The Mind's Endless Mirror

The soul searches a friend

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Thu, 14 Nov 2013 15:37:00 +0000

Riding on the wave
Of a solitary soul
I have often wondered
Where does this life go?

Into the heart
Of the unknown lover
Or in the heart
Of a burning funereal ember?

Am i alone
Under this grey winter sky
Is mine the soul
Set for immortal heights?

Is the view from the top
Just as pretty
Or does the empty air around
Make your heart heavy?

Is a soul that wanders alone
A soul at all?
Or is it a fleeting spectre
Merely meant to rise and fall?

I came this way alone
Would i walk by that way too?
Or will this lonely soul
Ever might an all elusive you....

An ode to winters in Delhi

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 29 Oct 2013 11:05:00 +0000

It comes in flirtatiously
In a chilly October breeze
It blinds, in love's mist,
My city of djinns and fairies

It tests the warmth
Of the many hearts
Who dwell in a place
So close yet far apart

It knocks on my doors in November
As I light up my sorrows and joy
Blows out my glory candles
In an innocent ploy

At length it finally comes home
With the loving warmth of the winter sun
And celebrates a new year
In a cold mist of the blissful one

Come the month of january
It claws through humanity
It barely lets the sun in
And shuns its meek vanity

I've missed you, my winter flowers
The dry rustling of your slow death
The warm quilts in the wintery nights
And the haze of my early morning breath...

Fate, thou art so temperate

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 15 Oct 2013 13:37:00 +0000

Fate you are so temperate
Leaving me awash skin and bone
You drop in like a storm
Fly me away to a grim unknown

You dont care for a lonely heart
Made complete by love
You care for time
And not the wrinkles on the brow

Fate, you remain a friend
Who holds on when we let go
You wake me up at night
And hug my mortal soul

You shine through
The darkest hours you bring
Like a black star you shine
And motherless lullaby you sing

Fate, will you hold my hand
When I lose my pride
To the undead faces
I meet on this life's ride

Will you sit beside me
Talk of where the angels lie
Will you hold on to me
And stop me when i die

Up in Flames

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 07:30:00 +0000

This heart lies cold
at the edge
of a mortal soul
i wish for playful games
for eyes that burst you
up in flames

I haven't seen the world just yet
to give up hope
on pretty words and unsafe bets
wish for an endless throe of pain
for words that burn my soul
up in flames

At length a story comes by
that brings a smile
to the unhurt eye
it sparks the wilderness for the tamed
bursts this virgin heart
up in flames

It takes you on a ride
of a lifetime
and wins over the most practical minds
at length you realize
you were winning a losing game
but by then
you are already up in flames

The Untold

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 06:03:00 +0000

Riding like a wave

On an endless thought

My pen dares to say

What the mind does not

Should we all be left alone?

To strive to greatness

Etch these thoughts on to stones

Just to lift the weight off our breast

Stories incomplete and poetry that repeats

Are like a cold gun

They wake you up in the middle of the night

And make you fear an unborn sun

Am I still a writer if I don’t write?

Am I still a poet if I don’t rhyme?

Or am I a mere aberration

On the walkways of time

Shiva

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Sat, 29 Jun 2013 16:54:00 +0000

I walk down from heavens

To take stock of hell

I walk down to give hope

To souls who in purgatory do dwell

I am not their savior

They are their own

I will not save them

From what they do not know

At length a time will pass

When the waters of the ancient lore

Will reflect to them like glass

The truth about their naked gore

And those who perish

Here tonight will die in true hope

Yet they will pass on a story

Too tragic to cope

Will he wake up

And see his sins

Or will he lay bare

His tears among his kins

Those who can’t find

Their love shouldn’t cry

They aren’t gone forever

They didn’t die

They merely walk

With me here

They stride across the mountains

On the shores of the river

I didn’t take what’s yours

What I did to you

You do unto yourself!

To the little girl

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 29 May 2013 13:22:00 +0000

The little girl in the brown coat

Left before life came by

She waited in a blistering cold

For a soul subservient to times

In a cold wind breeze she cried

Muffled in a silent dream

The winter wonderland passing by

And the night swallowing her screams

At length they came

The angels of the night

They stopped the rain

And fought the fright

They stooped down

The narrow pipes

And trudged along

Cold dark sights

Fished her out into life

In the warm lights

Only to let her drown

Out in the open sea at night

In My City

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 16:27:00 +0000

I am living what seem to be the last few days here in this city. And yes the reference to the Priyanka Chopra Hall of Crap was just coincidental. It has a life this place like those scary horror movies that claim houses have spirits. Only this city is not scary, in fact it is the contrary. It lives and breathes every day. It sits with you in empty auto rides smiling and hugs the ocean on the Marine Drive from sunrise to sunset.
You can choose to be anyone here because the city is like that old friend who doesn't judge you. It branches out into parts you probably haven't seen before and yet holds it back together. There is a reason why the city has been a victim of more terror attacks than other Indian cities. It has this troubling sense of equilibrium; like it is going to descend to chaos any second and yet it hangs on, like an eternal pause. I suppose the terrorists would probably just think it is easy target to bring a nation down but unfortunately every time the city just gets a little ruffled and falls right back into its place as if nothing went wrong.
Unlike Delhi (and mind you it is my hometown and I love the city), people are not looking to pick fights with everyone else. They are instead all about doing their jobs. No wonder it is the financial capital because the culture is that of being industrious. There is no time for laziness, no afternoon siestas (unlike Kolkatta). This city means hard work even when it comes to art and music. It celebrates struggle and gives a grand prize to ones struggling the most. It has so many faces, you tend to lose count. Some days it is that old friend driving you home safe post a night of relentless partying at 1 30 AM. At others it is the boss who works you till the wee hours of the morning. It is also a parent who takes care of you and on many occasions, it is an actor that pretends there is no chaos in this world. The city is like many one night stands rolled into one. Every night you think you know it one bit better and in the morning it surprises you with a new twist in the story.
It is, of course, the people who make this city. I remember a taxi driver telling me this one day he explained why Mumbai is so safe and Delhi isn't. His logic was that the men in this city come from their homes and earn for their families and send back money. For them, their job is of utmost importance, people are too busy making ends meet to even consider a crime. In Delhi, however, there is no such transience. I have another theory. In the heart of Maharashtrian culture, there lies this inherent respect for women. Perhaps something that slowly erodes as you go up north. Mumbai thankfully has managed to hold on to everything that is good in each culture and build its own humanity.
I didn't even realize when this city became my best friend until I was sitting alone in an auto, Muhammad Rafi playing in the background and the auto driver quaintly humming "Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya". That's what it does, this city. It has an eternal friendship with life and you don't even realize it and it has found a place in your heart.

Age of Treason

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 13:57:00 +0000

We are a hypocritical culture. We have always been one. And by that I do not mean our country. Somewhere in our evolution since the “Early Man” days we have suddenly developed the urge to point fingers and blame people. So because we continue to look to blame, we end up being paranoid.

Few days ago when the Boston bombings happened, a handful of messages were sent to my relatives in or near Boston wondering if they were ok. Minutes later a journalist in Times of India chided the Indian government and the media for its behavior during an act of terror and hailed America as a country who has learnt its lesson and now conducts all its investigations in a fair manner. A couple of days later, the New Yorker posted an article on how a Saudi Arabian 20-year-old student who had gravely injured himself in the blast had his apartment ransacked; he was questioned for hours at end. Everything he did post the blast like running away from the blast site where considered incriminating enough that the Fox News eventually asked his roommate “Did you know you were living with a killer for years?”

So, Mr Talking-Terms, America has not learnt its lesson. It will continue to harass innocent people from guilty countries, like we continue to blame Pakistan without looking at our own failures. All over the world the result of a terror strike is the same that of blaming a country and hoping the people of the country do not see the gaping holes in the intelligence systems. They fail to see the deeper more complex issues facing these countries; they do not see that in most cases terrorists recruit the Kasabs of the world not with religion but with the hope of a better life and a promising death. America, of all the countries, should be the first ones to understand that it’s not a country but an organization led by a few individuals either for profit or to settle their sociopathic tendencies that causes the carnage of the likes of 9/11. They have been waging a wasteful war, destroying two countries (one of them simply to help a son avenge his father’s embarrassment) for years now. Ironically, they attacked Afghanistan with the intent of capturing one man, eventually ended up killing him in a country that is a supposed ally. Isn’t that the very clear lesson to the country that it is not the country that causes actions but a group of individuals?

We, as a nation, for example, love to chide our leaders at their “soft” stance with our neighbors. We fail to understand that in Pakistan, things are much more complex. The middle class is struggling to stay afloat and keep its kids out of the streets because they know what they are exposing them to. No one in the country talks of the Human Rights violations and breach of ceasefire by the Indian Army during the Kargil war. What we do remember and constantly remind the world of are the mutilated bodies of our soldiers. It was a war. Both sides did things they were not proud of. Yet instead of hating the war in itself and condemning the violence, we look to hate a country when we ourselves have met people from that country far more peaceful and understanding than us. We brand them as exceptions: The “good” Muslims as Obama pointed out. And we hail America for not pointing fingers publicly instead ransacking a young students apartment quietly. This post is sort of why we will never find peace irrespective of the country we are in. I hate to be the Gandhian, but the world is going to be blind soon and the “we” would have done nothing to stop it.

FIXED IDEAS

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 06:02:00 +0000

1. Everyone is nice unless proved otherwise.

2. No one is out to get you (unlike what you believed or were made to believe as a child)

3. Sometimes we love people even when we hate them. And at other times we love them when we love them.

4. Childhoods can in fact be happy.

5. Good memories are hard to come by. We should pen them down the moment we remember them. We should not write down the bad ones because they only instill revenge

6. Revenge is a useless weapon. It’s a double edged sword that kills both you and your opponent

7. Indifference is a far bigger and better weapon than revenge; it sets you free and makes your opponent feel like an ant.

8. Gut feelings are real; listen to them and trust them!

9. “If she's amazing, she won't be easy. If she's easy, she won't be amazing. If she's worth it, you won’t give up. If you give up, you're not worthy. ... Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.” Bob Marley

10.The sick and twisted men in Delhi, who are likely to rape women, will rape you whether or not you smile on the streets. If you are forever in danger, might as well smile through your fear.

11.Never read the books you read as a child when you grow up; the world has destroyed your innocence and you can’t earn it back by rereading childhood favorites

12.Read your favorite novel once every month. It reminds you that deep down you really haven’t changed

13.Be unconditional in love; and stop expecting the unconditionality from anyone but yourself because that then makes it all conditional.

14.Express your fears openly; the more you talk about it the less scary it seems.

15.Faith in God doesn’t have to be explicit, it’s ok to pray only when we are sad because we are all rarely happy anyway

16.Suicidal thoughts are not an effect of any kind of depression. Sometimes they just stem from curiosity.

17.While I am not the best person anyone could hope to meet, I am not the worst either, I have come to believe in the beauty of mediocrity.

18.How we see the world is a reflection of how we see ourselves. Hence, the point number 1.

19.Self pity is just another word for procrastination

20.Having fixed ideas eventually kills you.

21.Scratch the above 20 ideas :(

From Anne to Sylvia

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 12:05:00 +0000

We walk through our valleys of fear
Into the dying dawn
It's all just peaches and pears
Until you find everything around was wrong

First it's hundreds then thousands in the mind
The thoughts of death
Running crazy and blind
"We are not to die", she said

"Not so quickly in life"
I am in a deeper myth my friend
For you I walked past the knife
Little, of course, can you say to this

You who embraced it like a friend
You who looked past the ignorance
Straight into a peaceful end
You who claimed it away

You don't get to take what's mine
Or is it yours too?
For now I will be fine
But one day I shall seek you out

No poetry or prose
Can cut me through the sorrow
Of a burial rose
O Sylvia

You are nothing and everything
You are my dark horse
Wrapped around a noose ring
I will come over, come over one day
O Sylvia, one day's today today...

P.S: For those who don't know their story Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath were best friends and they openly spoke of confessional poetry and the idea of suicides that they were constantly plagued with. This here is my tribute to the friendship

The End of a Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 06:12:00 +0000

Lines across the face
The stones on the path
They don't have to be a story
Of a life that doesn't last
A friend is still a friend
Even if they don't think of you
As the place to run and hide
When they have nowhere else to go

They walk in with a crown of thorns
Claim the throne and shut the door
They walk right past your fear
And start exploring death some more
A friend is still a friend
Even if they think of death
And you want to claim their life
And bring them back to their gasping breaths

They may drive you mad
With the walking away
They come back to your tears
Like it was any other day
A friend is still a friend
Even if they pick a rotten heart to save
Over your unconditional soul
Even if they walk away
Without a goodbye scroll

A Suitable Girl Part 2: The Digital Paranoia

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 09:08:00 +0000

"Does your Facebook account have things people wouldn't want to find out?" My father asked the other day. Well, first of all, what is it you think I do that could interest anyone on Facebook. I do not put up pictures of me sunbathing on the beach, frankly, I don't even remember the last time went to a beach(which is not Juhu beach!) Then he gets all defensive and sweet and goes oh no not you! Maybe someone else did it. And all the Criminal Minds episodes I have been willingly trying to forget come rushing back into my twisted mind! I have a first name so common it gives out 6,490,000 results on Google search, yes I checked, and don't even get me started on the results of Facebook (It's probably gonna pop up saying "Are you kidding me?!"). The name is basically a "John" and not a..well "Persius", not that I am complaining, I'd rather be lost in internet anonymity than be fetched with the first result that comes. But it got me wondering, if we were to judge everyone as per our digital footprint, how much presence is enough? I am present in numerous writing websites (some I don't even remember the password to!) This was before I found the blogger and decided let people come to me, instead of me reaching out to them. Not the world's best idea, but frankly those sites are just ways to appease writers with really low self esteem and I, for one, am on my path away from self deprecation. Google has a keyword tool that tells you exactly how much a keyword was searched and from where! It was a dismal story to see that my name was searched a mere 28 times! Counting ex stalkers (every Indian girl has had at least one in her lifetime!), my dad and my own narcissistic self the number would barely reach five. Assuming the stalkers and I searched my name about 5 times and my dad searched it ten times (he is the true meaning of digital paranoia and well, he really loves me!), the number would probably reach an even 28. Considering the question of internet safety was raised due to the lack of matrimonial interests, it would be safe to say, if all it took to impress an Average Joe is a pretty linkedin profile and less than 100 search results on Google, he is pretty much a coward and also a little bit stupid, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life with a combination of the two.

The Writer: An Afterthought

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 18:48:00 +0000

There was once a little boy, crying in the highlands of a wolf that didn't exist. He scared his little brother, bullied him to no end, and sometimes secretly hated his mother. The little boy grew big and tall, scaring the town with his stories. His little brother remained small and spent most of his time writing mysteries.
One day he walked through the park, hearing stories of the woods and saw his little brother hiding away in a hood. He followed him in silence and whispered through the moors, promised the little boy he will be scared no more. The little brother heard the strange voice and made his choice and dreamt of the days when he'd finally rejoice. The big brother walked right behind him in silence making up nightmares in his deep dark conscience.
It started with the neighbor's dog, he whiled away all day long and whined deep into the night like a song. The big brother went and whispered in the little one's ear about how there will be an accident this year. The dog would die under a car and be dragged along six feet far.
The sixteenth was special, for she had turned him down. Big brother was angry at her sweet sound; he told his little brother what he'd do. The little wrote it all through and through.
When his mother saw the words "set me free", the evil of it all she could see. He then told his brother the story of how, a single mom will be hanging herself now.
The little brother was sought by the world; he was no longer scared of the written word. A cop came by one day asking questions about his stories; the big brother stood by him and told him how they were just mysteries. Someone out there was reading his rhyme and doing exactly what he wrote at exactly the same time.
They grew up together, the big brother took a wife, but he also now controlled his little brother's life. The writer thinking it was all his fault, holed himself up into their house's vault. The last story the big brother told was of a writer, holed up in a white room, jabbing himself with a pen into his death and doom.
The big brother smiled a little at the thought, this time he had done nothing wrong. The writer expecting the story to come true, bowed down by the guilt took his own life through and through.
The rhymes were never easy for the big brother, he never really wrote or read or bothered. A perfect crime he thought, and went on to sound emotionally fraught. "He's dead, he's dead." He yelled in assumed fright. His wife made the call into the night. "He has killed himself, he couldn't take it anymore. He wrote he was sorry for the lives he took before."

The Writer: Part 5: Tonight

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 20:09:00 +0000

He wakes from his moment of bliss to see what the pen and paper has conjured up this time. Another Story.

***

The room was a well lit white. The stack of books in the corner was beginning to gather dust. The tiny window at the top of the room was merely for the tiny ray of sunlight that stole itself into the room. He looked up for a moment; the rain had splattered the dirt from the road on to the window as if the white of room was fighting against the filth outside. The door was ajar, he must have been waiting for someone. Or something. The sounds of the rain got louder, as if daring him to let it enter the room. He looked up and hoped the glass would hold. The books began to shudder, must be the wind, he thought. It was all dark now. The lights had gone out in the white room. He sighed a sigh, this has happened before, he thought. In a dream once. Only this wasn't a dream. When the lights came on, the room was now red. All his books were alive. His mother's hanging in the bedroom, and the worst of all, the babysitter, her tortured body walking across the room, they all came back to him. That little friend, he met at the park, that voice, he was back. It had always been him.
He wanted to get out! Out of this horrendous room, he tried to shout but there was no sound. Even the rain had gone quiet now. Could he not hear anymore? He took away his hearing? That's how he would never get scared? He looked back around the room. All the horrors of the world coming alive, why could he not hear himself screaming? Was he not able to scream at all? The red was overwhelming now. He had to start listening again; if he could just dig a little deeper and remove the thing stuck in his ear. The pen! He would use the pen to remove the block. He felt no pain as he jabbed it in, maybe he took away my pain too, he thought. Or did I do that to myself?
He jabbed it again and tried to scream and still couldn't hear a thing. Maybe if I open my mouth wider. He held his lower jaw and started pulling away harder and harder. But nothing happened, the patter of the rain was gone, the sound of his screams nonexistent. It was just him and the red room.

***

The writer reads on with horror as he reads the story, he feels the left of his head go soft and the pen covered with blood.

***

The Writer Part 4: Reality

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 04:28:00 +0000

They found her hanging by the hooks, as if that weren't enough, on the wall were the inscriptions, "Set you free"
Now in the hindsight, the writer wonders why no one saw the connection. His poem had been published and accolades came pouring instantly. An underground cult was brewing in the town and everyone wanted a piece of his words. All connections were lost until the high school rock band decided to sing his words and dedicate the song to her. She had been beautiful, thought the Writer, would have even been a good fuck. But he only thought of that because his brother would make fun of him. To him, she was like this purity which was staring him right in the eye.
By the end of the night, while she was slowly breathing her last, the Writer was looking for an end of the story. He fondly remembered her smile and her long hair and yet he couldn’t help but write what he saw.
However, he did fight it with reason. “This won’t make a good story.” He told Him. “Write what you see”, said the voice. “But no one will like it.” “Just write what you see.” And as it turned out his stories of horror were far more famous than the baby sitter’s death. He saw it all. Her being beaten up, being hung up like an animal, and wondered…why? Who was the lesson being taught to?
It didn’t matter though. Nothing ever does.
The door opens; the nurse brings the adequate pills. He chucks them to a side. You don’t need pills on the other side of 50, you just need to sit and wait for death.
The sixteenth had made him realize that other people’s deaths never scared him. 2000 books published till date, even stories that happened in a whole different continent. He wrote of the many boys being murdered in Delhi; of the 92 people shot dead in Norway; of the father who molested his child for decades.
He looks at the bookshelf now and smiles. Perhaps they saw it coming. His brother knew something was wrong. The Writer was no longer scared of him. And every time the brother suggested anything scary, the Writer just smiled.
And so it was many years later, on this grey winter’s day, the writer sat down to write. As the words began to form in front of him and he began to put his pen to paper.

The Writer Part 3: The night

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 19:16:00 +0000

Dream a little dream of me

Of a red room

Bursting at its seams

Spilling over its doom

It's an average day

By the Hudson

Only it doesn't end the average way

After endless conversations

She walks into the house

Kids asleep upstairs

She swallows away her petulant pout

And waits for parents who don't care

At length the sleep comes alive

She hears noises she can't see

She doesn't quite know it yet

But she is dreaming a dream of me

She knows not

Where the blood comes from

For it’s just the pain that’s searing hot

Of the red that the walls have worn

It’s not often you wish that night

Takes away your breath

Not every day your soul’s fright

Makes you hope for death

Dream a little dream of me

I will make you fall to depths of hell

and set you free

The Writer: Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 19:28:00 +0000

He looks back at the day he wrote his first story and smiles. The books they mock him, like pictures in his mind they come back. Here he was the best selling writer in America and yet, all he ever waited for was the next vision. Every word, every sentence was a new life, a new death.
The first ever story got published in the local newspaper thanks to his mom. She was so proud, they even framed the story. He still remembers the picture up on the refrigerator. The story was your average horror story, a couple stuck in the haunted house by the river, the same one he passed by everyday from school, the same one that stopped him in his tracks every evening.
He wrote of what he saw, his deepest darkest dream, it was no more a nightmare. In hindsight, he probably should have stopped. But it was his way out, his big leap out of this world.
The next day, the baby sitter had fallen desperately ill. The writer making the most of it, wrote the story of two young boys stuck all alone inside a house.
Now, alone in his white room, he wonders, where and when should he have stopped. At which dream, should his pen have said enough. He didn’t kill them, he tells himself. They were just coincidences. Only they were not.
His stories were famous, he was a prodigy. They called him King after the popular author. The writer wondered if he too had made a similar pact. There were no bullies in his life. All the beauty had finally dawned on him. His childhood was now exactly what he wanted it to be. Uneventful. No monsters, no scary voices in the night, parks were a joy ride. In the depths of his room, he poured out all his despair and he smiled to the world, everything was perfect.
His mom could tell, she always knew there was something great in him. So she saw nothing wrong in giving herself to him, like all mothers should.
It was only his sixteenth that messed it up a little. He smiles now wondering if it was love. Can an author love a story? Enough to make it come true. It was as if he knew she was his sixteenth story before he even met her.

That was Anna, everyone loved her even though she perhaps wasn't the best looking in the room. Her fierceness just took everyone along in her storm. She was mad at everything and yet loved life. It was almost as if she knew no fear. Her story was real. The Writer still doesn't know if his story came first or the night came after. He tells himself it doesn't matter. Only it does.

The Writer: Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 07:20:00 +0000

He had always been a scared child. Even before he had known of existence he had been scared of things. He assumed the worst when his father drove him to school. His mother protected him of all things evil for she knew there was something about him; something that bordered on greatness and glory. She had dreamt of the best things for him. And, fate as always obliged. Now, 30 years later, Writer thought how true his mother was when she saw all these things for him. He briefly smiled at the thought of his brother making fun of him. “A Wuss!” he would call him, “A pathetic little baby! Afraid of the dark! Afraid of everything!” What irked his brother the most was the friendly ear their mother used to give Writer. “You will never be like him.” she used to say.
Little by little the affections started seeming like a terrible curse to Writer. Every time his mother would take his side, the punishment would reach him in the dead of the night. He still recalls the ugly dark and jeering face of his brother in the middle of the night. The smile widened. How afraid he had been! How terribly afraid of the dark!

“They….will…catch…you!” his brother chided. “They will catch the little Writer and KILL HIM!” The fear paralyzed him. When you are ten, you believe everything your brother says. Writer remembered the days he would hurry under the bed hoping his brother would leave him alone. He began to hate his mother for inflicting the pain of her affection on him.
Years passed under this torture, Writer still afraid of everything wrote of the beauty he was missing. That one day he wouldn’t be scared of roaming the nights and actually embrace the moonlight. He wrote of the thrill of riding the bikes in the parks like other children. He wondered what it would be like to not be afraid of falling. He wondered would his world have been different had he not been scared of making friends in the neighborhood.
Life had dealt him a tough hand, he told himself. Why else would his hands shiver at the mere thought of stopping somewhere on the way from school?
But nothing stays; everything is taken away by time. One fateful walk in the park changed everything for him. The day had gone well, as far as good days go really. His brother hadn’t found the right moment to pick on him; his bus had broken down so he was in fact walking in the park with his schoolmates. He was almost close to enjoying the fine view of the nature that had evaded him for so many of the days.
Suddenly, it seemed like the voices of laughter around him were gone. “You are still afraid. Aren’t you?” someone whispered. “Still afraid of the dark?” he asked. It was his brother’s voice. Only it wasn’t his brother speaking the words. How could he? He was miles away at his football game! “Come with me to the woods and you will never be afraid. All you have to do is ask. Imagine! A life full of power! The power to instill fear in those who scare you! The power to overrule the ones with the jeering dark faces! All you have to do is…write! Spread the word, the stories of the darkness you see! The darkness their minds seek. Come with me and you will be the fearless and the great!”
The writer wondered, could this be real or maybe his forlorn mind conjuring up another spell to cast him off his fears? But the more he thought more he got convinced of the deal. It was almost as if the voice could read his mind! It could tell what he was seeking. The power to make others feel the fear he would feel. The power to spread stories of horror and mystery.

He heaved a long sigh and asked, “What do I have to do?” “Nothing!”, The voice said. “Just write what you see.”
That night, tucked away in his tiny room, he waited in the darkness for his brother’s voice. The room came alive in the night, emptiness turning it red. With a bated sigh, he picked up his pen and without a thought began his journey.

****

A suitable girl: part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 17:49:00 +0000

Meet Your average Jane, only she is not that average, she might be a bit of a recluse. Also, a little bit of a general freak of nature but those are just terms of endearments she calls herself. She works at a big shot job and is, by most people at work, called a little too loud in her dressing. No she is not a, hmm what's the corporate word for it, "slut", she doesn't go about suggestively in the office at random men. Instead, she just dresses loudly and immerses herself in her job and sometimes tends to forget that people around her are humans and might find her even remotely good looking.

She has the same dreams, that average Jane, as every other Jane in the book. She looks for attention in the most mundane places, she hates it when before leaving for work her hair has this one strand sticking out, gosh, how did the parlor guys do it! She has a story in her head, the one she saw the night before, the one where across the street two eyes met and there was love at first sight (They should really stop making those movies.)

A phone call breaks her morning reverie, "Beta, new profile! I shall send you the link!" Her eyes dart towards her smart phone (which she knows nothing about) scrolls through to her email and finds, to her disappointment, yet another guy who looks like an average Joe and she wonders do all average Janes marry average Joes or do they in fact find some semblance of passion in this world. But no, not an average Jane, remember? She thinks back at the few hearts she has broken in the past and of the few men who have tried to break that shell around her heart.

She opens her Facebook account, looks for the average Joe and sees: interests: travelling; Why? Because he likes to meet new people! Who in the world would like people, she wonders! Other interests? Movies, don't understand how movies can be a hobby either.

"Does that person understand passion like you do?" her best friend asks. And the average Jane wonders, "Ok. What passion?".

She opens the thoughts to a notebook and thinks to herself. Is she worth anything? What are we all worth really? A profile on a million sites? When did life come down to a Google search. She opens her smart phone, touches it in many places and viola. It's now something to share with an empty world full of cliches.

An ode to a friend

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 18:45:00 +0000

Ain’t worth your time

This lost hope

It ain’t worth your pain

Not worth your soul

Life isn’t a box

Nor the world an oyster

But when it breathes in joy

Don’t you forget to remember --

Nothing’s worth these tears

For now just hush and smile

For the love around you

Will make it worth your while

It’s not about the people who left

It’s about those who are

Don’t you close your doors

Don’t shut out your heart.

You are always the love for someone

An exotic mystery with no clues

You will always be this heart’s kindness

A lonely poet’s broken muse :)

The Minute before...

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 15:53:00 +0000

Take a deep breath
and fall apart
You now know this wasn't
destined by the stars
You have walked through
Worse and been together
So take a deep breath
and fall apart

You are wondering
If the blood is worth the time
You are resenting
The pain that is yours and mine
It was never
A question of the heart
So take a deep breath
And fall apart

A life judged by the knife
A soul scarred by hate
Are all reasons your mind
Endlessly makes
This pain is for now
And won't forever last
So take a deep breath
And fall apart....

Dewarists Season 2: The story of the World and its subjects

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 18:05:00 +0000

Its rare that a song fits almost as if it was coincidental with the life and death of a totally unrelated figure. Of course, the second episode of dewarists wasn't about the death of a populist leader (whom I am scared to mention for the fear of my own life), but listening to the song Tom, Dick and Harry, it was suddenly so apt.

What's different about this collaboration is that it isn't about the music. It's about the poetry behind it. That's why rappers (if they bother to write intelligently) end up sending a much deeper message and other song writers.
Piyush Mishra and Akala are not very different in their content but are miles apart when it comes to expression. Piyush being the sarcastic, caustic genre of Contemporary Hindi poets (aka Gulaal style) and Akala being the refined, smarter version of ghetto hip hop.
The song is basic, it reeks of Piyush's ideology of a nation gone to the dogs with its people lost in translation. After an evening of buying water from the back of a shuttered shop, and a weekend spent in house arrest because a city was mourning the death of an influential albeit slightly extremist leader, I wonder. What is that I am turning this nation into? I vote for the most convenient choice. I have stopped caring what the rulers of our so called democracy do or don't do. I do what I have learnt to do over my lifetime. Turn the other cheek.

Very recently, in a not so important TV series, I had heard. Jesus turned the other cheek because at the time, turning the other cheek was an insult to the tyrants. The point of it all was to stand up and raise a voice, not to take things lying down. Of course, translations are what contaminate our beliefs over a period of time.

"Resist Me and You die!" says Akala in this lyrical piece. Is that really what our nation has come down to?
or are we the ones smiling away at our clueless "Raja and Rani" and being hung by the noose for paying taxes "ragyulaarly"

This one here is a wake up call. Only it doesn't really furnish the thought of rising up, to me its an anthem about the "Andher nageri" this nation has become. It's a sad state of affairs this. When one only thinks of one's religion when stopped by an angry mob, when one quietly puts one's head down and walks away even after seeing a child being beaten by bullies on the road.
When any "Tom, Dick and Harry" can be PM and any unsecular leader can be given full state honors for his burial in a so called "secular country" where else will be headed but towards the end.

To Delhi

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 05:42:00 +0000

I dwell in silences

each step away from home

is a sword through these rusty bones

Each road less traveled

turns this sorry heart to stone

The skies are the only constant

in this ruthless existence

my breath, a painful reminder

of life and of distance

I love the city

like it were me

I hate it for its my own

It has stood the test of time

and has always given me whats mine

The Walking Unread

noreply@blogger.com (Swati Thampan) — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 10:11:00 +0000

It starts with one transition. And before you know it, you are staring at empty pages and wondering how in that brief momentary weakness, you thought you could pursue hobbies like writing, singing etc in this lifetime. Very recently I heard Vikram Seth give an interview. He had started off in a 9 to 5 job, realized he cannot work in a place like that and started writing instantly and like a writer's fairy tale he was instantly picked for publishing. He worked and still does in a different time and place: One without education loans and retired parents. Meanwhile, in a world far far away Seth's namesake runs an organization that openly embraces the existence of these mundane responsibilities. So while Seth paints beautiful paintings and reads poetry while publishers sit biting their nails over when he will deliver, two doors away there lies a pile of papers which read of lost authors almost accomplishments. We, the walking unread, are a huge population. We thrive in the fact that a few loyal friends read what we write. We feel bad when the number of views on our blogs fall below 100 and every night when we listen to likes of Seth talking, we dream of the day we will own a book that has ugly connotations of India and reeks of social and cultural stereotyping. I know this reads like the rant of a self obsessed desperate author. But it is more like an attempt to rewrite illogical systems. I work in a bank as some few and numbered readers of this blog might already know. And my world is different. In my world, Murakami and Seth are considered same genre. In this place, people laugh off all kind of philosophical discussion and they have no time wonder about the higher questions of existence.

Which world do we belong to? The walking unread belongs to a class that stays put in this world all their lives and for those two seconds of rants on bloggers, dream of what it would be like to be a real writer. I love this world. The challenge of an empty page is a bigger appeal to me than that of an empty excel sheet. For now, it's just a return to my favorite challenge. Tomorrow can be reserved for the mundane and morbid.