The Dancer

Extravagant make up. Detailed intricate mehndi and decorative clothes. That’s me. I dance for a living.

As I climb the steps to the stage. Each step I take perturbs the ghungroo on my feet, who in turn declare without a delay, my arrival. With each step the audiences become more eager. I can sense that. I can feel their eyes focused.  Each cell of my body can feel it. Big lid-less eyes. Anxiously moving, anxiously waiting, expecting a performance.

I position myself on the stage and limelight is about to fall on me. I should tell you though I become a different person under the lights. You see I have been dancing for years now. Initially it was a way to let off steam. I felt relaxed. The more I delved into it the more I hated the reality and the more relaxed I felt while dancing. Real life however cannot be undone and thus started the consequences. I was torn between two worlds. One I wanted to own and the one I could not disown. The tougher my life got the more I started to relate to the stories in the songs. I was Krishna one day, Sita the other, a Yogi another and an Apsara another. Anything but ME. Such a devout condemnation of reality scares people away and the only thing you are left with are your shadows. I know shadows have this dark creepy image but in the dungeons of destitute they are your best friends. They are your ONLY friends. When alone, I would love to be in darkness, in the company of my friends. Shrouding around me like a cloak. Letting me know they are around. The only problem was I was still a dancer and that involved standing under the lights, in wide open gaze. As the lights would come up I could feel the screeching of shadows. The sense of abandonment they felt. At night I was their Caesar and in light their Brutus. This transition from dark to light is, as you might have guessed, the tricky part. To overcome which my experience comes in handy. You cannot be led astray by your screeching shadows. You cannot be led astray by being you. You are not you any more. You are for the purposes of this dance a mother searching for her son. Lights come up. My lips involuntarily smile. My eyes unknowingly glow and I dance.

This time is feeling a little different. It’s strange. Every time I have fended off the temptation of being me and moulded into the character. This time however my being in the character seems to be the problem. I carry on dancing perfecting each move as if it were part of my real life with these thought rushing in my mind. I focus. I am a mother looking for her child. My remnant shadows from the halogen lamps start talking to each other. I show them my angry eyes telling them this is not the time for a rebellion. I know I am out in the light now. I know I have abandoned them momentarily but this is not the time. I am a mother searching for her child.

“Mother” they whisper.

 “Child” they murmur.

Oh! I have delved into the virtual world and opened a gate straight into reality! I had a child once. I was a mother once. The child had passed away. I had hidden this so deep down that I had even forgotten it ever happened. I had taken the lie as a reality and kept on with my virtual life as if nothing had ever occurred and now here I am out in the open dancing it away.

My feet started becoming heavy, I felt like a slave to the music, slave to this stage, chained by my ghungroo. I could not tell whether I was dancing by the script or portraying my real emotions. I broke in tears searching corners of the stage, perplexed asking my child to return. Telling him his mother goes weary.

The music eventually stops. He does not return. Lights go dim. My friends start to surround me. The audience claps away.

The Musician

As my body lies beheaded on a field, I escape the seeming comfort of a human body and evaporate into what seems to me a mere ethereal composition. Once who was a mighty warrior with a thunderous sword, is now an ensemble of small particles exemplifying chaos and yet maintaining an exterior that resembles a human shape.

Scenes of my immediate past linger around. I was a killing monster. Over the years I had become so used to it that without a second thought I detached spines, spilled guts, exfoliated souls. Things had become routine and when things become routine you start observing things that you had never bothered about before. Much like expressions of a side act while the main characters are performing, in a play that you have seen a million times. War had become something similar. Thus, I need not focus on the position of my sword, the thrust on the mark; I knew it would be precise, prefect and deadly. What I did notice now were the scared eyes of my opponents. They charge forward, brain shut, hands swinging wildly; a seeming threat that they would crush anything that would stand against them. On the contrary the only thing that they did crush was their chance of survival. But then I looked closer in their wide eyes. I saw their instincts fighting for survival; a gripping fear like a creeper wrapped their bodily mass. They had in them the same feeling, same anxious heart that I had before I turned into a killing machine. I realized how much it had scared me then. Somewhere in my conscious the seeds of the creeper that were to grip my body were re-sown. But I had gone past this. I was stronger than this. I shattered the creeper and went on to behead my opponent. Then came another and another and another wave after wave of humans. Wave after wave of eyes. Wave after wave of anxious hearts. Waves of cries, waves of fear. I slaughtered them all. Without remorse each and every one of them lay spilled on the ground, their blood owing a little area of their own on my sword, a matter of privilege I thought. I felt like a musician in harmony with the sword, I was on a high. It didn't matter how much energy I had. I didn’t matter how much long it would take. As long as there were humans to kill, I would kill. The feeling of peace that one gets in being a perfectionist in one’s profession was divine and it needed a divine intervention to be overpowered.

There was this bright, blinding light from a door wreathed in flame. I responded to this stimulus by dropping my hands. A parallel process alarmed me of the consequences of lowering my guard.  Some “would be” will charge with his “would be” mighty sword and would swing for my head. His sword’s edge would invade my skin, negotiate the flesh, severe the veins and thrust upon the bone, dislodging it into components and then would ease its way out, toppling my head in the process. But I was overpowered, divine intervention I had asked for and divinity is what I got. Seconds after I had dropped my hands, my head rolled down as a consequence of the cascade of events mentioned before.

So, here I was floating over my beheaded corpse. Waiting. Angrily. Waiting for judgement may be. To be dragged and burnt in hell. Angry about the sheer unfairness. I was a swift killing machine. The best that there was. A shambolic end it seemed to a legend. But then from the flame something seemed to be coming out. My anger and scenes from the past scooted away like small fishes do when they sense a shark approaching. I could hear the footsteps and as they had an impact on the ground, a vibration reverberated that dissolved further doubts. The devil himself is it?

He came out of the door, clad in black, with a cape of skulls hanging from the shoulders. As he approached me the skulls from his cape cackled.

“Fear not. He is not here to burn you in an inferno. That is fate of the weak. He is here to recruit. Join the legion of the master himself” in the hissing voice the skulls persuaded.

What followed belittled all that I had achieved as a human. I got a glimpse of his plans. Crashing galaxies. Colliding planets. Bursting suns. Gorgeous umbrella clouds. Compared to this symphony of destruction my deeds were a cacophony of breakage.

“Destruction is the ancestor of construction. Important cog in the cycle” hissed the skulls.

I was convinced. Convinced of his greatness. I surrendered. With a raise of his hand I came to his eye level and then I diffused into him. One with the legion. A new feather in his cap, a new skull in his cape rather. I bow in front of you my master, the true musician. 

Coffee

The sun is yellow, sky is blue, grass is green and there I am sitting with my coffee cup. Now, there are butterflies around going round and round and all I am worried about is the storm in my coffee cup. Generally, I would have reveled at the trivial topic and dissected its particulars, but somehow this time I really did not like that there is a storm in my coffee cup. No, it’s not that I don’t like storms they are gorgeous of course, it was actually the trivialness of the topic that offended me. See, the point is that on one hand there are great visionaries who map the landscapes of humanity with their thoughts and on the other hand here I am worrying about a storm in my coffee cup. The exact depiction of the feeling is one of a lab rat chasing a piece of cheese on his Ferris wheel while other rats are bringing down cities. Once you get that image, the question becomes obvious and that is chosen/designed/synthesized to ponder on trivial things while few go about their business and trot to greater objectives? A fundamental aspect of equality of human beings is what I begin to question. The answer of course became apparent and its horrendous nature did not really sit well with me. If some where there is someone who has made me trivial, owes me an apology. You cannot just get away with that.

With a burning desire to have a tete-a-tete, I then pack my bags and head for an obscure island. I stand there on the rock and while staring at the huge mass of water I declare my purpose. “Come down here! You owe me some answers!” I shout. No reply. Ok I’ll wait.

Hours later, the sun rises over a calm sea. I had never seen anything more beautiful than that, something thing comparable to a lady answering your call, opening her eyes and looking directly at you. The most thrillingingly awesome sight indeed! Now, as my brain starts computing the beauty and magnanimity of god’s design, I apply the brakes to this train of thought and ask it to hold it right there! “You can’t fool me with this! However grand your plans are they still does not answer my questions!” “Come down here! You owe me some answers!” I declare again. No reply. Ok I’ll wait again.

A lot of hours have passed now, I begin to feel hungry, knowing however that the island is abandoned I let my hopes be a minimum. Few more hours pass and now hunger is unbearable. My eyes defy the logic my brain has to offer and start looking for food. I scan the area carefully and what is that tree far away I see? Are those coloured dots on a green skeleton fruits!? I run with all my might all the while expecting them to be fruits. My mind is quick enough to draw images exemplifying their luscious nature. I run harder. Now within clear sight I gasp “Apples!” Within fraction of seconds of this discovery, my hand reaches ahead, plucks that red beauty and with an eagerness equaled only by the feeling of kissing irresistible red lips, I bring the apple within biting distance. At that moment right there an alarm goes off in my head “Bribe! It’s a bribe!” I throw the apple and step away from the tree. “Oh! You won’t get away with this!” I head towards the shore, more resolute, angrier! “Come down here! You owe me some answers!” I declare. My eyes locked with purpose. No reply again. I cross my legs and station myself there to wait again.

The response to my declaration actually came later, not in the way I had hoped though. Clouds gathered over me, darker, messier. It was as if the beast’s trickery had been unearthed and now he seeks revenge. Suddenly the lightning strikes with a thunder that shakes the land and with this war cry a million piercing drops of water, as if arrows from the heavenly army, descend down upon me. With insatiable hunger for punishing the outlaw, the waves tower in front of me adamant to dissolve my very existence. As this multi-pronged attack raged and ravaged, something more sinister came to play. It was a doubt. A doubt whether an apology is really worth this? A doubt whether my decision even makes sense? A doubt whether is this the way I want my existence to cease? As worms of doubts were creeping their way in along with battering rain and unforgiving tides I have a moment of epiphany. “Your ego is too big to surrender to me, is it not? You would rather kill me and destroy the question rather than face me and answer it?!”

I then close my eyes, surrender myself to my constituent elements and lie down. After a journey of conflicting emotions a smile came up “It was a battle I didn’t win, but it was a battle you lost!” and with these last words for the all mighty I gave up, sure of the fact that there will be more who will come.

Sleep

Sleeping can be a ghastly process.

As you face a conundrum with your half open eyes, devil whispers “Come to me” in your ears. Images of your hard working day displayed in front of you,

“Close your eyes” he says.

“You deserve it” he says.

Evil eyes and a wily smile. A woman with long nails and a red nail polish signals you to enter the cave. “Come hither” echoes all around. The lady puts a finger on her lips and suddenly with a “Shhh...” the world stands still, everything around seems redundant, all attention is focused on the cave. The cave seems to be calling your name. There is a little di caprio inside you saying “you had my curiosity, now you have my attention”. There is a part of you waiting to be one with the dark. It reaches out and grabs her hand and seconds after what seemed like eternity, you are in.

A sigh of relief, a feeling of comfort builds around you, only to last till the time you realise a creaking sound that represents a heavy steel door shutting right behind you. As you turn your bulged eyes, filled with surprise and dismay, back to the lady, the scenario has totally changed. The cave has been lit by helices of fire, bringing to light things that you would rather prefer be in dark.

“Welcome to your sleep” the lady thunders, showcasing the canines hidden behind her red lips and oh by the way you also notice the sticky red fluid you are standing on. Its origin can be traced back to a sound which goes like “tak..tak..tak..tak..tak..” A harmonious and efficient use of a knife in a chef’s hand. The machine being one with the man. There is a body lying on his table and he starts with the feet, dissecting layer by layer like carrots and beans. As his left hand makes its way up, the right as if under strict orders, slices with a clean action whatever volume is available. Within minutes a human body is converted to salad, ready to be served with appropriate dressing.

Your dumbfounded silence and not to mention a feeling that is summed aptly by Constable Clarks words to Sherlock Holmes “Panic. Sheer bloody panic, sir!”, is broken by yet another creaking sound. Damn! You must hate them by now. It is sort of a dragging creak from a chair that the lady is bringing around. She is approaching you slowly and steadily. You might have found it seductive had you not been in a pickle right now and as you curse the timings of these pickles she is approaching while dragging a chair along. The legs of the chair, apart from making that obnoxious sound, are scratching the thick blood stains on the ground. For a moment you feel sorry for the sound, it probably is the cry of agony while trying to leave from whatever this is.

As the lady comes next to you and stations herself on the chair. The lights in the cave brighten and you are greeted by gathering of people also stationed on chairs. Their faces speak of the eagerness with which they wait for something to happen. You obviously have no idea who are these people or what is going to happen to you, so you take one choice that almighty has trained you for. The one skill that you are a master of. You try to turn your back and run for it. But, oh no you can’t. The blood beneath has glued you, the fear has struck you motionless. You sir are asleep. You can’t run. You can’t hide. All you can do is stand helpless waiting for whatever is going to happen. As your subconscious lingers about all the invasive strategies the villains apply in movies, she stands up to address the gathering. As wise Theoden might say “So it begins”.

“You can start you bidding now” says the lady, looking dismissively towards you as if saying “that’s right you are being auctioned”

The feeling on your face starts with absurdness and later dissipates into submissiveness. With every bid that the seated gentlemen make your humanity drains out a little and by the time this process ends you feel like a chained animal. Lady gladly gives your reins to your proud owner. You are now officially his property.

“You sleep when I say, you wake when I say” commands the proud owner, and suddenly in a moment of sheer brilliance an idea pops in your mind. You can just wake up. Screw the lady, screw the chef and screw the bloody owner. Open your eyes and kiss this nightmare goodbye. So, with all the strength that was left, you push your eyelids apart and voila! You are awake!

But, before you could take a sigh of relief, you are greeted with glaring looks, shouting people, ringing phones and assiduous alarm clocks and you wonder if all that was reality after all.

The Violet Train

In a tunnel too dark, stands a man, waiting in the middle of the tracks for his train to arrive. Rest of the world could board one, He couldn’t. Our guy is in a fix. Trains seem to just go through him like an arrow piercing a mist, and in the process of which he is exposed to the interior of the train. Inside the train are paintings hanging on either walls. Now as the train moves along these static images start making sense. They, in their discreet steps, do their best and tell him a story. For eons he has been there. At the exact same spot and every train that has gone past has told him another story. Now, he might not have any idea of time and space, but a memory of one particular train has not been erased. Atleast not yet. This was the violet train. How could he forget this train? Before it he had prayed to die every single moment a train past by. Rest of the world would be crushed by one but, he wouldn’t. There were so many questions! They had shaken his believes. Turned the world upside down! Like, for example there was this blue train. This train told the story of a warrior buried in a grave with his sword on a desolate mountain. No, he wasn’t dead. He just was asleep. Years later when he woke up, he climbed to the surface and saw a whole new world around him. There were lights and sounds, faces and voices. Confused, he asked the mountain, who are they? The mountain replied they were their children. She had adopted them when he was sleeping in her arms. The news filled him with joy. They were his children! He had never imagined that the barren hands of his could father one, leave alone a civilization. In the meantime however the world seemed to gather around him and gave him looks reserved for the strangest of animals. Oh! He understood. He has been away too long. It was his mistake. He opens his arms and approaches one of them. They frown and shoo him away. Oh! He undersood. Just like a child. He wouldn’t mind. “Recognize me O child! I am your father” he explained. “I fell in love with the mountain ages ago and we have lived together ever since” he rationalized. He smiled again and firmly moved to embrace them. His smiles were short lived though, they were followed my instantaneous screams and a shower of stones. Befuddled he stood there watching them stoning him to death. The mountain cried sorry tears but “Fret not” said the warrior. Probably he was never supposed to be a father. He was after all a warrior, the blood he once spilled is being repaid. He watches the red fluid trickle down and the mountain absorbed it all. “We are one, finally” said the warrior. “They are children after all” said the warrior.

By the time the train had left our guy was stunned. How could he? He thought. The warrior so great had just surrendered? It does not make sense!

Then there was this red train. It told the story of a volcano. For years he had remained dormant, but was finally destined to wake up. He was thirsty. No amounts of alcohol could quench his thirst. As his hands tried to grab, the vapours just went further and further beyond his reach! He knew he was the scourge of the planet. Oh! But he was thirsty. He was thirsty for acceptance. Everything he touched vanished. His glimpse had the world famished. He meant no harm, it is just that this is what he was. Molten lava. This constant control bugged him. “Enough!” he said, “I am not meant to be control!” he said. With one burst then he spewed out his anger, destroying everything in his path. In a matter of hours he had conquered all! The full world was nothing but a pool of fire! There was not an inch left for him to conquer, the thirst however remained.

Such waste full thirst! Judged our guy. It makes no sense! It did not atleast till the day the violet train arrived. It did not tell a story. It just showed eyes. Perfect, round, mesmerising eyes. Those eyes were like a calm lake, fenced with eyelashes and a thin line of charcoal. He felt his touch may cause ripples that were beyond his control. For, a moment he felt as if he were on a boat under the moonlit eyes. Right there, that moment he felt that calmness, that he would surrender his whole world to these eyes and as the train past him by he felt a thirst. Unquenchable by any source available. He just had to see the eyes. He just had to be with them. He just had too. Suddenly, calmness of the warrior and the thirst of the volcano made perfect sense. Oh! Violet! He wished if he could be destroyed by a train, he would want it to be a violet train.

Be careful what you wish for they say. He however knew exactly what he was wishing for. So, now today as he stands for his train to arrive, he can feel it in the sound, he can feel the heaviness. “This is different” he murmured. As he saw the train approaching his curiosity became an unhideable glee. “The violet train” he gasped. The train approached at a breath-taking pace, spilling him on either sides of the walls, and the violet exterior was stained red. He however had got his wings and was holding his train in his arms.

There

I never understood Beethoven, never could fathom Mozart, but that does not mean I cannot have the vision to see past the black clouds and realize these are my last times. I am in his majesty’s royal air force and I am on a plane in midst of a storm, in midst of a war. The hostiles are in their war ships, almost on the brink of invading the island, and my job is to stop them. How? Well, by dashing our planes into their warships. Yes, we are the kamikazes and I am the commander in charge of the 10 plane fleet designated to stop the hostile push forward. We have been handpicked to serve our land, our country. Our families are away from the war zone, well protected, and well fed. I just started a family of my own. Our baby is due anytime now. Well, in times like these when 9 of my other companions have been taken down by the cumulative effect of an anti-aircraft gun and the thunderous lightning  it is probably better not to think of friends and family. It makes you question why you are doing what you are doing. What exactly is your life worth of? Money? Land? The country? A story? What’s that again a story?? Yes, a story. Your kid will know you as a hero. Whenever he stumbles your tale would hold him, raise him, dust off his coat and tell him to get on with it. Yes, a story is what I can die for. Moments after this decision, I leave behind the remorse that I never did what I could have, never understood Beethoven, never could fathom Mozart, and dive down. The black clouds thunder almost in protest, as if its prey is escaping its claws. They send gushing winds to put me off my bearings. They send thunderbolts to remind me how petty I am and their might will not be circumvented. Below me the anti-aircraft gun is sending bullets that are whizzing past me. I am diving and they will not have me. I will defy the god, the machine, all for your legend baby doll. All for your legend. My wings have been bruised but I am critical already. My engine has given up on me. I haven’t. Almost there. Almost there. There.

I never saw Paris, never went to Istanbul, places full of life, yet I know my own hangs by a thread. I am the wife of an air force commander. I lie on a hospital bed, circled by nurses, giving birth to our baby. The doctor in front of me urges me to push. My body has rebelled against me. My muscles are cramping. They are not making way; they don’t him to come out. I am fighting for control over myself. It is behaving like an anaconda wanting to digest something that is crawling its way out. The more I try the more pain I am awarded with. Pain is a cruel master. He wants you to forget how important this moment is. He is whispering in my ears that the time has come. He tells me it is a certainty that I will die and he wants to take in my child as well. He questions me why I am doing what I am doing. In that moment, right then several images run through my exhausted mind. That clash of eyes, that first kiss, that staring the moon hand in hands, that lying in his arms, being vulnerable, knowing you are safe. I come to a conclusion that oh! It is for my love, I will hold on. You shall have me, but I will not let you feast on anything else. I tighten my grip on the hands of the nurses by my side and in that moment of singularity, I forget who I am, I was, I bury the dreams full of life and I push. I am summoning all that is left in me; it is all that I have, for you my baby doll. For you. My body is splitting into half. Almost there. Almost there. There.

I never saw my father, my mother died while giving birth to me. When you are born an orphan, your body rejects everything as foreign. Somehow it knows that there is no one that is actually yours. Your soul on the other end is yearning for company, a Sahara waiting for rain. Every time someone walks away from you because you reject their emotions as petty, you kind of feel disappointed why people don’t hang around a bit longer. Your body however at the same time feels proud that it prevailed. Yet again. It would want to rip every soul apart if it could. This state of continuous confusion essentially makes you a living oxymoron. Sure, I was born with stories, but what good are tales of courage to a torn soul. It is like polishing an apple rotting from inside. What good does it do? I am at constant war. Something inside me wants to clean the slate, wants to start again. Wants to feel like Adam, write his own destiny. But then there is feeling of an alien under a human’s skin. I sit down today with a bundle of cannabis in my hands, with an intention to resolve them both.  As I light it up and take it in, I feel like I am sucking my soul out. Be gone devil, I say to hell with you. I don’t want to do anything with society. No I don’t hate them. I just don’t care. You fight, if you have to. You kill, if you have to. Let me be. As the weed hits me, I loose control, to hell with that body I say. I take another hit. I am floating in outer space now, and I for the first time relate to something. That vacant space feels like home. It is my home. Another hit. Almost there. Almost there. There.

Vermin

I am amazed at the human capability of getting pissed off. At an innocent age they get pissed off by people who they think are wrong doers, a.k.a the evil assholes. Through their eyes these people seem to be having ugly curly hairs, dark deceptive eyes and fake smile with blackened teeth. Oh! They look bad don’t they? You just want to eradicate them an “I’ll Burn you!” in Moriarty’s words to be precise. But you don’t. You don’t because a voice in your head says “You are above all this, you are a better man!” Well, in short you chicken out! And of course you are not Marty Mcfly, so theoretically you can go chicken. You’re mind has just played a cruel trick on you or “A cruel trick indeed!” as Sheldon would have it. It just camouflaged the whole chicken scenario with one of true and genuine bravery and boy that made you happy didn’t it.

Well, you move on. As you see end of an innocent era, what dawns before you or to be more emphatic what you are plunged into is an era of apocalypse. Every man for himself. Again you are pissed off, and this time it’s different buddy. Your definition of evil has just taken the size of oxford thesaurus. There are these people near you. There is a Mr. Happy whose gentle chuckle is now comparable to Darth Vader’s muahaha. There is a Mr. Friendly whose forth comingness is comparable to an approach of an infected zombie. There is a Mr. Preacher whose voice is as treacherous as Saruman’s. There is a Mr. Sad oh! Whose head you just want to blow. There is a Mr. Nobody, minding his own business, but no, you see a secret CIA agent sent just to wipe off your existence. Oh! Boy you are pissed now. The world is outta control! What would you do now? Listen to your heart says your brain! Take up a hobby! Attach yourself to inanimate things! Look towards your goals! Enough said and done and trust me the voice in your head is just messing with you.

I will tell you what you should do. Realise and accept the fact that this voice in your head isn’t Gandalf, it is the bloody Balrog! Once you have come to terms with that fact, question now remains what to do about it? “What sort of device can bring down the wall” you might think. Well, my friend fret not, take a one way ticket to Okinawa, japan and tell a chap called Hattori Hanzo that “Gaichudomo, taijishite yaru”. He will understand what you mean. Trust me the Vermin is huge!