Stuck...

The Streetlight stared down at him like a one-eyed pirate, spilling shadows around him like stolen coins. The night was just about begun.

The city was a farce. Milling people, loud thoughts, unspoken actions. A Bad Attitude, ready to snap at you if you provoked it even slightly. The city was a hunter's trap, rusted out of corruption. The animals roamed free tonight.

He walked in slow measured steps, thoughts circling endlessly, bats caught in a disturbed cave. He walked down to the grub-joint, his morsel haven. He would not eat much tonight.

The people did not pay much attention. A dog barked somewhere. The night refused to go down quietly. Another fight tonight.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the fight of the decade! On one side, we have the reigning champion, the nearly insurmountable Wit! On the other, the challengerrr, light yet totally menacing, almost death-like, we have the less popular Wisdom!! Brace yourself , ladies and gentlemen, as we get ready for another gut-wrenching battle tonight!"

His head felt light, thoughts scrambled like eggs. He could not, but he would have to. Shadows raced him, as he lumbered towards his shack. Something; anything out of the jumble. Clarity still came costly, and his senses were just about broke. Buying it out would be tough, but not impossible.

The lock yelped as he turned the key into it. "Mongrel lock", he thought and a fleeting grin almost formed on his lips.The door opened, a gateway to more turmoil, more thought. The guitar lay on one end, quite forgotten, procrastinating. No melodies tonight. The cooler came on with a grumble. He settled down on the bed, a novel lying neglected on one side. Desperation, the title said. How apt. He turned its pages, still trying to stack his thoughts, rumpled clothes upon a shelf. Sleep took over, stealing into his senses like old age.

Next morning was a blur; phone call, flash bath, tying shoelaces, flying down the road. Almost ran out of breath, like a kettle, wheezing a little. He crossed the road, now reaching the railway tracks. A train trundled past, listless faces looking at him like they would look at a caged animal. He crossed through, still trying to come up with something that would be coherent, something conclusive. A total muddle, fleeting ants on a forgotten crumb. At the lift now, waiting to go up to his office. Signed in, to realise its the last working day of the week. It would be a week today, so there would have to something . His personal deadlines danced in the back of his head, teasing him. Flashed his card on the slot and headed towards his terminal. He switched his computer on, and waited for it to boot. Words circled in his head, eagles, refusing to perch and just happy circling. Someone told him that Friday held so much promise since it was the last working day. He stared into the screen, a final thought almost screaming out,

"I must blog today."

He hunched over his keyboard and fired away.

(I seem to be facing some strange sort of a block. Its not that I cant write, there are a billion things playing in my mind, all wanting to come out at the same time. I just cant sort them out. I hope to come out with something more intelligent soon. Till then, I can just hope that the stuff above would give you an idea of the rigors that I go through to come up with something passable. The narrative is slightly inspired by Frank Miller's Sin City which I was reading sometime back. And yes, Desperation is a novel by Stephen King, which I am reading right now!)

Laters.

Into the night...

Time slipped by, like a secret tide. The knight sat deep in thought,as the moon engaged itself in a battle of wits with the clouds outside his castle walls.

The storm Gods had been wreaking havoc since they put the Sun to rest for the day. All was nearly drownded and movement was nearly impossible. The kingdom lay wasted as men waded through dark waters trying to wind their way home. This was not going to be easy.

There were people. And they were braving the weather, waiting for him. Waiting for him to bring the scrolls that would free them of their cursed fate. The scrolls which would open their eyes unto the arts, unto music so sweet, that Apollo himself would look down upon them with wonder. He would have to take it upon himself to face mighty Zeus. The people were waiting. His people. And he would do it for them.

He did not have a steed; O what he would do to have one right now! Knights, as the folklore went, would not be so, without their steed. So much so for the bards. He would need to reach the people. A farmer on his way to his village was startled when a knight asked him for a ride that night. He dropped him off at the foothill of the grey hills, from where his path separated. The journey for the knight had just started.

Zeus seemed to have relented a little. The thunderheads did not look as ominous as they had some moments back, though the heavens cried its hushed tears. He walked on, scrolls secure, water threading down his face like curious streams. He did not have time to lose. The people had been sending him calls, echoing in his mind,reverberating screams on the mountain side. He hurried his steps. Time was growing shorter, almost aging. He had to go faster. Then it happened.

His sandals ripped and he almost fell, face first. Surely this could not be happening! This was unheard of! A knight encountering broken footwear to deter him in his quest? Surely this could not be the truth. The sandal stared back at him, now trailing, almost dragging along. He could not stop. He braved the elements, almost braved Fate itself and walked along into the blackness of the night, his wits alert.

Half a field away, another noble soul offered to take him a bit of the distance. He would do this for coins. The knight sighed. The old times were indeed passing by. The knights were not taken seriously anymore. His heart felt a twitch but then he hardened up. He would live up to the legends. Hell, he was a part of them. He would do it for old times sake.

Further ahead, there was chaos. People, caught in the midst of various errands, huddled and hurried at the same time, in a wild frenzy. A shadowy figure on a dark horse cart, waited patiently for an erring customer, who would need his services. He hadn't expected a knight at this hour. "Seventy coins", he muttered, his whip silently cutting through the cold night wind and finding the horse. The knight, grumbling, got on, finally hoping that this would be the last person he would be talking tonight. Only if he had a steed!!

The night opened its mouth wide to swallow them as they rode on in the darkness. This would be a night that would not find its way into history. This victory of his would remain etched only in his mortal memories. And the people who would be saved. Hopefully. The calls had been louder now, like a seagull, making him realise that time was indeed short. They raced on, hoping to just make it in time.

"I told you I am coming, its all bloody jammed man!", I told a drenched Anil, as I stepped out of the auto. Anil totally ignored me and kept bickering about time lost, concert started, blah de blah. I took out the passes and we walked in into the concert of Shafaqat Amanat Ali, drenched to the bone. My brother and his pal kept quiet, probably realising that I had come through hell to reach the concert. The concert was yet to start so everyone was happy.

They all walked out of the mad night and into the soothing confines of the pantheon. Lights glowed, dispelling the darkness like a tide receding. The knight had made it yet again. This would not go down into history, but the name of the knights had stood the test. A smile almost formed upon his lips. He felt a chill down his spine and noticed that it was cold. A slow shiver racked through his body like a forest fire.

Some one turn the AC down!!!

(This was written when jane reminded me that I had not written for a while. The concert was one of the best ever. The only setback was a broken Reebok slipper, which I dragged along in to the concert, and post it too. The following idea struck me on my way to office today in an auto. What I would give for a bike!)

Laters.

Past...

Not exactly a manuscript,but it sure looked old and worn out.It smelled of bad memories.

She opened the journal.

Oct 3 1925

I dont like ma.She keeps beating me.Baba keeps beating her.I dont like Ronu.He throws stones at me.I ran away from school today and sat near the pond.Some ducks came and pecked at my toes.Some were on the branches and singing.

I like the birds.

They talk to me.

Oct 9 1925

Today Ronu threw my lunch in school.The dog ate it up.I dont like him.He went and told everyone that Baba meets some other woman.I dont know.Ma was telling him about it the other day and he threw a bottle at her.Baba does not talk to me.I went by the pond again.The birds seem to be happy.It rained today.I am going to get muri for them tomorrow.

***

The handwriting was clear ,like the hand of someone who was sure with words.She had picked it up at the Sunday market in Daryaganj, planning to tear away the written pages and make her own journal out of it.Now, here she was, reading it like the work of a great scribe.The light from her bedroom lamp created strange shadows .The words seemed faded at places, a strained memory .What would have been a few yellow pages in the bin had suddenly become a secret peek into someone's life.It was like looking into your neighbour's house at night.Not that it mattered.She was liking this.It was like a story she kept at some hidden corner in her mind.

It sounded like a known story.

It sounded like her story.

She turned a few pages this time.A little over a month passed in the journal.

***

November 12, 1925

Today Monai mama brought jilipi but did not give me.He told ma that she cannot stay at this house forever. He said she is married to baba and should stay with him.Ma started crying.I dont like Monai mama . He reminds me of Santosh Sir.He slapped me when I told him that baba tore my copy.I went to the pond again.

The ducks were there.

They said they will tell me something in a few days.

***

She flicked away the tears that were on her cheek like careless whispers.She did not care about being sad.She wanted to know who this girl was.She did not like suspense.She hated it.Infact she hated it more than she hated her father.She turned to the last written page.

***

February 13,1926

I told Ma that I was leaving.She laughed at me when I said the birds at the pond told me I could stay with them.I dont care.I like them.They said they would wait on the terrace for me when the moon came out.They would show me how to fly.I see the moon.I am going to meet them.I can hear them calling me.

Bye Bye Diary.

I am going to fly.

***

The page quivered like it was made of water.She looked at her dresser mirror.A little girl wearing a white frock looked back at her.She held the same journal.She put pen to paper and wrote something in her journal.A word formed in the journal outside the mirror.

COME.

She got up from the bed, and headed towards the stairs."I will be back", she told her mom and headed towards the open stairs.

She never came back.

Of passing time...

Alo! I have been around and I have been about, but yeah I haven't been close to blogging for some time now. It sometimes is amusing, like someone on a bus, to watch the world go by you, talking back, occasionally talking "black", but talking mostly.I did the same, watching all of you coming over, liking what I wrote, disliking it, thinking that I was totally whack and the types.
I liked all of it. Really!!:)

And what have I been up to? I have been a part of a weekend night out where we talked in and out about real ghost stories, and quite a bit of reading. There has been writing too, two stories actually, but they will be coming up later in the blog. There was another thing that I wanted to talk about to all those guys who read the gibberish from time to time. A lot of you probably think that I am some strange demented guy who eats frogs and lurks around alleys with a laptop, turning happy children stories and rhymes into works of horror. Sorry to disappoint, but then, however much I wish, I am not exactly a person fitting the above picture. I am just another guy, going clackety-clackety in my office and trying to fight out the mean world. Why I like horror is another story.
Everyone loves romance. Everyone loves mush. Everyone always hopes that there would be this killer place where there would be tons of dough and lavish cars and life would be like "Cribs". But alas, that's not the case it seems. There is always an anti thesis to everything good that has existed or will ever exist. There will always be the shadow behind your door at night waiting to jump at you. There will always be the wisp of air that brushes your cheek when you least expect it. There will always be the times when your hands turn cold and you don't know why. Mostly you would choose to ignore it, or turn it into a goth poem saying

"when the dark night lay weeping
I felt Satan's breath upon my shoulders..."

Maybe I shouldn't do poetry because I suck at it. But stories which make the hair at the back of your neck stand up, that I would do. As for the purists, I love the nursery rhymes and stories as much as anyone else. My intention remains honest; making tales that make you do a little more than just grin. And also do tales that would make you fall off laughing. I would do tales.

And I would do them just for you.

Sach tagged me to do a tag which seems interesting.She wanted me to do the tag under the pretext of trying to know"Just what kind of books do weirdos read". I will pretend to ignore it and do the tag instead!!:)

She wanted me to quote some favourite lines from some of the books I have read. I am doing a Stephen King special here because he remains my favourite author. Here are a few quotes:

IT:
"You cant be careful on a skateboard man!"
"In vain he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts" - Bill Denborough at various stages in It.
"The magic exists" - Stephen King, Dedication to IT
"You don't f**k around with the infinite."

Pet Semetary (the latest)
"Sometimes, dead is bettah" - Jud Crandall

"The soil of a man's heart is stonier [...] A man grows what he can... and he tends it" - Jud Crandall, Chapter 22 (near end) .

Needful Things(my first Stephen King novel)

"The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool."

Christine

"If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die."


Misery

"Can I? Yeah. You bet I can. There's a million things in this world I can't do. Couldn't hit a curveball, even back in high school. Can't fix a leaky faucet. Can't roller skate or make a F-chord on the guitar that sounds like anything but shit. I have tried twice to be married and couldn't do it either time. But if you want me to take you away, to scare you or involve you or make you cry or grin, yeah. I can. I can bring it to you and keep bringing it until you holler uncle. I am able. I can." - Paul Sheldon, Misery Part 2, chapter 4.

That's that, a list of quotes that I could find. The tag is open for everyone.This is one last that goes out to all the people who think that my writings are "weird".Its in the words of Mr. King himself:

"People think that I must be a very strange person.This is not correct.I have the heart of a small boy.It is in a glass jar on my desk..."

Laters.

Growing up...

A chair.Or maybe a table.Could also have been that China vase on the corner.

He looked like furniture.

He sat there, his eyes like grey stones staring into nothingness.He felt wasted.

The door opened and a man with too much on his mind walked in."Son?",he almost whispered."Johnny"??

A weak grin came on his face, a flickering candle in a full gale."Yes Pa," he said.

"You doin sugar again huh??Temme son!!"

"No Pa.."weaker still.

"Now you lyin to your ol' pa like that?Temme you lyin' son!"

"No Pa.."voice like a floating dead leaf.

"You wanna talk to me, you open your mouth son!!I am tellin' you...Just...OPEN YOUR MOUTH!!"

With a heavy heart he turned his back to his son and left in a tearful hurry.And then he heard the most awful sound that he had come to hate in the last few years; that laugh.

Ha ha ha...

Thought...

The front looked inviting.The door was slightly ajar, just enough place for the house to breathe.Alice stepped in.

The walls were papered with pictures of people caught at various emotional pit stops.There was one with his hands out as if he was about to fall.You could make out the grey sky spreading in front of him.Maybe he was falling.Falling off.

Another one with a grin.He looked like he had been asked to smile.His smile did not look happy though.More like someone who had accepted his fate and fare, whatever it might be.Another one frowning, probably wondering what the photographer was up to.Yet another getting out of the frame, and probably pushed back to pose.Alice stared at them, with a flickering thought.Then it came to her and she knew.There was something common in all the pictures.How did she miss?

They wore hats.All of them.

Her thoughts skittered away as she heard footsteps approaching the room.The man who walked in wore a black coat and a brand new hat.He walked with a slight stoop and carried a stick. His ears looked thin and the lobes seemed almost not to exist.Alice thought they looked like a rabbit's.

"Lookin at the pictures I see?", he said with amazing grace. The words seemed to perform a little dance routine before they reached Alice.

"Yes sir.They look...intresting...if I might add", Alice fumbled.

He nodded slightly. A grin appeared, like a rabbit out of the magician's hat.He winked knowingly and asked her,

"Wouldn't you like to know why they call me the Mad Hatter?"

Snap back to reality...

Ahoy, me smashin pumpkins. I am back into the emotionless hyperspace called office and I am loving my job.From my last post, I have learnt lessons.One, a piece of work could be humorous, happening or horrendously horrifying according to the interpretation of the reader.Two, a piece of work's ego could completely be altered by the light one sees it in.Three, and the most interesting, I do have a clear-cut alter ego!:)
I had been on a ten day voyage which took me to the ports of Mumbai and Bokaro, with a little stopover at the Indian capital.The initial 3 day sojourn to Mumbai was an eye-opener to say the least.Hail you Mumbaikars for living in one of the most amazing cities in the world. I fell in love with the place so much so that I am actually contemplating moving my base to the City of Dreams.And yes, vada pav has the potential to replace the oh-so-stylish pizza globally!!
Next up was Bokaro. Flew back to Delhi and caught a 22 hour long journey to the Steel City. The occasion? India's favourite single episode soap: the wedding!!
It began like Planet Of The Apes in reverse. My relatives, their relatives and anyone who was relatively related eyed me with discovering wonder. I, like a lost prophet, trudged to find someone who would care to understand my long haired, shaggy look philosophy of life. Finding no success, I settled down to the soothing confines of my Ipod Shuffle. More whispers, more disapproving glares. I suddenly realised how it feels to be a turtle in an aquarium.
Like totally.
The acquisition of the occasion was a 7.1 MP camera bought to capture memories of the carnage(what?don't you have emotions??I say phbbbhht!! :P ). I thought of putting up a few pictures and let some of you feel the blissful emotions of matrimony and then decided that it wouldn't go too well with the flavor of my post.The final goodbye of the occasion was my paternal grandma saying "I want to see you up next" or some such. And I realised that being part of a reality show could actually be much worse than I thought.

The return journey was marred by a catastrophe of epic proportions.
I got my cellphone stolen.
Its gone.
Contacts.Pics. Music. Games.Wallpapers.Contacts.Messages.Contacts.

I.am.devastated.Sigh.

Life has resumed with a 1300 rupees cellphone (I double checked to make sure it wasn't a dummy or a transistor they were peddling). Whether the creative workshop in Mumbai has influenced my writing will be told by you guys. The highlights of the weekend gone-by have been FIR at Old Delhi Railway Station, hardcore metal mayhem at Independence Rock, mental assault by landlord over non-payment of rent(now cleared) and pestering by the United Nations over giving up world dominance. So I made up the last one.Yes.
Will write something better when I get my bearings right. You have the option of dismissing this as a filler.Also the tags shall be done in the near future.

Laters.

P.S.- Glad that most of you guys liked my dedication to Heath. After that post, my vision has cleared up. Indeed, chaos is the key...