Children have the most incredibly flexible imaginings. Like staring pointedly and obliquely at a microphone to make sure it gives you its undivided attention.

Don't mention bad breath to Texans or you'll end up with a bullet in your head. Actually, if you're a Texan above 36 years of age, you probably have one already.

Bitch

Today it was "Get out or see what I'll do to your internals." Let us discuss a few possibilities for tomorrow.

"Get me fifteen perfect, unchipped chalks of fifteen different colours or I'll reduce your internals"

"Wash my car or I'll screw up your internals"

"Sign over intellectual property rights to that project or you won't get internals"

"Take all four optional subjects or your internals will suffer"

"My ghar ka maali is on leave. Tend to the rose bushes or it will affect your internals"

"Stop breathing or I won't give you internals"

"Make a set of 500-page notes that I can sell under my name or I'll cut your internals"

"Buy an LCD for the college or I'll screw you in internals"

"Massage my legs or I'll do you-know-what to your internals"

"Wax my hairy back or forget about good internals"

And you know what the worst part is? People will do all that shit, just for three more marks.




Afterthought: "Ice my nipples, bitch, or else..."

Untitled (Part 2)

It all began simply enough. All the old man had apparently done wrong was be in the wrong place at the right time. He’d been minding his own business, seated at the same spot on the low wall he always did. He’d been scraping off the hair on his cheeks. The tiny black and white dots on his face when he gazed upon his replica in the water or on his blade irked him. The only thing he disliked more about it was having to get rid of it. To this day he’d never passed the blade over his face without cutting himself at least twice. Of course that wouldn’t be what he’d tell others. Oh, no. He’d probably been held at swordpoint by a band of blood-thirsty pillagers; no less than twenty of them, too…

And then he’d battled them valiantly and single-handedly, brandishing no more than his little knife. Arax, he called her. How he’d got her was another story. Here, he’d used her to fend them all off without so much as a scratch. All but the last two, who, the cowardly mice of men, lacking in honour, attacked him together, one with broadsword and one battleaxe, and yet they’d only managed to nick him.

He’d regaled many with these tales, and the women held their breaths as he recounted his memories in vivid detail, missing not a line describing the mortal danger he was in. And it had helped more than a few dames find their way to his bower. And they’d all believed him, too, until the day some boys heard the sound of muttered curses from a secluded grove and decided to snoop. And found him kneeling over a bowl of water, mouth and blood both running freely.

What hurt the most was that those stories used to be true. But the memory of that day sprang every time he raked his face. After all, blood makes an excellent reminder. Except this day. He ran his fingers along his cheek, examining its fineness. ‘How’d I get her so sharp this time?’ he thought aloud. ‘You didn’t, old man,’ said a voice next to his ear. He jumped, nearly shouting out in shock. He whirled around, knife at the ready and pointed it straight into the face of… no one. He was alone. He whipped around, looking through the trees. It wasn’t possible. Who could get to the green so quickly from the middle of a clearing? A tree-nymph? No. If it were, back in the day, he would’ve been quicker than it. Mostly, he’d have caught it. Now he was the first to admit he wasn’t that fast anymore, but he would’ve seen it at the very least. He hadn’t slowed down all that much yet.

‘Over here!’ said a voice behind him. He spun, the knife swinging from his fingers before he’d even turned completely to the direction of the voice. The knife cut the air so quickly you could hear the blade whistling. If, of course, you could focus on it in the split second it took to lodge itself firmly near the treeline, five feet above the ground. Embedded in empty air.

It is amazing how the phrase 'I hate you' can mean so many different things.

Yesterday it meant "You're so cute, but I wish you'd stop doing that. Not really, though, because it makes me feel good."

Today it's "Why do you have to do that? I keep telling you to stop. You should have listened to me before. It's too late now."

Jhayu's Theory of Bloggability

Corollary:

The Decision Tree

Picture, if you will, a tree. But wait. This isn’t exactly an ordinary tree, so I guess I should explain first. Let’s begin with: Somewhere out there, there is a tree. It’s like a quantum singularity or a black hole or a clean, green, moral-police-free park in the city. It exists, but you don’t know what it looks like or where it is. It’s like this spiritual thing, man… Like auras and shit, man (the ones where a guy charges like a thousand bucks to click your picture, add a glow in Photoshop and say “You have a red aura. You are energetic…”). This tree is unlike any you have ever seen, and bigger than you can possibly fathom. Hold on, I will explain why.

Imagine this gigantic tree trunk. Really, really huge. I mean, this thing is so big that it makes those redwoods you can drive through look like a strand of hair (hang on to that visual, could you? And no, I’m not being a perv. You stop. No you stop. Really! Oh, come off it!). Okay. Got that? Good. Now, for convenience’s sake let’s assume that you’re also sufficiently large (no I don’t mean to say you’re fat. No, I’m not being derisive, you’re positively lovely! What’s that? No, I’m not patronising you… Would you please just let me get on with it? Thank you.) Yes, sufficiently lar… um… big… er… well-propor… gaaah!! So you’re big. Move on. Yes. Big enough so as to view the tree as being normal sized, just for a second.

Now at about normal tree height (considering that you’re now a giant to make Jack’s giant look like a baby ant), there’s this breakout of branches. Now here, there are like millions and millions of about normal sized branches going off in every direction. Most of these branches come straight from that huge, huge, huge trunk itself, but some of them are offshoots of branches themselves, you know what I mean? Just like a normal tree, except that there’s millions of ‘em. Actually [and this is why you can’t possibly fathom (end of the first para, keep up, will you?) how big it is], there is an infinite number of branches, but it’s easier to be taken seriously when you say ‘millions’.

So, yeah. Have you pictured the millions of infinite branches? Good. Come back to normal size now (you really aren’t paying attention, are you?). So on this gigantic tree with the amazingly infinite number of branches (excuse my gesticulation here, I tend to get excited when I get an audience), each branch represents a choice. Now this is the tricky bit to understand. Each branch represents a choice, and every single choice that has ever been made, is being made or will ever be made, is represented by a distinct branch on the Decision Tree. Every last one. It is for this reason that the Decision Tree cannot grow. It exists in the fabric of the universe at its maximum potential. (Pictured alongside is an artist’s impression of the Decision Tree. Just so you know, he got it wrong. Viewing the complete image is recommended for maximum comprehension.)

Till now, this hasn’t involved you. I’m sure you’re wondering why you’ve been asked to make these imaginings of size and proportion. Here’s why. Whenever you make a decision – and it could be anything, anything at all – you’re using the decision tree. And now I’ll tell you exactly how that happens.

Say you’re deciding the colour of the flip-flops (and I don’t mean what two sailors do below deck when they’ve been out at sea for months without so much as seeing a woman) you’re buying (I’m generously reducing the length of this post and your discomfort in reading by not including the Decision Tree process for deciding to buy flip-flops in the first place). This choice is represented, as explained earlier, by a branch on the decision tree (good, I saw you mouthing that! You remember! I’m so touched… Thank you. Really, thank you… *sob* *sniffle* *clears throat*).

Yes, sorry. By a branch on the decision tree, yes. Now, all the choices that you have – say blue, green, black, red… - can be seen as leaves on this branch of the Decision Tree. Now, again, these aren’t leaves as you’re used to picturing them. Picture a strand of hair (aha! You forgot, didn’t you?). A nice long strand of hair. It’s really like one from those shampoo ads (the ones where there’s the woman with the hair flying in the breeze and the man whose face just happens to ‘accidentally’ be where the hair goes, and all that marketing crap). So, yeah. One of those, except that it’s silvery white and thick and you know, cool and looks ghostly and spiritual and stuff, man…

Now, in this case, that translates into every imaginable colour having its own silvery white, hair-like leaf on our branch of the decision tree (yes, fuchsia, teal, lavender, strawberry-pink, lemon-green, puke-yellow are all separate colours). Once you have decided which colour it is that you want your flip-flops to be, in your mind (that is perhaps the single most important phrase in this discourse), in your mind, you have plucked out that leaf (or strand of hair, as you want to look at it) from the branch. Note that this happens IN YOUR MIND ONLY and you are not to go around plucking leaves from trees saying that you are making decisions.

An alternate school of thought talks about each person’s individual decision tree. The idea is the same, it just states that every person has their own decision tree which has on it (in the fashion described above) every decision they will make in the span of their short and (in comparison with the universe at large) inconsequential lives.

I hope you have understood this noble concept. If not, fear not, for I deliver personal sermons, too. My next lecture will describe the Thought Fly and the impact of its discovery on our understanding of telepathy.

Untitled

‘We need you not. Our mage will lead us.’

‘There is no mage. No shaman. No magical protector. This man would sooner save you than a warrior mage.’

‘But that is him! Our warrior. Undoer of wrong. Defender of good, vanquisher of evil. Brave protector of the true.’

‘Surely you jest. Call him by any name you wish, but this oaf will not be your saviour. He cannot be one of your prophesized heroes. He lives but the meanest existence.’

‘Our prophesized heroes. Not yours anymore, eh? But do you not see? He has suffered the wrath of him who he has never met. He has walked three times around the earth. He carries the world on his shoulders.’

‘He has done nothing of the sort. You are blinded by your faith in the Seer. You think him the wisest man on the earth. Your ‘saviour’ is a slave. Born to a slave. Owned, once and for his lifetime, by my master, your lord. And he has never set foot beyond those walls. The only thing he is worth is the churning of the water mill. He keeps the stream running. And the tattoo you speak of, that was given him by me. With this. Perhaps if you fear the cold metal at the end of the leather ripping out the skin on your back, you would cease this blasphemy and return to your own business.’

‘You have the upper hand today; perhaps the same will not be true tomorrow. Perhaps the day you will challenge the Hooded One to a game for your soul and lose will be the day you will remember me. After all, a beard and rags are all it takes to hide the Seer.

‘Try and catch me; I am no longer here. Your fingers slip through me as if I were a cloud. And there will be the Rain of the Shroud in your soul tonight. And when the blood will not wash of your hands after you raise your first-born in the honour of death, you will know all my words to be true. The clatter of your spear, the sound of your breath as you run in your futility to save him, I have seen them all. Do not think it possible. He is doomed. The blackness is over him already. It amuses me that while he dies, you have been talking to a wall. Or so it will appear to the messenger. Hark! He comes.’

*clatter*

*running footsteps*

Directions, please...

Well, well. Where am I headed? Do I really want to go there?

I've been going there often. Quite often. Practically everyday. But I've never been this far in. I mean, really. There are limits. I really should take up acting as a career.

The Day of Reckoning will come. Then we shall see. Who knows, maybe the view from the gutter might just be nice...

Memories

He collapsed onto a chair, gazing sightlessly at the wall. His lower lip quivered. Nothing else betrayed the turmoil in his mind.

The sun was setting. Lemony yellowish reddish orange. The oak tree next to it made a beautiful setting. The kind that you use as a wallpaper. Or a postcard. It could have been so much better if she were here.

He sat down on a path of particularly green grass. Too green. Unfairly green. He stared at that sunset. She’d have loved it. She’d have set up her easel right there, on that spot under the oak, got out her brushes and paint, her piece of charcoal and sheets. Oh! so many sheets… Once she’d got that pencil in her hand, there really was no stopping her. He’d have sat there, thrown a line into the lake, or read a book, maybe tossed pebbles across the surface. Maybe just laid there watching her. Played her a song, if he’d brought his guitar. Maybe even written her one. His mind wanders. It’s difficult for it not to. After all, this was no ordinary love.

An image swam into his head. He saw how he’d waited for her outside college. Surprised her by showing up unannounced. Told her he was disappointed not to find her in the arms of another… And she’d laughed. Really thrown her head back. Settled in his arms. Reached up to kiss him on the cheek. And whispered in his ear that she was cleverer than that, that she’d left the other one inside. And laughing, arm-in-arm, they’d practically skipped back to the car, leaving everyone who saw them dumbfounded.

How she’d told him one night that she couldn’t sleep. Her nightmares didn’t let her. Memories she didn’t have, but wanted. Those she had, but wanted to forget. How he’d taken her hand in his. Kissed it. How he’d sung to her. Slow and soft. His voice barely more than a whisper. How she’d cried because she’d heard that song and that voice after so long. And how she’d fallen asleep holding his hand. And he’d fallen asleep sitting there on the floor next to her bed.

How he’d once come home well past midnight to find her awake and waiting for him. How she’d kissed him and watched him eat the meal she’d spent all evening making. How she’d fallen asleep at the table fifteen seconds after his first bite. How he’d watched her sleeping for a while and then carried her to bed. How he’d loved that meal so much more than he would have if he’d been home on time.

How when she was in school, she’d come home everyday and spend hours telling him how someone-with-a-smelly-shoe forgot to tie his laces and the girl-with-the-blue-notebook-and-the-pink-pen had cried when she lost her eraser. How even then, she’d sat at the table while he was working, paper and crayon in hand, trying to draw his face. How he’d put up the bunch of squiggles with the arrow next to it saying ‘Daddy’ on the fridge door. How he’d felt like it really did look like him.

How she’d bawled her head off, as he massaged the finger that she’d managed to bang against the table. How he’d tried to kiss away the pain. How pointing out the cat in the yard made her forget it. How the faces he made and his nose tickling her stomach had made her laugh. How good he’d felt when that happened.

How he’d held her close against him and sung to her when she couldn’t sleep. In his deep, bass voice. How the baritone had calmed her heart. The song. The dispeller of darkness and nightmares.

How he’d felt the first time he’d brought her home. Tears welling in his eyes as unbridled joy mingled there with unimaginable grief. The joy that he had her. And the grief that he was bringing home one girl he loved, not both.

How he’d stood there, aghast, unable to move when they told him that they’d tried their best, but that they couldn’t save his wife. How there had been complications. How it wasn’t over yet. How they were still trying to save his daughter.

How he'd collapsed onto a chair, gazing sightlessly at the wall. His lower lip quivering. Nothing else betraying the turmoil in his mind.

An eternity later, a voice from far, far away called out to him. He tried to see where it was coming from. He really did. He tried to push the images away. He just couldn’t. But everything slipped into focus when he heard those two words. “I’m sorry.” Saw the white coat before him. A minute later, the doctor walked away. He sagged. His knees just buckled. He lay on the floor in a heap. A low, primal groan was all he had left to grieve for memories he would never have.

Happy Birthday

I guess it's worth a mention. My blog makes it to a year. 19 posts in 12 months. Wow. That means I actually average more than a blog a month. Now there's a hilarious concept.

Happy Birthday, then. Or Birthmonth, seeing how I don't remember the date I started.



P.S. This post makes it twenty.

The Goddess of Grief

They gathered in a circle. Sat in huddled groups. Some not wanting to speak. Some not able to. Some quietly asking what happened. Those are the ones who have just arrived. Some are weeping uncontrollably. Some sob quietly into handkerchiefs. Some are fighting the urge to cry. Some others are even struggling to keep a straight face, fighting to keep maniacal laughter within. Some are there only because they know. They don’t even know how they’re expected to behave.

But they all share in two things. The disbelief and the grief. The shatteringly solid, heavy certainty and finality of it. The cold black breeze has blown through this place.

She hasn’t come. Not entirely, anyway. She can’t stand it. Not so much. Not up so close. Besides, she knows precious few of those present. She wants to be there for those she does. But she knows it will break her. Still, she’s here. In part. She can’t not be. A ghost, a spectre, a wraith, a force, an energy. She’s projected herself to this place. She’s hovering above them. Called or uncalled, she’s there.

She begins to expand. Slowly, she’s spreading herself over everyone present. It doesn’t matter how thin. Wrapping herself around them. Enveloping them. Cloaking them. Shielding them. Absorbing their grief. She’s doing this to everyone who knows. To everyone she knows and everyone she doesn’t. Everyone who’s feeling pain. Everyone.

It stings. Burns her skin. Causes her unbearable, unimaginable pain. Physical, actual pain. She screams. It’s a hundred million screams in one. She’s taking all that grief, all that sorrow, and it’s in her head now. She feels. She is the grief of a thousand widows. The agony of a thousand tortured souls. Tears well up in her eyes. But she can’t afford them. Her demons don’t allow them.

They hound over her. Peer over her shoulders. Slither between her toes. Poke and prod her. Try to push her away from her destiny. Her divine role. They taunt her. Ask her what she hopes to achieve. How she can help those she can’t bear to look at. How they will never know that she was, is, or will ever be there.

And this stings even more. The serpent may as well have bitten her. A hundred times. The devil’s words pierce her flesh like thin paper. She bleeds. The demons may well have not noticed. She wants to scream. Shriek till she has no voice. And she’s about to. She’s on the edge of giving up.

And then it happens again. She feels their pain again. Their unwitting call. She knows she must go where that wind has been. And again, she forgets herself. And her demons. Again, she has gone. Again, her skin burns. And yet again, she screams.

Songbird

That hood, that scythe,

They’re for me.

I won’t let you take them,

Not even with a cherry.

This is not your calling,

Child of the Swan,

Song of Dusk,

This is not for you.

Broken Guitars

Shattered remains of a broken guitar.

Splinters I can’t put back in place.

Pieces don’t fit together,

I can’t mend you, my love.

I can’t fix what I myself broke,

Strings that now play this muted, ugly sound,

No longer reaching from end to end,

There isn’t enough glue in the world.

A blue guitar. Rosewood guitarist.

Disappointed. Demented. Distraught.

Want to see another break?

Hold me by the fretboard, snap off my headstock.

When Strings Break (For Eric)

The flower is open.

I can smell it.

Touch it.

See it.

I hear the song it plays.

There is nothing so beautiful in the world.

The flower smiles.

I see the joy in the smile.

And the pain in the eyes.

No one heard the song today.

No one knelt by to smell.

I bent down and touched it.

It quivers.

I hear the song again.

I sing along.

And then I see it.

The flower is held open.

There’s a delicate, invisible strand.

I can see it.

No one heard the song today.

I listened for it.

It was gone.

I hear a tiny sound.

The strand is gone.

The flower is closed.

I will stand by.

I will wait for the song.