Quod Vidi

Black and White

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 18:04:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

February 21, 2002.

Holding the camera and looking straight into the eyes of the journalist had been the toughest part of the job yet. When he had been briefed three months ago, he knew he would have to be part of terrible deeds and he would have a lot of innocent blood on his hands. But he never though it would be something as high-strung as this. Filming a man who knew he was about to die in a short while was scary. At least he didn't have to do the job himself. No, the bosses wanted the glory. Thank goodness for that. A minute and a half into filming, Daniel Pearl's throat was slit and then with a calm that would put pristine lakes to shame, the commander took his right hand away and brought the great knife slashing through the dying journalist's neck.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

Too many years had gone by and Abdul Karim had risen in rank and power. Always on the move, he had evaded death many times. Too many times. There had been miscalculations by himself. There had been errors on the part of his leaders too. Too many years had he spent in exile. He remembered the time when growing up as a young boy in Afghanistan. The wars had not been enough. Since the Soviets left, he had waged many wars and fought multi-faceted enemies. The hardships he had gone through and those he had literally made his family endure was unbearable. They had been shot long ago. The vengeance is what coursed through his veins and made his decade long battle remain inviolable. He knew where his allegiance lay. Too many loved ones had died because of him. He himself had killed too many that others loved. No more.

“It's time. We do it on the date mentioned in the package. You know where I stand today. Mark this spot. He will be on top this time then. It's three stories high. You can watch it from a variety of angles. Don't miss again. I've had enough. ”

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

After years of living in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, the USA and the Philippines, he had died over and over and again. Envisioning deaths had taken their toll on him and he had become quite reckless. But lately, he had though of his mother who had been shot at point blank range. Whether they were for or because of his deeds did not matter. They said his mother was an informer and they killed her for good measure. No matter. They would all go down in flames. It was just a matter of time. A matter of twenty four more hours. He smiled to himself as he thought of the next day and impending doom. He slept like a baby.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

The day had passed. At night, everything was still. The night air was despondently hot. He was waiting, but not for long. Throughout the day he had thought of the means of his own death. It seemed ironic that it had been put off so long and that success meant his death. But maybe Allah would grant him his mother's lap again if he lived another day longer and no more. That's all he wanted. Peace.

The landing filled with the slightest crack of street light as the door opened. On the second floor, Abdul Karim lay quiet in bed, waiting. The soldiers started filing up. Operation Neptune Spear was in play. Then, like a blaze of lightning, they came from everywhere. A helicopter flew close overhead. The erstwhile leader ran down and Karim told him,

“There is now nowhere we can go. I just woke up. They've got us surrounded. Let's fight to our death. May Allah be proud of us when we go to heaven.”

Storming into the mansion, the US Navy SEALs pierced the darkness and shot like they knew every spot. Few bullets were wasted. The great leader was shot dead. A second later, so was he.

It was May 2^nd, 2011. Operation Neptune Spear had been successful.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

Abdul Karim was an unknown man captured in Manila in connection with planting a bomb under a bridge on which then President Clinton's motorcade was to pass in 1998. After torture and rigorous grilling by the CIA, he was shown satellite images of his family being shot by members of the Taliban soon after the US embassy bombings in Africa. The psychologist on their team said that she saw some good in him, that he was an ordinary man, not a Jihadi. He was requested to help in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden. After what seemed like an aeon, he nodded. In October 2001, he joined the Al-Qaeda as a soldier. It took him the dark knight nine years to reach a silent unacknowledged martyrdom.

PS. This is a purely fictitious account of a long and broiling history of terrorism and the war on terror. True events have been considered and the protagonist is a fictional character.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Band of Metal

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 19:46:00 +0000

A spark like a fire.

The prismatic hues of a crazy diamond.

And the love of a heart.

Of a child forlorn and in need

Of a lover.

I am that man.

As I lie washed on the sands of the beaches.

A band of metal slips onto my finger.

The third finger for music.

As though put there by the ocean herself.

And the ocean dowses my pain with her salt.

Washes away my sorrows forever.

And as I give myself away to its loving warmth

And let myself be washed away in the tide

I know that

I have known a bond of love.

So special.

My spirit feels disjoint no more.

And I swim free into the depths of the unknown.

The eyes in which I see an uncharted ocean beckon.

And I fly to them with my heart set free.

Threshold of Liberation

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 09:29:00 +0000

Picture courtesy : DeviantArt

Frayed strings.

Broken blades of grass.

Shears open wide.

Dead eyes see stars.

Motor running.

The arms are lifted.

Destruction and death.

Fire ignominiously sprayed.

The lungs get bloated up.

And the heart stops breathing.

The eyes slit closed.

Noose left strung.

An unseen spectre.

Floating towards brightness.

The spirit deadened alive.

Opens bleeding eyes to the Sun's caress.

PS. This poem is loosely referenced to Bardo Thodol, better known as The Tibetan Book of the Dead. The essential theme of the book is about rebirth. 'Bardo Thodol' literally means 'Threshold of Liberation'.

To bring something new, the previous must be destroyed. There is no renewal without death.

This poem has been written for the OSI prompt, Renewal.

The Legacy of a Cross

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 08:41:00 +0000

It's time to take the chains off.
The mails of steel have been worn long.
The shield is now a burden and a
Helmet obstructs the eyes from a hundred strong throng.

The army clamours and chants.
A hoard of barbarians with their swords and scimitars.
A lone man on a stand facing his last minutes.
Knight under the axe reaching untimely for the stars.

Head held high, his steed carries his mission back home.
While he prepares for his light to be extinguished,
His work incomplete will be carried on by others.
The square red cross on his chest will be a legacy that remained.

Thoughts : The poem is loosely based on the Knights Templar and the Crusades of the Middle Ages. The Templar Knights were the most famous and skilled fighting unit as part of the early Crusades. The organization was created around 1129 AD, officialy endorsed by the Catholic Church and survived for nearly 200 years until disbanded by Pope Clement V in 1312 AD under pressure from King Philip IV of France after which they were executed by their native countries. It is said that the order still lives among us secretly.

PS. This poem is for Prompt 198 : Knight of One Single Impression.

Don't Make Us Speak Louder, Sibal

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 12:32:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to free speech on the World Wide Web (WWW) and to protect and conform with the basic philosophy of the Web itself when created by Tim Berners Lee.

It is beyond my limits of tolerance to see a mad horse going by the name of Kapil Sibal to decree censorship over data flow by the social networking companies. It is even more apalling to note that a person who sees and tolerates parliamentary hooliganism cannot tolerate some random doctored images of his wretched party leader. What is he, a knight in shining armour who darling Sonia called to protect herself with his gentlemanly chivlary. Now the dear white knight wants to screen data that is hurtful to religious and political sentiments? I say to Sibal, hoping that he reads this,

"Crass move, ASSHOLE. You have no right to decree what is on the internet UNLESS IT IS ILLEGAL, considering the laws of the land. If anyone violates the policies of the companies, it's their job and the users'. Let everybody do their jobs. You do your own. So, FUCK you and all your statements of this nature. May Sonia Gandhi help you avoid the flak you now face from the online community."

I wish Indian politicians would stop with the boot-licking and finger-pointing which is, frankly, all that they can do right now. Kapil Sibal going crazy with the Internet, and Mayawati going back to the same policy that won her the elections in 2007, not to mention that she has sprung up a number of debatable issues in the excellent state of Uttar Pradesh just to keep her corruption charges at bay.
Suave move, upholder of the Dalits. But then, when did she learn to help the people. She just came to erect statues.

Coming back to the point, just as a special mention to dear donkey Kapil Sibal - stop the bigotry and learn to accept facts. Nobody knew Sonia Gandhi had lewd content on the internet until you told us so. Your bad. If you want some good done to this beautiful country, stop jumping on your chair and pulling your hair loose because Google did not conform with all your requests and start doing some real work. And don't tell us you're being any more sane than what the leaders in Pakistan did, since you love comparing (read: finger-pointing) so much. Just shut the hell up. It's our turn to speak and we don't quit too easy.

A Longer Day To Live

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 19:47:00 +0000

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”
~Albert Einstein

For me, there are two worlds. There is the one that I see and smell and hear and feel. There is the one that I see and smell and hear and feel so much stronger. Of the latter, I see every detail. Every minute person that exists and every murder or act of love that each performs. That world is inside my head. It takes different shapes. It has different names. The people, at times, are from the future and, sometimes from before the 20^th century. I don't know them. They live inside my mind. They are mere manifestations of my imagination. I bring them to life with my writing. Time slows down and feels so much more real when I dream and write about what I dreamt. It feels infinitely more beautiful. Sands trickling down an hourglass could not then have held a more enchanting or even morbid quality at the same time.

In the real world, time or even the lack thereof makes no difference to me. If I had but two hours more each day, or even if there were twenty six hours instead of the usual mundane twenty four, I could dream. So much more. I could write and create new and possible worlds. So many more of them. The edge of that sword that struck the assassin would be slowed down and brought to life in sharper reality. It wouldn't have to be hurried into the red blood that would gush out of his tough torso as he decided the battle wasn't over yet. The plans of a revolutionary could become more elaborate because he was to overthrow a communist empire in a new world plagued with wars of every horrifying kind. If only I had more time everyday. Just two hours more.

Since I am a working professional and I could not turn my cherished and dear hobby into a career I passionately loved as I always desired just because I needed to earn, I wish life would someday turn around and say, “Enough. It's time you become a writer as you always knew you were meant to be.”

I would throw the words at my dear life, “But I lack time. When will I think? When will I dream? My desires and dreams are but stoppered by reality.”

Life would say calmly back to me, “Realities can change, can't they?”

If life were to give me but two hours more each day, then each blissful day would I spend in thinking of and weaving tales. In fact, I would begin with knitting together the one great story that would be my first. And that would only be the beginning. It is said that minds become great only when they are attuned to the realities of their worlds. My world, the one I love, is my own mind. I would rather spend two hours more with unreal, more beautiful eras of existence than with the dreadful reality which envelopes this fragile world.

“Man cannot survive except through his mind.”

~Ayn Rand.

The mind needs to be honed. The mind needs time to learn. I do too. Two enriching hours. A beautiful novel of my own someday. What more could I ever dream of? My dreams to come true, of course. To give my mind and soul to everything I desire and love; I would really and truly be alive. I would be living the dream.

Day Dreaming by Linda Apple

PS. This post has been written for the Indiblogger Surf Excel Matic #GetSmart Contest. In all reality, I wrote it because I wanted to. To vote for me, if you wish to, visit this page here.

Thy Honour and Mine

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 20:20:00 +0000

The car screeched to a halt as the man strode forward to open the driver's door. Throwing him out with brutish force, he pounced on him with his shears. The girl in the passenger's seat remained frozen, unable to grasp that she'd driven head first right into what she was running from: her dear brother.

PS. This is a prequel to the story, Evidence which is a prequel to The Last Note. Both of the above have been written by Enchanta.

The Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 18:30:00 +0000

The End Of The Quest by Frank Dicksee

The air is cold around me.

The stillness of it isn't warm any longer.

Sitting amidst the emptiness of shadows,

The weight of the world intolerable.

Out of the darkness as I strode forward,

Afraid of what brazen demons I might meet,

Yet steadfast in my thoughts, hardy as ice,

I trudged along longer,

To find you.

The gleam of the evening star

Shone brightly upon my brow.

As I surrendered to the fragrance

Of lilacs in the wilderness.

Time got slow,

The sands stopped trickling down.

I saw the drop of water hanging

From an eyelash.

Thick as the smile you wore,

As the blood that ran swifter inside me.

I knew no higher form of bond.

A bond forged in two minds.

As our hearts could become one.

As the dying ceased to die.

And the living glowed bright as angels.

I knew you were my soul.

That you held my other half of it.

My long search had ended.
My life as I know has just begun.

PS. Dedicated to my dear Enchanta on the first anniversary of our being together.

Pyre In The Sky

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 19:13:00 +0000

The fire inside swirls overhead.

Engulfing the room I sit in.

I stay still on my bed.

Watching the mirthless orange mix

With the swaying tornado of the dust on top.

Moving in tune with the songs in my ears.

In step with the tune my mind plays for me.

Blank and yet melodiously sonorous.

Enormous like a black hole.

The smallest entity that devours all.

Swirling like a tornado over my head.

Inside my eyes.

My eyes are now red with the burn.

The searing heat that I can feel on my veins.

As they are flash red on both sides.

The thunderous roars of the water burning to steam.

Around and inside me.

To give way to death.

The sounds of the last moments I will ever hear.

Lying with the last of my mirthless laughter in my face.

My funeral was long-awaited.

The ashes drift away through the open window.

As the room remains unchanged, untarnished.

The fire caused no burns.

It caused no fractures to any soul living.

Only the dead was pained.

Only the dead was lifted off.

My funeral was long-awaited.

The Creators

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 10:00:00 +0000

Knives move.
And the blades of desire form.
Not by gormless minds.
But minds of desire.

Chiselled beauty.
Taking shape.
In the hands of carpenters.
Of music and muscle.
The power of the mind.

The sawdust falls to the floor.
The grime off the hands.
Nothing remains of wood.
But beauty.

Creation divine.
As the Gods work on endlessly.
To dull the fables of theory.
Into reality.
Into shape.
Crafted to perfection.

The music blends in with the blood.
And the sweat flows in channels together.
Exultation in might.
As metal is created.
A ball of fire held.
Not in illusion.
But in totality.

We the creators.
With our blood and minds to toil.
In temptation of enormous elation.
We bleed to produce.
The pious reality life.
We create life.
We the creators.

Rechristening

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 09:19:00 +0000

It's about time I spoke about what's up with my blog. Well, Writering! was born in March 2010. Pretty long ago, now I think about all that's happened since then. A lot has happened. That's all I can say here. The writer and sole owner of the blog has had more than a year added to his life and to his mind since then. The blog must show it as it is a reflection of himself. Why am I speaking in the third person? Maybe because the blog is my value on the web.

It needed a change. It needed to look a little more grown up: a little older and more inclined to reality and logic. It needed to show what it had become. It needed to show what it always was, but hidden beneath its age. From now on (since yesterday, actually), Writering! shall be known as 'Quod Vidi', which translates from Latin to mean, 'Which I have seen'.

And THAT, is exactly what this space is all about.

Cheers, from my world. And welcome, to my new rechristened and revamped blog space.

Open Letter to all Racists

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 16:17:00 +0000

I thought at first I wouldn't do this. Everyone's writing one of these. But well, I am in dire need of some traffic to my blog. It's been a long time since I posted something. I'm hungry and I'm impatient. So I'm jumping on the bloody open letter bandwagon. I mean, why not?

This is time when a Southie woman can jump the nerves and dare to crack the balls of every 'Delhi boy' out there which leads to all sorts of rants and realizations with people getting strung and getting high to get back at her and others trying to ape her and getting back at Bong dudes because they're apparently so cheap. Well, here's news. SOMETHING DEEPLY PERSONAL HAPPENED TO THESE FEMALES. One thing that makes me wonder is that why were the first open letter writers all women? I don't know if I'm making a rather sexist comment right now but it's like those particular group of women were either high on LSD or some other shit or were simply PMSing. They needed to get their emotions out and well, that's what the blogs are for, right? Well, I've got something better. They need to seriously sort their shit out. What they need to do is to take some camomile with milk and get a good night's sleep. Maybe two. They're high and pissed and they just need to get over whatever hit them hard. So, to Shahana and the Black Rose Gal in particular, ladies, you need to listen to some soothing music, maybe have some wine if the milk is not to your taste. But what you need is mental stability. I wouldn't mind recommending an anger management course either. I've heard that they work for many people.

If we need to crap some people, why not crap those people who need to be shat upon. Our politicians, for instance. They need such open letters delivered at their residences. A bit of anthrax in the envelopes wouldn't hurt either. Now that's something I would relish with glory. Instead of having Anna fasting and nearly dying, we could give our dear old white kurta and dhoti and topi clad men (and the Italian woman who can barely be seen) a dose of your deep rooted misgivings and anger. Why divide the whole country when you can fuck with those people who are doing it as well? That would not only be beneficial but also really fun to watch. Of course, this bout of open letters has been quite amusing as well. But I've seen an enormous exchange of hate comments and now I'm tired of it. Let's say we move this thing to a bigger podium with harsher and more significant strength and reasons.

Unite, ladies, and the men folk who were very very enraged. Write more open letters. Just don't address them to Madrasis or Delhi-ites or Bongs. I mean, you actually left out so many races. They would be feeling left out. But with politicians, you can't leave out any. You bring one in, they're all in the loop. It's the way their money behaves in all the scams that keep happening.

Seriously, sort your shit out and grow up. Do something useful.

- An amused and (by now) bored INDIAN blogger.

In Memoriam

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 20:15:00 +0000

“Dad, I really can't tolerate this any more. If you can't accept a lovely girl like Ayesha into your home, then I'd rather you let go of me as well.”,

“Then leave. I want nothing to do with you and your filthy Muslim girlfriend. Make sure that filth never enters my house again. If it does, I'll clean it all up; and that includes you. So get the hell out if it'll give you and your piece of trash girlfriend any peace of mind. Get out of my house.”

Shekhar, with an angry grimace on his face, went into his room and started throwing folded clothes of his into a bag. He packed his laptop in another. Most of his stuff was already in his new apartment in Noida where he was to start working soon. Once the packing was done, he walked out of his erstwhile home without another look at his father or his bewildered helpless mother. As soon as he was standing outside the house, in suburban Bandra in Mumbai, he took his cellphone out and called Ayesha, his girlfriend of four years. “Hey honey, I'm leaving my house. For good. I can't take this abuse any more. How goes it at your place?”

“My brother is furious that you're a Hindu. You know that I just told them I want to marry you again. I don't know what to do. He looks murderous. I'm really scared.”, Ayesha replied back in a hushed voice.
“Then leave. Leave now. Let's just be together for a while. We'll see what we have to do.”

X-----------X-------------X

Shekhar and Ayesha had been together since the first week of college. They were both students of IIT Bombay. Shekhar had always lived in Mumbai for as long as he could remember and Ayesha's parents had moved their a year after her daughter started working in the prestigious engineering institute. The two lovers had recently passed out and inevitably, conversations regarding their marriages had commenced in both households. They were not children to very conservative parents. In fact, their parents had been quite open minded all through their lives. Unfortunately for them, their parents' minds were only as broad as most of the people from their own religious faiths. It had always been hard for them to maintain the relationship in the secrecy that they always had to endure. Hiding something as substantial as love was never easy. They could not present gifts to each other. On the scarce occasions that they did, they had to be carefully hidden away. It was never quite easy for them. However, the time came when they were in their final semester and about to pass out in a few months. Shekhar would soon start working for a Korean electronics giant in Noida and Ayesha was to do her masters from IIT Delhi. They had it all planned out; the plan was perfect. Even if their parents didn't harmonise their relationship, they would still be together. He would be paid handsomely and they could get married in a few more years, with or without their parents' consent. However, they did love their parents. So, of course, they wanted to tell them about their love lives and see where it went. They had no idea just how badly that would all crash around them.

X-----------X-------------X

Ayesha Siddiqui belonged to a middle-class Muslim family. Her father was a government servant and her brother was a student like her. He was elder to her by a couple of years. Her life wasn't at all restricted but her family was quite staunch when topics regarding religion cropped up. It wasn't a healthy household to grow up in, but she grew up well. About three weeks before she was to pass out from college, she decided that it was time to tell her parents what they needed to know anyway. It was a long-awaited conversation which had been put on hold because of their mentality. But that could be done no longer. She wanted to settle down with this guy sometime in the near future and like any other girl, she considered the blessings of her parents somewhat sacred. It was important. At dinner one evening, she decided to bring it up. It had been a few days ago that Shekhar had a similar discussion with his own parents. “Ammi, Papa, there's something we need to talk about.”, Ayesha said to her parents, seeing that they were in a rather good mood that evening. “What is it?”, her mother asked with a smile.
“There's this guy from my batch. He's got a job in Noida recently. I'm in love with with him, Ammi and he loves me a lot as well.”, Ayesha said rather meekly with a smile.

“What's his name?”

“Shekhar. Shekhar Naik.”, came the reply. The news on the television was muted. Spoons were kept down on plates with a clank. The dining table went icy. “A Hindu?”

X-----------X-------------X

“Leave now. We'll see what we have to do. Meet me at Bandra.” Ayesha hung up and went into her room silently. She'd known this wouldn't go well. There was only one other option left now. She packed most of her clothes into a duffel bag and silently, so nobody would notice, walked out of her house. After half an hour, she reached Bandra where she found Shekhar waiting for her. He hugged her and the two of them got into a cab.

“Juhu beach chalo.”

Upon reaching the beach, they walked a bit and found a rocky spot a little away from the more crowded areas. Night was falling. They sat close to each other, in each other's arms, facing the waves breaking on the shore. It was peaceful. They were glad to have left something too burgeoning behind them. They decided they were better off without all that. Sitting there, their presence unknown to the rest of the world, they talked about building their own house. They spoke about starting a family. They talked about growing old together. They were lost in each others' eyes. They kissed and knew that nothing could come in the way of their being together. Not in this world. Not in this era. Not for them. They loved each other too much. They would always be together. Caressing each other, they realised that they had switched their phones off in case their parents called. Shekhar knew his wouldn't. They were too arrogant to consider his emotions or even understand them. Ayesha switched her phone on. As soon as she did so, it started ringing. It was her father. She looked at it like it was an explosive for a while, steeled herself for what she knew would be an onslaught, and answered.

“Please come home, beta. Also bring Shekhar with you when you come. We'll talk this out. We'll see what can be done. We have been very worried for hours about where you might be. Please come home so we can at least settle this.”

“All right, abba. I'll come. I'll bring Shekhar too. Tell bhaijaan to leave, though. I don't want anything getting messy. I'll come now.” and she hung up.
“We're going to my place. My parents want to meet you, it seems.” Ayesha said to her beau with a big smile.

“Are you sure it's not a trap of any kind? I don't want us to be ambushed.”

“Are you kidding? They're my parents. They wouldn't do that.”

“Mine would. Anyway, let's go.”

They got up and brushed the sand off themselves. Hand in hand they walked. They hailed a taxi and sped off to the Bandra railway station like many other Mumbaikars alongside them. The journey of war against their parents from another generation seemed to be coming to some end. A compromise could be made. They were both quite happy as they boarded the train to Andheri and sat holding each other.

X-----------X-------------X

There were many people on the train. It was just after rush hour. It would it was lucky they got places to sit. They were in one of the first-class compartments. Sitting near the window holding hands, they discussed what might be awaiting them at Ayesha's place. They talked about what they should do once they got there. It was a bit scary to think they might be ambushed but then they had a contingency plan for that as well. Shekhar would wait outside nearby while she talked to her parents, remaining on the front porch. He would show himself only if it seemed safe for the two of them. Otherwise, he would grab her and leave in any way possible. Seemed dramatic but they had no idea what awaited them. A few people entered the compartment with a big box containing a pressure cooker. He smiled at them and said, “Gift for my wife.” and kept it under the seat in front of theirs. He sat down in front of them and they all waited for the train to start moving. A boy selling newspapers came to the window the couple were sitting at. Shekhar bought a copy of The Times of India and kept it on his lap as Ayesha rested her head on his shoulder. The train was to leave in a few minutes. The man in front got up to get some tea and asked him if he wanted any. Shekhar declined with a polite smile.

X-----------X-------------X

A little later, the train started moving. As Ayesha slept on his shoulder, he opened the newspaper to read it. It was the newspaper for the 11th of July, 2006. It was 6:18 pm. The man with the pressure cooker never came back. Neither were Shekhar and Ayesha ever seen again. The fiery explosions that happened just a little later, as the train chugged to the Khar Road station consumed the lives of many in that train. Ayesha and Shekhar's bodies were found but were beyond recognition. Ironically, nothing did come in the way of them being together. As Ayesha's parents and brother waited patiently, enraged and almost ready to rid the Hindu boy who defiled his daughter for good, she died in orange brown waves of fire along with her lover, sleeping with her head on his shoulder, bearing the most tranquil smile on her face.

THE END

PS. This short story was written for "Urban stories competiton'11" presented by Landmark and Grey Oak Publishers. The theme was to set the story in an urban Indian backdrop.
Relax, people. It won't be published anywhere!

Serenity

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 18:30:00 +0000

Lilac by Elaina Wagner

At the base there is a bunch of lilacs.
Their smell wafting to me in the breeze.
Mild and gentle under the sweltering sun.

The sound of water rushing by in my senses.
O, the tranquility that numbs them so.
And leaves me bereft of pain or fear.
It is her essence that drives me near.

Drives me close to the edge of immortality.
As the water rises to fill the gorges.
And the mountains crumble and smoulder to ashes.
The lilacs leave not, they stay in their surrender.
And her presence with me, strong in me, willing me to fight.

To fight the disasters as they toll upon me.
As the ground beneath my feet shakes in the aftershocks
Of the past and those of the now.
I would give in to the cesspool if not for her serenity.
But I linger.
Overpowered.
Overjoyed.

Because I can fight.
Because I have the strength not to give in.
Our virtues are too pure to give in to the darkness.
I know this as I cut through the brambles and free us from pain.
And I see the light ahead.
The lilacs remain freshly immortal.

Unchained Melody

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 21:46:00 +0000

'The Scream' by Edvard Munch

Won't you stay with me,
Sweet Melody?
Chained in my wrath,
My only companion.
In my lonesome grief,
Will you not be by my side?
Why do you part with me so?
I have no friend.
None whom I think of
When I speak with the stars.
They speak not back to me.
But amongst themselves.
Incessant chatter; noise.
I do not understand their murmuring.
For I am no part of it.
Lonesome in my pit of wallowing shame.
I simply exist
As smoke and ashes.
And as dried blood.
Only to be washed off.
As wiped clean.
To be renewed.
And I would have it gladly.
But what unchained melody would bestow
That gift of a sweet curse upon me?

Almost Lost

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 08:49:00 +0000

A dull pain in the back of my head.
Throbbing in its numbness.
Thoughts echoing off against each other.
But serving none.
For none listen.
They are too busy in their own designs.
And wicked schemes.

The rush falls as the temperature drops.
The blood goes cold in a heartbeat.
My wishes rejected without being spoken.
In vain voiced inside my head to hurt.
They don't listen; they're too afraid.
Too afraid lest they change their balanced lives.

I wish to walk new avenues.
I wish to walk dark ones.
I wish to visit the core of my home.
And unearth its dirty secrets.
I wish others to try it too.
So I know that I still remain sane.

But I do believe.
That I am not.
Almost there, in fact.

Mother's Burden

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 18:33:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 23; the twenty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is FREE.

'Gaia Angel'

The soft blades of the long grown grass brushed against her ankles as she walked in the meadows that she owned. She lived here. She loved this world that she made. Hopping lightly on the sodden bed of grass and leaves, the little girl could not have been more delighted at the wonders of her creation. She smiled and thought to herself about what a wonderful world it was, as she threw herself down on a sunlit patch and lay there until the world grew dark.

A long time passed as she lay there thinking. She was too alone. She needed somebody to look after. She needed something to nurture. She called out to her own and one by one, they came. The creatures came when the sun rose. Monstrosities and adorable ones, alike. She loved them all. They were hers. But not too long did they last. As she grew, she realized her folly. She grew sense and a great ball of fire crashed into those meadows all around her. The forests were ablaze. Her pets, as she saw them, perished. They did not deserve to carry on. They were too barbaric. But some survived. The less monstrous. The more human.

She grew with her world and the world aged with her. Mornings came and went and she kept thinking and calling out. She created as she saw fit. But now she knew. She understood that a balance was always necessary.

She called out to the misfits. They would be her supreme creation. They looked like her but they had not her power. She was wise now.

Gaia strolled along the riverside as she saw her new children rising to power. They grew in number. She was scared of how they treated each other sometimes. But she waited. She had made them capable of thought. They would realise. Some even did.

As the clouds of darkness enveloped her world, a fierce man with a small moustache wreaked havoc. Millions died. Gaia could only cry out in vain as the deaths would carry on. The little girl who used to walk in the endless fields had died. She was now a woman, saddened by what her children were doing. They had no thought about their mother. They had no thought about their brothers or their sisters. The seas rose as Gaia wept every night. Every night her children fought with each other. But she decided to wait. For a little bald man in a loin cloth made her believe that they weren't resistive to being good. They were ready to accept their own. They were not bad children. They were just misguided. They did not have her wisdom. They were children, after all.

She watched as they mutilated her world. The blades of grass she used to walk on now had to be preserved. Gaia wept incessantly and the waters of the world kept rising. Her children had not the capability to learn. History of millenia ago repeated itself over and over again as the lady watched, the little girl in her upset beyond measure. The waters kept rising.

The sun rose on a new day. A day for new beginnings, as it could be said. The world grew heavy with her mother's tears creating waves in it. The old woman was weary. She needed to rest. She had been aggrieved too long. She needed to be free. She was almost heartless as she watched her world collapsing, her children swaying tumultuously in it. Gaia watched as she thought of a new world. She waited for it to end so she could create again.

The little girl in her would wish again. She would call out to her own once more. It was not the end. But as she watched her icy world being created anew, with a smile of relief that was reflected by the stars, Gaia realized that she was wiser. She knew now what to do. She was free. Gaia was free from her own folly and her own burdens.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonicswho took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective postscan be checked here>. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Happy Independence Day !

An Ordinary Kite

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 15:14:00 +0000

The kite ascended.
The light breeze slowly took it up.
The boy below in glee.
Watched in awe as his gleaming diamond soared.
Nothing could match this sight.
Nothing could match this beauty of his.

He took it up there.
With the string that he held soft.
He was its master.
And the kite flew where he wished.
He loved it too much.
He believed in its power and its beauty.

Another string appeared.
And with it came a kite like many others.
None too pretty and neither a warrior.
Yet it came but not towards the boy's own.
It wafted in the air a little away.
On its own, gently swaying.
But not too far.

And then the wind.
That brings small calamities,
Brought the ugly kite closer.
On its string that was covered with glass.
Pieces of glass that the boy below knew not of.
The wind collapsed.
So did the gleaming beauty of a kite.

His kite fell like any other.
Nothing seemed extraordinary about it.
Not any more.
Not as the wind took it away.

Break of Dawn

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 04:07:00 +0000

'Break of Dawn' by Ian MacDonald

Thunderstorms duelled in my mind.
A fiery clash of titanic proportions.
The lights blinding and horrifying.
The anguish unbearable as my eyes well.
Intolerable, as it gets dark.
As the shadows of the day take over.
And the lights from behind my eyes disappear.

The silence worse than the hurricane.
As bad as the screeching chalk on a board.
Like nails being drawn across a floor.
The marks etched upon my skin.
The scars to live there forevermore.
The gasps of breath I draw to ease
The blood to relinquish some fear.
The pain to relieve me of myself.

I sleep and close my eyes.
The curtains fall down.
And the dried blood to be washed away.
The pain withstood to be forgotten.
Bereft of cloth, at God's own mercy, I sway.

The break of dawn is upon me.
The time when the darkness is past.
As the melodies hold me to their tunes.
I walk under the eaves of golden green trees.
I could not have been happier.
As ecstasy quenches my thirst.

I live for these rays of the brightest sun that I love.
I could die just as easily for this dawn that I cherish.

Into The Light

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 11:31:00 +0000

'Starry Night Over The Rhone' by Vincent Van Gogh

Beyond the mirror as I gaze.
My eyes befall an unexpected trace.
Not of me but of my morrow.
As I behold the bluish lights in my eyes stored.

The time stops still as I stand.
And look beyond my visage and my glance.
The bluish light holds me strong.
And binds my feet firm to the ground.

Seize the day, I heard him say.
For the day after I must not betray.
Holding strong unto my free will.
As my feathers may fall upon the window sill.

As my mind may fly into the night.
My dark wings held aloft in the bluish light.
I fly away, my gaoler broken beyond repair.
To fly on and ever, yet never to stay.

For I may never choose to my haven one abode.
One place of yearning and refuge that I may forebode.
I must need only be free so I can soar.
Into the sky may cry an eagle's roar.

I believe anything in this world may come true.
If only I try and try mighty with my ungodly virtue.
Never to break and never to be shackled down.
From my mouth, loudly, Carpe Diem shall resound.

Chained Lovers

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 11:23:00 +0000

The things that I've done compliment nothing and no one.
This war within myself has achieved nothing but pain.
But I made a promise to myself long ago.
Nothing I do may break my fall.
But the hurt I go through shall create no walls.

There will never be barbed wires between me and you.
My bruises may actually someday be fruiful.
The battle raging in me won't make me bow down.
We shall be strong with our heads held high forever.
Nothing can drown us in our own bloody river.

My last true confession will open your eyes.
To the maligned truth that lies hidden away.
Somewhere in our bond, the knots tying us together.
We will never give up without a long hard strife.
“They will never ever take us alive.”

This love that we created and the chains that I wrought.
Will bind me to you through all of my wars.
So go on without me now, I must face the torment alone.
And when the sky clears, I will come get you.
When my shackles are broken, I shall renew the links
And with our love even stronger, I shall bind myself to you again.

PS : I wrote this poem a long time ago. I have no idea why I wrote it.

The Other Day

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 12:18:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 21; the twenty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Riding on a sled had never been this much fun. For central Siberia, the weather was beautiful. There were no storms brewing as far as Yakov could see with his eyes. He was off to the woods to get the weeks rations of firewood for his family. In the year 1908, in the Tunguska area of Siberia, it was essential to their survival. As the head of the family, he used to make this trip once every week.

The sun was unusually bright on this day, Yakov thought as he raced through the snow with his dogs. He had never seen it like this. There was a lot of light in the sky. He put it off thinking it was the afternoon and the sun was directly overhead. But it was hot too. It was never hot in Siberia. This was a first. As he moved faster and faster on his sled, the heat grew and the light seemed to come ever closer. Yakov was now scared for himself and his dogs. What was this unspeakable horror?

Then it happened.

As his sled moved on and on, Yakov was at once surrounded by white light of intense ferocity. It was blinding. The heat was unbearable. His clothes singed and his leather boots started melting away. There was a fearsome explosion and he was caught right in the middle of it.

------X------X------X------

It took a while for him to open his eyes. The snow felt cool against his bare skin. He slowly got his bearings and staggered onto his feet. He was naked. His clothes were burnt away into nothingness. But his skin was flawlessly smooth. Nothing was charred anywhere. Maybe the snow protected him from the explosion. Explosion! He just realized what had happened there a while back. He stared around himself. The trees around him seemed dead. They were blackened and their leaves were gone. All the pines and the spruces were bent, some uprooted. They were all dead. There was an enormous opening in the forest where Yakov now stood. He could sense no life around him here. But the explosion, whatever it was, could not have happened a few hours ago. After all, his dogs were missing. Were they dead? How would he go back home? He needed to cover himself up. It was getting cold.

He calculated the direction in which his village lay and started walking back. Upon walking what seemed like a kilometer, his feet were numbed and he could move no further. He stopped in his tracks, shivering. Crawling with all his might, he rested against the remnant of a tree with his back against it. Then he noticed something strange.

There lay, a small distance from him, inside the destroyed forest, a dog. He gathered some remaining energy in him and walked to it. It was dead. There was another a small distance away. Their throats were slit, and they were lying dead in the snow. There was a knife lying there. It was his own. Tears came to his eyes as he grew more and more bewildered. Who or what monster did this horrible deed? But he was cold. He took the knife and started working on the dogs furry skin. It would shelter him against the cold walk back home he had to endure. As he skinned the dogs, he noticed the traces of a small bonfire near where the dogs lay dead. He grew even more befuddled. Someone had apparently camped here the night before. The same person must also be responsible for the death of the dogs. But how did that man get his knife? It was all too muddy a mystery.

“Thank you for your help. I shall try to find who did this to you. But I am very confused.” Yakov said to his dogs after he had peeled off their fur and put it around himself.

Then slowly, grudgingly, he started walking back. The arduous journey home would take about half a day on foot.

------X------X------X------

It was dark by the time he reached his village. Covered by the dogs' skins, he trudged on to his house. As he approached the little wooden house, he noticed that there were no candles lit in his house. It was dark. Obviously, there was nobody inside.

“Roksana.”, he called out to his wife as he pushed the front door ajar. He called her name again. He called for his teenage son. There was no reply. There was nobody home. He stepped inside and saw, in the light of the moon, the vestiges of a man lying in what seemed like a deep sarcophagus. Full of dread as to what may have happened, he approached on padded feet, more out of fear and apprehension than the want to conceal himself. It was him. Yakov lay in the coffin right before his own eyes. His body was charred and blackened beyond normal recognition. Only his face was properly visible.

Yakov's eyes popped out as he staggered onto a chair in disbelief, as he stared at his own corpse. After remaining there for a while, absorbed in panicky shock and incredulity, he decided to get something to wear. He climbed the stairs to his supposedly erstwhile bedroom and grabbed his work clothes. Then, without looking at his own dead body again, he quickly walked out of his house and decided to go to his sister's. His family must be there.

------X------X------X------

There were voices that arose from his sister Yelena's house. Sad voices. Confused voices. The words he heard meant nothing to him. They only baffled him more. They thought he had lost his mind, right before he died. But he did not die. He was alive. Someone else lay in that coffin in his house. It could not be him. Yet there was no doubt that it looked like him. The air was rent with confusion. He dared not go inside for fear that his family might attack him, thinking him to be something that he wasn't. The thoughts filled him up and weighed down on him. As he stood outside his sister's door, he grew maddened by what he heard about his last moments in life. He decided that he could keep up with this conversation no longer.

“I thought I saw someone outside the door. I'll be right back.”, said Pasha, Yakov's son as Yakov himself moved away from the door of his sister's into the night.

------X------X------X------

Yakov traipsed on to sled that was tied up at his sister's shed. He untied it and swiftly, had the dogs speed him off into the cold night. He had to go back to the woods. Something had happened there, although he understood none of it. Something supernatural was occupying the forest, he thought. He had to get to the bottom of it all.

When he neared the place where he had discovered the dogs, he decided to get some rest. He put the dogs on a leash and tied them to a tree. He set up a small fire with some wood and flint he found in the sled. There was a small bottle of vodka as well. It would help keep him warm. More importantly, it would help keep him sane. Or so he thought.

------X------X------X------

Yakov hadn't eaten anything all day and got too drunk after chugging down half a bottle of vodka. He needed food. The dogs lay there, silent and peaceful. He took his knife out of his pocket and swaying slightly, walked over to the sleeping dogs. The faithful, tired and tied down dogs stood no chance as he bore down upon them.

As they lay dead in the snow, Yakov saw what he had done. The horror of his actions hit him like a wave of a chilling Siberian storm. He took a long swig from the bottle and threw it into the fire.

As the fire crackled louder and an enormous tongue of flame grew from it because of the alcohol, Yakov, full of remorse and madness and fury at what he had just done and the workings of the night, dived into the fire that engorged around him and killed him. Only his face fell in the snow out of the fire's reach.

------X------X------X------

He had travelled a day into the future. He could not change it. The other day in his other life was just the same.

------X------X------X------

Thoughts : The idea of wormholes and parallel universes is one that is not understood or even explained. Proposed by many renowned physicists, including Stephen Hawking himself, this may be a way to actually explain time travel and what may happen on an occasion in which time travel may actually be possible.

In 1908, in the Tunguska area of central Siberia, there was an enormous explosion in the forests. Its effect was felt up to almost 600 miles away. It was described as a great flash of light in the sky and searing heat that was felt miles away along with an indescribable force which “shook the ground”. What may have caused that explosion so long ago is still a mystery, open only to speculation.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Irreplaceable

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 06:12:00 +0000

Clouds of smoke.
Driven away.
The shadowy wisps
Of a few breaths taken.
Pounding in my heart.
My only memories
Rising in my veins.
To help the salt
Run down my face.

Irreplaceable.
Are these memories
Of a few breathless gasps
Of a few priceless memories.

Some treasured secrets that I kept.
The chest of gems I held dear.
And still do.
I have them no more.

At my bequest,
They came to me.
Disappearance now stinging clear.
Heart pounding
Mind fading.
Eyes reddening.

The time of reckoning is upon me.
I have lost much what was dear.
They held corners of my heart.
Bequeathed to me by the One.
Most irreplaceable.
Most precious.

I must strive.
I must hold on.
I must be vigilant.
Beyond all measure unheard.
There must be no more thefts of the heart.
Or the soul must crumble.
As I have in her arms.

Blog Awards - 2

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Tue, 31 May 2011 11:53:00 +0000

Antara of 'Whatever I Have Said or Sung' presented me with these awards. I am a little late in accepting them, and I wish I could award her back as well, for she deserves them all the more. But that's not how the rules are (and she already has the award). The guidelines are somewhat like this :

1. Post linking back to the person that gave you the award.
2. Share 7 random things about yourself.
3. Award 15 recently discovered blogs.
4. Drop them a note and tell them about it.

Seven random things about me : (difficult but I'll try to eke out something all the same!)

1. I do believe I'm a rather slow reader when it comes to reading text books or anything I might be gaining knowledge from that isn't literary in the usual sense!

2. There was a time when I actually liked pop music. Yes, I have grown beyond those days.

3. Long before my interest in pop music, I used to listen to 'Red Hot Chili Peppers'. This is when I was a tiny youngster!

4. I have passed out of my last few days of education. There may be only one more educational venture in my life, as I see it. I don't really want any more (who would?).

5. I will be selling my rusty (figurative. it's made of wood) guitar soon. Any takers?

6. Relocation is easy for me and I'm excited to be doing it soon again.

7. A whole new life awaits me.

And I pass on the award to:
1. Enchanta
2. Sammy
3. Sayak
4. Shilpa Nair

4 because I've been busy enough not to have recently discovered any new bloggers!

Congratulations to all of you!

Uncertain

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Fri, 27 May 2011 07:06:00 +0000

Painting by Adon Elmir

Do I really have something within me?
Is there any mettle that means anything?
Or have I gone about life with luck all along?
Good fortune, or ill, was that my life's way?

I may never know; the answers are never clear.
Laid out in front of me in an unsolvable mess,
Nothing can be made certain of my prowess.
For all I can see is that I've been given well all the way.

The decisions were based simply on a basis
Of the first rush runner, as the story makes it seem.
I got there first, and therefore, I got the gold.
I would just never know who truly deserved it.

I wish it were me but I never knew.
But I think I know now.
Somehow, I can never be certain it was my success.
But someone else's failure that made me climb pinnacles.

Quod Vidi

Black and White

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE. February 21, 2002.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Band of Metal

Threshold of Liberation

The Legacy of a Cross

Don't Make Us Speak Louder, Sibal

A Longer Day To Live

Thy Honour and Mine

The Beginning

Pyre In The Sky

The Creators

Rechristening

Open Letter to all Racists

In Memoriam

Serenity

Unchained Melody

Almost Lost

Mother's Burden

An Ordinary Kite

Break of Dawn

Into The Light

Chained Lovers

The Other Day

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 21; the twenty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Irreplaceable

Blog Awards - 2

Uncertain

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

February 21, 2002.