answered “ present “. Classes went on all morning and I listened carefully. Most of the learning didn’t make sense to me, I understood minutes portions. I did understand one a lesson in class, it was biology. The teacher was young, in her early twenties. She spoke about Sex Education and STD’s. By the end of the class she revealed to me that she was a virgin. For the first time in years I smiled. I followed Jyothi to the canteen and she bought me lunch. Again, no one had ever bought me anything, with the exception of condoms, though they weren’t for my use.

Jyothi started talking again and I listened. She now talked about things like the weather, the boys and girls in class, her new house,.... After a while she went over to get desert, it was chocolate ice cream. I pulled of the cover and stared at it. It melted and dripped of milk and water. “ Don’t take it in the wrong sense, but your strange Saint, very strange”. “ It happens when you have a thousand boy friends, trust me you don’t want to go there “.” Oh , ok”. I tasted the ice cream. A strange sensation ran through my body, I started devouring it, eating like an animal. And there it came, my happiest moment. I cried.

Jyothi was lost again. I assured her that I was fine. After an awkward hug I sent her off to class, promising her that I would be there in ten minutes. There was a piece of empty land behind the school. I sat there and did what I’d always wanted to do. I cried. For an hour, and for five more hours. It was the happiest day of my life, a single lone lotus in the gutter.

It was almost dark when I got back to Ranjith’s place that evening. I walked in through the front door past the guards, as if I owned them. The house was quiet, dark and dirty as always. No one noticed my presence. “ Trouble Free” as Ranjith branded me, all that will change in a few minutes I thought. I walked into his bedroom and pulled his pistol out of the drawer. Ranjith was a James Bond fan, so he always used silencers on his pistols. I also found a few magazines. In the corner of the drawer was a small green object, I picked it up. It was my old fountain pen, the one that I had used ages ago. I pocketed it, concealed the gun in a small bag and walked out of the room.

They kept the children in the basement. New ones were gagged, the old ones were just tied up. It was dark, a small bulb was the only source of light. Behind a desk sat my old handler. I walked in and smiled at him as he sat reading the paper. He froze in shock. I pulled out the gun and put it to use. He fell off the chair dead. I moved into the room after taking the keys from his corpse. Some of the children began to cry, while others started whispering in excitement. ‘I’m here to set your free, so shut up ‘, and they did just that. There were almost forty of them. We marched up the stairs unchallenged until we reached the hall. I ordered the children to wait at the staircase. There were four men in the hall, none of them armed, but they didn’t need weapons to take me down. The element of surprise was all that I had, apart from the pistol. Two of them were asleep on beds, one was walking around the hall talking over the phone, the last one was watching tv at the other end of the room.

I walked upto the man watching tv. I pulled the gun out and shot him in the head. The man on the phone was still lost in an animated conversation, unaware of the demise his friend. I walked over to the men in the beds and put them to a more peaceful state of sleep. At last the man with the phone was hit with realization, but it was a bit too late ,I was only a few feet away from him. He fell dead like the others.

We moved out of the house taking out guards every now and then. Finally we reached the street. “ It’s safe now” a little boy whispered. And as always, that phrase set off chaos. A car stopped right in front of the house and Ranjith got out with six other men. “What’s happening here ?” he screamed. I fired a few shots in their direction killing one of them, missing Ranjith by an inch. They jumped behind the car for cover. That gave the children enough time to flee, and I followed suit.

The altruist always gets shot, a bullet caught me in the torso as I turned around the corner. I had now made my last prediction. I ran down the street and turned into the construction site. I hid behind the first wall that I came across. Seconds later Ranjith and his men walked into the site, they were close.

I couldn’t help but smile at death, any moment now. I wanted death more than anything. ‘ Welcome back little one, its time to send you away now, come to me’. He said with arms wide open, as id her were my savior. I embraced him. He bent down to my face, “ You’ve earned your name now my little saint. Goodbye”. The silencer touched my forehead.” Your coming with me”. I plunged the fountain pen into his neck. Three bullets entered my back. I fell back to the ground smiling.

Corrupted Colors

noreply@blogger.com (Akash) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 07:48:00 +0000

You see me on TV and in the movies, you read about me in the papers, you despise me and call my life rotten and dull. But your wrong there, my life is more colorful than yours could ever be, in a way that I hate

Red, the color of my saree, my soft coat of arms that protects my delicate beauty from the shady eyes of the undeserving . But the saree is a formality at the moment , its purpose is more like the wrapper of a candy bar. In moments it will be torn open and I will be ravaged and consumed in more ways than one.

Brown, the color of my eyes, eyes that have seen the same massacre a hundred times. Eyes that were once lustrous and fresh like an ocean , flowing with tears of innocence. But now they are dry and empty, frozen in submission, unchanged by the brutal savageness that they see everyday.

Grey , the color of the skies that are filled with puffed up clouds. Clouds that will cry on my behalf, because I can no longer do so. My tears are a turn off to my customers. Customers who want me to pretend that I am hit with Euphoria, as if I loved serving them and their lust. They believe that my smile can help remove the guilt that hits their conscience when they look at their own daughters.

Green, the color that motivates my uncle, who also happens to be my employer . The same color that motivated him to poison my mother, so that he could become my guardian and many other things.

Pink the color of my mothers cheeks, when they blushed with happiness after I told her that I received a scholarship at the local college. We would spend hours dreaming and talking about all the things we would do after I was employed. They were little dreams made of a small one bedroom apartment and three square meals a day.

Inevitably, I was employed.

Blue, the color of my hard bound appointment book. I was a very busy woman and also the heart of the organization that I worked for. I service clients from all over the world and customer satisfaction is always guaranteed, hence I work with Everyone from the foreign ambassadors that visit to the local mafia heads . I have business meetings everyday in the most expensive suits of the best hotels in the city. My clients love me mainly for my troubleshooting abilities.

Most of them have been in the business for far too long, and have in turn depleted all their man power. Some have gotten bored of life itself and I help them rediscover themselves, some need a quick vacation spanning a few hours and I take them to the heavens. Others want me to even add a dash of drama, they want ferocity and real love. Many just use me as if I were a machine of sorts. At the end of the day I faithfuly deliver, without choice or emotion. I compare myself to a pay phone, drop the coin in and I’m forced to connect you to your deepest desires.

The very people who call me and my colleagues a whore by day, are the people you use me by night. Your wondering why I don’t say no? Why I don’t run away. That’s because my uncle loves me too much and he believes that the world is not a safe place for a pretty little girl like me. If I fail to comply, I’ll be fired.

The Sound Of Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Akash) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:39:00 +0000

Tip tap, tip tap was the sound that came from the tap in the kitchen
sink. Its solemn little voice would usually be drowned by the sound of
the house and its implanted organs, organs that were now asleep, they
could not shine, scream or animate as the juice that powered them
flowed no more, a temporary halt. For a moment it felt as if the
entire house was dead , all of life sucked out, as if it lay in
eternal slumber .

Fear gripped me as I sat in the corner, deprived of all the
artificial light that usually flooded my surroundings. I was waiting,
waiting for a big black monster to jump out at me from the corner ,
but it wouldn’t come . Its funny how the absence of light can actually
make one insecure and twist the mood . We humans take refuge under
well lit spaces, believing that they could somehow guard us from our
darkest fears.

The tip tap of the drops was now amplified like never before, its
clarity was hauntingly astounding. It possessed beauty, and some show
carried the promise of peace. It synchronized itself with the Tick
Tock of the clock in the hall , and this was the beginning of a
metronome. Together their tones clashed against each other, like
brothers forced into war. Every second was so different, yet so
repetitive.

I fell back on my bed and let the sounds explore the canals of my
ears. They entered my head as waves of subtle feeling, meaningless but
peace full. The rhythm was suddenly attacked by a bang that originated
at the ceiling of my room. New neighbors had moved in, a young couple,
they had curious feel to themselves.

The banging continued and it reminded me of a battle. The bangs
continued, and they were slow and powerful, full of meaning,
determined by intent, like battering ram forcing its way in. The
metronome of the tip tap and the tick tock were now submerged in the
background and they felt like war drums, motivating the force behind
this ram. Power and purpose proved a vital combination.

Then slowly the speed increased and the atmosphere changed, now it
was a struggle, it was fast and deadly. The force met a powerful
resistance that was hard to overcome. The bangs quickened in power and
pace, but the enemy equaled all that was thrown against it, it would
not subdue or give in. It resisted for far too long, until it could no
longer battle the inevitable, all energy was drained. It gave in, but
felt victory instead of defeat, and the bangs were now fading away and
a sudden loud giggle tore through the air. And it was over. The
metronome continued and now it dominated the scene. It was beautiful,
richer than the grandest orchestra !

Suddenly, the house sprang back into life and my stereo screamed.
Music was what I called it, but not anymore. It was mindless compared
to what I had just heard. It was artificial, devoid of true feeling.

Real Cinema

noreply@blogger.com (Akash) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 18:43:00 +0000

Fresh pop corn liberally smeared with large amounts of butter, and a huge serving chilled pepsi was all my friend enjoyed at a tamil movie we recently saw together. The protagonist would jump in the air and dodge bullets, sometimes even bounce them off his body and do many things to save the lustrous heroine . He would deliver dialogues of a higher intellect and caliber with a sacred, yet eloquent meaning . He would portray a monumental character of a legend, he would do noble, great and commendable things, he would perform feats that were unimaginable. Sing songs to woe the girls and mock the villains. He would do all of it to entertain you.

And what do you do ? You write him off , call him typical and stupid, and childish in more ways than one. You would call him names that would make his children cry. Why is my question ? And your answer would be, ‘ Macha, its not realistic or practical da, something’s missing “ . Realistic, lets go through that term, what is reality ? Global warming, corruption, your ugly girlfriend, the house loan that you can’t afford to repay, the horrid food at the hostel mess. Now that’s reality. If all of you crave for reality, then why go to the cinemas at all ? Why don’t you just stay at home and drown yourself in your so called reality.

But then you demand real cinema, at least you heard the critics on TV use that term, “Real Cinema” . Your not sure about what it actually means, but you want it so badly, believing that you actually have the maturity to appreciate and enjoy it. There were movies that were made ,great movies, and if I mentioned those names, you would have never heard of them, they would sound like Korean Hip Hop. They were original classics, and no im not talking about those names on Lion Dates Top Ten Movies that you see on SUN TV every Sunday morning. Im talking about movies that are true originals. They are like the patterns created by the clouds in the ever changing sky, natural in origin. They are works of art created as if they were a feeling, a jolt of energy, a wave of passion that projected the most articulate expressions.

These were beautiful movies, real cinema. But the local distributor wouldn’t have it, he wouldn’t run the movies at all! Why? Because they were too complex for the audience, and that they aren’t made well and so no one would watch them . “Not made well ? What are you talking about” the filmmaker would say. And the reply would be simple, as simple as a magnum .45 in your face. The movies is sad, there aren’t any pretty sixteen year olds running around in their underwear , there are no stars in the flick, only actors. But the funny thing is that these actors can actually serve their purpose unlike the stars, they can actually act and do a good job. But no ! You cant watch a movie without a star, it wont sell, who would want a movie without a star ?

So the filmmaker, the guy who sold his house, car, property that his grandfather left him, his son’s bike, and other things in order to make a movie he loved, sells the reel to the worst theatre in town for peanuts ! He makes no profit off it at all, none. He doesn’t even break even, and its all over. They call him a failure, a fool and a delinquent. He kills himself by drowning in an ocean of booze and heroin. Three decades later some moron actually understands the true beauty of the movie and spreads the word, and the movie becomes famous, spectacular they call it ,true work of art, a Classic ! They worship it and bathe in its greatness. The grandson of the filmmaker, the guy who womanizes by day and works in a call center by night, is suddenly rich beyond his dreams, all because of a man who was supposedly his relative ! But whats the point, the real artist died as a heart broken man, who didn't have enough money to watch his own movie in a theater. And after all this ,you say that you want " Real Cinema" !!!!

Beauty and Innocence

noreply@blogger.com (Akash) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 18:38:00 +0000

Beauty. A word that was once pure ,innocent and natural, like a virgin. A word that made you feel an emotion that was as pure as the rain that trickles down your cheeks on the dawn of a beautiful monsoon. Cheeks that are ridden with war paint and other stuff of an adulterous sort. They are artificial, as artificial as our conception of beauty.

My heart goes back to an era, a time when beauty did not exist to please those who observed it, but to simply shine in temporal radiance , that could be remembered for all eternity . But due to its pure intent, it was adored ,loved and honored in the most genuine way permitable. It was like a joyous child birth. The father and mother were the artists and their passion was love, pure beautiful love. They engaged in the skill day and night and created art in the form of a child. Their effort was innocent at its core and they created something special. A creation that was the most beautiful thing in their eyes. They just did what they loved doing, without an intent to please those around them, and the result was raw beauty . And the love was so powerful that the child had a smile that could bring warmth to ones heart and melt the most massive chunks of misery, simply for the mere reason that it was all natural, without the false intent of wanting to please others. The child was a piece of art that was created not for the adoration or appreciation of the crowd, or for the sake of art, but instead to celebrate the love of the father and mother. And that is why it will always be beautiful.

All of us love children and are most beautiful as children. Simply for the reason that our innocence during that age does allows us to only do things that we want to do, irrespective of the likes and dislikes of the world around us. We cannot wear plastic masks that are forged out of the most ancient lies. Our innocence is what makes us beautiful, it is what makes an artist a legend of sorts.

We must remember to practice art so as to find answers that lie deep within our soul, to kindle the most noble feelings that are let loose in the jungles of our minds, to do something simple because we love doing it. And then all that we weave, mould and paint will be beautiful.