Sunday, 8 June 2014

The Judgement...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 47; the forty-seventh 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.

It’s 2 A.M, and I’m sitting here, writing this.
I know my time is running out, and I need to write this soon, before the dawn breaks.
Before beginning my journey, that is.

As my pen flows on this paper, I know I have no future to dream of. Absolutely.
I’ve known it for a long time now.
Not everyone gets to know that beforehand, I know.

There’s nothing that I need to be afraid of, really.
Still, I fear ridicule and rejection, more than ever.
I’m a lonely soul ; I don’t interact much with my neighbours.
I’m afraid of their questions.
“What did you do to bring this upon yourself?”, their gaze seems to ask.
I don’t want to answer them.
I’m happy to have answered my conscience, so I shy away from them, and their raised eyebrows. 

So, it was almost like a fresh raindrop on the dry, arid earth when I learnt that the place where I live has a beautiful library housing the best of the books in many languages.
Needless to say, that has been my paradise for the past few months.
You might ask me why I wanted to drown myself in books, when could foresee no future for myself. Valid question, indeed.
My answer is that, even if there wasn’t a foreseeable future, I had to live through the present, hadn’t I ?
Those wonderful books helped me do that.
Through them , I saw the world beyond the horizons of my thoughts. I read of the pain that people suffered, I saw life as they saw it.
I laughed, cried, sang and danced with them. I laughed to their jokes. When I slept, they gave me company in my dreams.
And helped me sail through my life, the aimless drift that it was.

In all their calm existence, they carry a voice. The voice of silence. And that silence must be heard.

I heard them tell me that I should put this in writing before  I embark on the journey.

A story.

A thirteen year old girl . Physically challenged.
She can’t speak; her vocal cords have been dysfunctional since birth.
She can move only her upper torso, and has been confined to the wheel chair since she was four.
She reads a lot, trying to build her world with the words that dance before her eyes.
To her, her widowed mother is the world. And of course, her brother, who’s elder to her by four years , in whose care her mother leaves her , when she goes for work as a home nurse,  every morning.
She spends her time, reading, painting , and listening to the radio from where she gathers most of her knowledge.
The evening hours of lessons with her mother are her greatest bliss. Because she loves learning.
And her mother speaks to her silence in a way none else can.

One evening, her mother returns to a silent, deserted home, to see her unconscious.
Her blouse torn open, revealing the budding blossoms of womanhood inside, the mark of teeth evident against the fair skin on her chest.
Her lips wounded ; scratches on the body, indicating conflict.
And blood trickling down ,from between her weak legs dangling helplessly down the wheel chair, and forming a puddle on the white floor beneath.

Shocked, her mother tries to wake her up, while trying to process the images mentally , and praying that the worst hasn’t happened.

When she gains consciousness, she hugs her mother and keeps still,  tears streaming down her closed eyes.
Her mother’s questions don’t get an answer.
She stares at the nothingness in front of her in silence.

But her mother understands.
She knows every inch of her daughter, and she knows that her  silence must be heard, must be read deep into.
And that it carries meanings, perhaps those that she’d never wish to be true.
Another look at her face confirms her fears.

Later that evening, when her son returns home, she confronts him.
Questions him about his sister. About what has happened to her.

In an inebriated state of mind, he admits to having raped her.

“What’s she useful for, anyway? I just had some fun,“ he says, numbing her senses.

The words her son has just mouthed throw her into a fit of rage, and it is a matter of few minutes before she finds a knife that she inserts deep into his stomach , taking away the very life she bestowed him with.
The scream that’s born in his throat dies on his lips, as his eyes widen in the horror of the realization.

She’s seen the trust shatter.
Her own womb betraying its kin.
Lust overpowering love.
And motherhood holds greater meaning to her now.

The next morning, when the law arrives, she admits to the murder.
The last private conversation that she has with her daughter, before the nuns from the convent take her to their orphanage, is a promise, that the truth would remain silent.

She’s satisfied  that she answered her conscience . She doesn’t seek protection from the law.
She’s just a mother who killed her son , probably because he found out about her secret affair - that’s the society’s version of her story.
She doesn’t worry that she’s been awarded the gallows.
She knows her daughter is now safe, at the new home.

She’s happy that she could read through her daughter’s silence.
That she didn’t leave it unseen.
And this is the message that she leaves behind, that every single silent tear is important.
That silence, must always, be heard.

Do you think the mother wasn’t justified in her deeds ?

Even if you do, I don’t think so.

That’s why I killed my son the moment I knew he had seen my daughter as a fruit to feed his lust.

That’s why I look forward to the noose that’s awaiting me , as the dawn breaks.

I made sure her silence had been heard, in the way I could.

Tell me, am I wrong ?
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Thursday, 5 June 2014

As I flutter by....

I live a life, of love and care,
Short but sweet, and very fair,
Full of colours and extremely vibrant,
You will never find me, for a moment, silent ;
I fly by , happy , cool and gay;
For me, it’s the ‘now’ that holds sway,
I count my life by moments, not years,
I find no time for sorrow or tears ;
My mission in  life is to  show you all,
That days are few, life is so small,
As you live, love and die,
Time just moves, with the flash of an eye.

Live your life, happily ever,
Despair not, fail at heart, never,
Please listen to me as I flutter by,
I am just a lovely butterfly !!

I am not much of a poetess.
It's just very recently that I discovered that I could play around with words.
I wrote this poem as a part of a story series which I'd planned to write, when I started this blog.
 Somehow, I didn't complete the series, and it still remains so.
 I thought of reproducing the poetry part of the story here.
(Yeah, Old wine repacked... I know :P )

Wednesday, 4 June 2014

A Lovely Drug !

You come at a time when my heart
Has broken to a million pieces
And I don’t know how long it will be
Before the heartache ceases !

I find myself being drawn to you,
Your love is the music to my soul
I yearn for the rush of madness
In bitter-sweet pain, I roll….

Your eyes stir the longing within me
For a life of joy and passion
I know I’ve found my soulmate
In a strange yet pretty fashion….

Your presence fills me with joy unknown
I begin to nurture my wings
They grow back to help me soar the sky
Slowly, sweetly , my heart sings….

God knows my soul needs a balm
He sends you to me as his gift
You’re the best drug I can get
To give my spirits a lift !

Love’s always the best medicine
For an aching heart, we say…
Blessed am I, in the whole world,
To have your love, this way !!

 Images : Magpie Tales

 Written for Magpie Tales Mag 222

Tuesday, 3 June 2014

The First Phone Call from Heaven : Mitch Albom - A Different take !

The new novel from best-selling author and Free Press columnist Mitch Albom, 'The First Phone Call From Heaven,' arrives in stores Tuesday.

Language : English
Author : Mitch Albom
Published by : Hachette Books
Year of Publication : 2013
ISBN : 9781847442260
Genre : Fiction

No, this isn’t a book review,
It’s just an attempt to show
A new book from my point of view,
And with all its literary glow.

So, I picked this brand new book up,
Which promised to make me believe;
I lapped it up like a hungry pup,
And wiped my lips on my sleeve :)

The books speaks of the voices from the dead,
That some residents of Coldwater receive;
Those voices send across a message to spread,
Even when the recipients grieve.....

Why do these voices choose to call,
And what and why do they seek to  convey,
The messages they speak out to one and all
And why all of them choose a Friday !

They’re happy in heaven, the voices say,
That’s a  place only for love,
Even when those who get the calls pray,
That this must be a sign from above.

The recipients take time to reveal to the world,
The secret about these calls from heaven,
Until one woman, spills it, being bold,
And confusion begins for the brethren…

There’s a young man ,who has lost his wife,
Whose young son wants to talk to mum ;
He thinks this a hoax, about the eternal life,
A temptation to which he will not succumb…

As non believers start moving to faith,
And throng the churches for the holy mass,
The protesters call it a display of wraith,
They say , this is an impasse’.

The young widower, Sully is his name,
Yearns to know and prove the truth;
The quest for this knowledge sets him aflame
And his desire is not easy to sooth !

How he goes ,the route he takes,
Is the beauty of the whole new game ;
Does what he learn soothe his aches,
Or does it put someone at blame ?

Is there really a life after death
That promises to return in some way ?
Or does it stop with the very last breath,
And the grief is for time to allay ?

These are the questions, we’ll find here,
With answers strewn across the text.     
The language fills you with pleasure, sheer
The pages turn unknowingly to next !

Is there a climax ,as is the normal rule ?
There sure is, as you’ll find out ;
What that is , and is it really cool
Is something I’m secretive about !

Mitch Albom, I needn’t speak of much,
He’s a wizard with words that enter deep ;
He weaves the story with such a human touch
That at times, the pages make you weep….

A book that makes you feel warm and good,
Its pages , worth a fine treasure…
How clear I feel in thoughts as I should,
Is not something I would measure !

So, here’s a book for you all to read,
Please do , and share with me your views…
I’m sure it’s a good choice to feed
Your soul, if you decide to choose !!

So, that's how I poetically reviewed a book :D I purchased my copy from Flipkart. The views are my own, not in any way paid and influenced only by my reading of the book . I managed to read this in three days, using the time that I travel to and from work, to the maximum. :D :D


Monday, 2 June 2014

Opening the door........

He had left for work.

The clock told her that she still had an hour, before her little one woke up.

All those moments of physical and emotional abuse swam before her eyes.

She wanted to cry out the frustration of her embittered heart.

Yearning for solitude, she looked at the door, that promised her some freedom.

She checked the time.  Very little time to act.

Meticulously, she gathered what she needed, and  opened the door.

Here was the place where she could wash away her sorrows.

Sighing , she turned on the shower for the pampering stream of hot water.


Sunday, 1 June 2014

A talk with the writers' muse :)

The Time keeper was born from his inspiring pen,
He made me spend my Tuesdays with Morrie....
He gave us the first phone call from heaven,
I salute you, sir, for words that create glory !

Next comes a woman, the queen of mystery,
She made me fall in love with a Belgian brain...
And the Mousetrap that did create history,
Madam, my love for you, is pretty insane :)

Next, the man, who , in his village of dreams,
Gave birth to Swami, Nagaraj and the Guide....
You stretched our reading to both the extremes,
Love you, truly ,you’re the nation’s pride !!

To all the pens above, that enrich our lives,
Here are two questions I would ask ;
What exactly do you do when the muse arrives,
Do you wait, or get on with the task ?

What drives you to take the plunge into the pool,
Of words, and weave magic and marvel ?
For writers like you all, your quill is a tool
That etches out the world you unravel !

Without all your words, our world is so dry,
That explains all that I have to say ;
May they make our fancies soar high,
That is what we wish, hope and pray !!
Image courtesy : Muse craft Online
Linking this to 100 Words on Saturday  at  Write Tribe.

The prompt this weekend is, " Your favourite author and what you’d like to discuss with him or her".

I couldn't identify one favourite ( I know it sounds stupid, still :D ) , so I created a short poem about three authors I love :)

This one is in 'Multiples of 100' format. Three stanzas make a drabble :)