Sound of night...

Each week, I post three words. You write something using the words.

Then come back and post a link to the contribution with Mr. Linky (but please, link to the exact post, not your blog, by clicking on the exact post title and paste it to Mr. Linky below). As  always, there's no hard-and-fast rule that you have to post on Wednesday.

But I invite everyone to check back often to read and  comment on other contributions. This is, after all, a community for writers who clamor for feedback.

This week's words: 

Flag; noun: A piece of cloth or similar material, typically oblong or square, attachable by one edge to a pole or rope and used as the symbol or emblem of a country or institution or as a decoration during public festivities; verb: Mark (an item) for attention or treatment in a specified way; signal to a vehicle or driver to stop, especially by waving one’s arm.

Might; modalverb: In reported speech, expressing possibility or permission; expressing a possibility based on a condition not fulfilled; used in questions and requests; used to express possibility or make a suggestion.

Passive; adjective: Accepting or allowing what happens or what others do, without active response or resistance.

At last everything fell silent. The drums, flute and nadaswara stopped playing and disappeared into the sound of night. But her mind recalled each and every moment of that wonderful night. It did not remain silent not for a minute. She blushed, giggled as she lost herself into a world of fantasies. 'I am not going to sleep today' she told herself. The clock banged twelve O clock, two more hours to the most exciting event of her life...

When she met him in that crowded street three years back, did she know that he was the one? She pondered over the question again and again. The answer was she was unaware that she knew He was the one. Planning wasn't her cup of tea. Everything seemed so impulsive and life was full of surprises. So full of surprises, that she never thought there would be hurdles in her path. Ever. Lady luck was always beside her.  She passively went through life's challenges, knowing that she would emerge 'happy'.

He rolled her over and looked straight into her eyes. She was still catching her breath and stared right back into those deer like eyes. He blew off a hair strand and said 'I love you' he said and in return she closed her eyes and replied 'I know'. I never thought I might say 'I know'. What kind of a reaction was that...

She checked the time it was one A.M. She wondered now, how special yet simple was that moment. She had looked forward for those words, and it had seemed like an eternity. And  then, she had stopped hoping those words would even be uttered. Yet after giving so much, somewhere deep she wondered, she waited!

Thirty minutes left...her eyes told her it was time to shut them. The flashback scenes slowly mingled with a dream she was having. Her breathing became slower and she slipped into sleep at last. In thirty minutes, she was getting married. But she told herself, let him wait now!!!

The hero...

This week's words: 

Hollow; adjective: Having a hole or empty space inside; (of a thing) having a depression in its surface; concave; (of a sound) echoing, as though made in or on an empty container; without significance; noun: A hole or depression in something, or small valley; verb: Form by making a hole.

Misery; noun: A state of feeling great distress or discomfort of mind or body; a cause or source of great distress or discomfort.

Shallow; adjective: Of little depth; situated at no great depth; varying only slightly from a specified or understood line or direction, esp. the horizontal; not exhibiting, requiring, or capable of serious thought; (of breathing) taking in little air; verb: (Of the sea, a lake, or a river) become less deep over time or in a particular place.  

I wore my goggles, my feet were killing me and I cursed those high heeled shoes. Again I stood in front of the studio. My ears were all ON, it was exciting to be that close to the movie shooting spot. I definitely am a movie buff... My mind rehearsed carefully what I am going to tell Mr.Hero who was shooting inside. What would he be wearing... How has he done his hair today? Will I ever see him...My heart was beating at the rate of 100 beats per minute. I could feel this moment was so special...

A security guard reappeared and threatened a gang of fans, but we were so determined to see our hero that it hardly had an effect. I repositioned myself a few feet away but my eyes were stuck to the exit. I didnt wanna miss a single thing. To feel better, I began singing songs of our movie hero. Slowly my friends joined and one of them also brought out a guitar. We were enjoying the singing. Others also crowded around us and encouraged our singing. It began to feel like a different world. I closed my eyes now, the sun disappeared and so did the heat... Everything around seemed shallow. I was in a garden, full of roses...red ones. The fragrance filled up the air and like a Greek God He walked among them...

My heart beat grew faster. I stopped singing and got up. I knew the moment was drawing close... I looked  at that door, which seemed my only hope. End to all misery!!! At that very moment, He was there. In flesh and blood...this was no imagination. Time stopped for an eternity. I was aware of only His existence...not even mine. As he pushed away the curtains to make his way out, he looked straight ahead... at me. And when our eyes met, though for only fraction of a second I was swept away. I flew in a thousand skies and with a million wings... Something within me ceased to exist! And then again it all felt like a new existence...

He walked back straight to his caravan. My friends ran to him but my feet were rooted. I stood still... And deep within my heart I knew I will never feel hollow again. Atleast to me, this is love!!!     

Ekalavya....

the summer flower has run to seed

Use all or some of the words in your poem or story then leave your URL with Mister Linky. A comment would be nice too.

He picked up the book once again and turned to the first page. Reading it for the 1000th time still made it impossible to believe. He looked through the dusty windows into the dark night and was wondering at the state of decay of his mansion. His eyes caught a spider spinning a cobweb at one corner, it was working it's way skillfully and almost beautifully. The silver threads glistened with the light from the oily lamp. At another time he would have shouted at the house maids and servants for their negligence but today he resolved to maintain peace with himself. 'He was just like this...' retired professor Dayal Sharma told himself and sighed. Swinging his head back, he let his mind escape into the realms of the past...

One timid face among the whole class stood out... I noticed those sparkling eyes, thirst for knowledge and the will to work hard. They belonged to Vishnu. With a height like five feet nine inches tall, it was impossible to ignore him completely. But his timid nature and his innocence sometimes was annoying. These attributes made him look foolish at times. The other students seemed more promising to me, they were smart, eager and fearless. I treated my students not like a bunch of idiots but as clean slates... I wrote in those slates everything I knew and wanted them to know all secrets of pathology. Somewhere deep in my mind I wished some of my students would carry the torch of knowledge far away, lighting thousands of candles and my name would thus become eternal. Thus I wasn't completely selfless in my ways...


A mid summer afternoon I was panting after a flight of stairs. The heat seemed intolerable. I stopped at the end of stairs to catch my breath... A small group of students walked along the corridor, they all seemed so lively... full of laughter and jovial. It was nice to be young, I reminded myself and smiled at the group and made my way along the corridor to my room. Vishnu was walking along the wall, before our paths even crossed he fled as if I was a wild animal. I sighed and told myself 'God, show him the right path'. Somehow, even to this day when I think about the corridor incident I find myself sympathizing Vishnu. In his eyes I saw the


Years passed by. My students did make me proud. They were now professors and teaching many students. I was content that my torch of light still burned spreading light. Everywhere I went I heard praises about my students, I could see myself holding the torch light high in the air. I did not hide my pride but flaunted my achievements, at any given opportunity.

A soft breeze entered the decrepit room, the freshness of the evening air transported Dayal Sharma back to the present. A gush of air followed and extinguished the oil lamps. Darkness of night seemed to invade the mansion wildly. He stirred in his easy chair getting used to the darkness. The cold air refreshed his senses and the darkness seemed like an excellent background to his journey into the past... So he simply let it be, continuing his journey.


As time passed clearly the standards of education changed. Students relied more on 'short notes' and 'guides' rather than classroom lectures. Money became the most important thing, everything else took a second seat. Sincere and hardworking students became a rarity... those rare ones too were discouraged and transformed very soon. everything began to fade around my world. My torch of light seemed to be burning in an empty room, soon to be extinguished. I was beginning to lose hope that anything would change this situation. 

One fine day I received a parcel. My maid brought it to me with the evening tea. I opened the parcel and was surprised to find a textbook. Who would send me one, may be one of the publishers. The author's name in clear bold letters 'Dr.Vishnu Sharma'. I secretly hoped it's the Vishnu I knew...on the first page was the dedication. 

This book is dedicated to the lotus feet of my guru

Dr.Dayal Sharma

The screeching noise of the easy chair was the only sound to be heard in the whole mansion. That sound meant a lot to Dr.Dayal Sharma, it was the proof of life in that old mansion. In the darkness he reached for the book and clutched it close to his heart. And cried aloud 'Ekalavya....' The echoes filled the whole mansion.

 

Claustrophobia...

This week's words:

Drank; past tense of drink, verb: Take (a liquid) into the mouth and swallow; consume or be in the habit of consuming alcohol, especially to excess.

Hitch; verb: Move (something) into a different position with a jerk; fasten or tether with a rope; noun: A temporary interruption or problem.

Muster; verb: Assemble (troops), esp. for inspection or in preparation for battle; collect or assemble (a number or amount); summon up (a particular feeling, attitude, or response); noun: A formal gathering of troops, esp. for inspection, display, or exercise.

 

 

I sprang out of my bed and began to breath heavily. It was a nightmare! Thank God. That terrible night I had a really bad dream that I drank a magic potion which turned me into a giant. I outgrew my clothes and they tore down. Then my large head began to touch the ceiling and my arms and legs touched the four corners of the room. To my surprise I continued growing so I had to tilt my head, the tip of my nose touched the ceiling. It was all too crazy... I couldn't breath. That has been my biggest fear! Not able to breath...

 

My unconscious mind somehow mustered the courage to break out of that terrible dream and I was back to my original size. Breathing normally. It seemed like heave. And for the first time I didn't feel bad it was a Monday morning. The nightmare seemed to eradicate all my morning blues. I was just glad my nose didn't continue to touch the ceiling. 

 

The day seemed normal, all work and no play. I survived college! At four o clock that evening my mobile rang: Movie, Lord of the rings, Symphony 6PM??? I answered back positively. Finally there was something to enjoy that day. I reached my purse buried deep in my college bag and counted how much money was left. Not much actually. There was also my unused ATM card... I wondered why I never used the card. Somewhere deep down I knew I was afraid of the whole thing. 

 

The guard sitting outside the ATM centre, tall and strong... big black mustache. The claustrophobic prone ATM centre. How do people even breath inside that wretched place. There's no enough place to even swing your hands... I simply dreaded the whole place. But today I intended to overcome this hitch and declared a war on the ATM centre and the guard. I walked three blocks from our college to reach the ATM centre and was absolutely delighted to find the guard missing. The recent occupant swung the door open and I passed a nervous smile... 'How courteous!' I told myself. Then I withdrew a minimal amount and walked back towards the door. The handle of the door was cold. I pushed...it didnt open. Then I pulled... It didn't open! And then I used all tricks to open the door. No use. I felt doomed. I panicked....

 

I told myself 'Breath... Breath ... when there's enough air..' But I looked nervously outside and began banging on the door. The guard still hadn't reached his chair. A group of people outside saw my plight but instead of coming to my rescue...they began to laugh. They thought I was trying to play a prank on them. Not one person walked towards the ATM centre. Back then, television shows with pranksters making a fool out of normal people were on the top. I was clearly doomed. When I looked around the ATM centre, the hopelessness inside me precipitated and I began to sweat profusely... 'GIRL CHOKED TO DEATH IN ATM CENTRE...' those were going to be the headlines the next day I told myself... And all the crowd who thought I was some prankster for a television show are going to rot in hell. 

 

Five minutes passed... the most difficult five minutes of my entire life! I wondered if my dream was going to come true, may be it was a hint to all this menace. I also cursed my friend who called me out for a movie... Oh my bad karma! Then a miracle happened. The guard came running to the door. He motioned his hand to swipe my card through an opening near the door. I fumbled with my card and did the same... And LO! the door opened. It swung open and I was out... Breathing freely again... I thanked the guard and walked away embarrassed!  

Bearer of news....

Each week, I post three words. You write something using the words.

But I invite everyone to check back often to read and  comment on other contributions. This is, after all, a community for writers who clamor for feedback.

This week's words: 

Carnage; noun: The killing of a large number of people.

Jerk; noun: A quick, sharp sudden movement; a spasmodic muscle twitch; a contemptibly obnoxious person; verb: Move or cause to move with a jerk

Puncture; noun: A small hole in something, a tire or skin, made by a sharp object; verb: Make a puncture in (something); cause a sudden collapse of (mood or feeling).

The mid day sun shone brightly in the vast blue sky. Their skin appeared thickened and coarse, sparse garments covered their torso above knees. Feet appeared planted in the fertile black soil. They moved rhythmically planting and removing saplings. It seemed to me like all this was a dance. I cycled along the narrow mud path which separated two huge paddy fields. I was listening to the women singing and birds chirping. It all appeared so much orchestrated. It looked like a green carpet, the paddy field. Here and there I saw handmade cradles made of worn out sarees carefully tied to strong branches. It was a beautiful sight. Sweat dripped along my forehead constantly and it was difficult to wipe them, so I let it drop to the ground as if to kiss the bare earth. It was my first day here so I began to observe my surroundings very keenly. I cursed the heat but continued my journey along these fields towards an unknown destination.

I halted my bicycle in a sudden jerk (not used to muddy roads) under a banyan tree and walked with my bundle of letters towards the fields. A postcard was addressed to Chennamma who worked in the fields of Doddegowdru. Among the sea of bent heads, looking for Chennamma seemed a task. I went to a person who seemed to be the supervisor, a typical guy actually! Huge belly, dark skinned, a mole near the left lower orbital floor. I asked for Chennamma, he shouted her name loudly and a couple of heads rose up with curious eyes. From the dress I wore, they understood I was the bearer of news. All the six Chennammas, came running towards the supervisor but their eyes fixed upon me. The supervisor seemed confused and asked me ‘Which one?’ I looked at the address again, Chennamma, wife of Kitchappa’. I repeated her husband’s name and only woman began to blush. Even under the burning sun her expressions were so crystal clear, the very name of her husband filled her heart with so much delight. She rose her hand slightly and with bent eyes began drawing circles with her feet. The rest of the Chennammas began to leave silently and the supervisor led us to the shade of the banyan tree.

She was my first ‘client’ in Kudlooru. The shade of the banyan tree seemed like a pleasant change to the scorching sun. Both of us squatted on the grass which surprisingly was cool. She asked me to read the letter. I straightened my spectacles and took a closer look at the post card.  I restricted myself not only as a bearer of news but also as a counselor since many of my clients were both illiterate and naive. A few literate ones also consulted me in their affairs since they thought I had worldly wisdom. Villagers believe that travelers like me earn wisdom everywhere we go, the world being our school and life being our teacher. She asked me anxiously about the events described in the letter and I read them aloud but slowly making sure she is able to understand every word I speak. Every district had a slang, a different accent and usage of the same language.

Kitchappa described his life in simple words, health was good and work seemed fine. The city looked big with buildings and full of vehicles. He enquired about the health of his parents and reminded his wife in sweet words that his parents were old and might seem crude but they loved her a lot. He enquired about the children’s health and studies. His last few lines were about how his new city job could help clear loans. Chenamma wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and took the post card from my hand. She thanked me and began her enquiries ‘How is the city? I have seen in the television. Women are very pretty there, isn’t it? I hear they don’t take care of their own children and parents. Must be spending time doing all those colorful things to their faces and hair…’ This woman spoke so comfortably as though she knew me from ages. Yes I seemed to have earned her trust, this will help me later. I nodded as in a reply and said ‘They have to work too, like you people!’ She looked at me in complete shock, ‘Like me! You mean under the burning sun, on all fours and some mean men shouting at you all the while?’ She took a break and sighed and then carried on ‘I watch tv serials, either they are sitting on chairs watching a small tv or they are gossiping about the family all the while.’ I thought it was better to stay quiet. Women! Her supervisor called on ‘So, the whole afternoon you want to spend with that wretched postcard?’ Chenamma cursed the fellow and got up and went along leaving me and my bicycle alone. I turned back to look yet again at the sea of bent heads. Wrapped by hands of mother earth, they all looked like. I stopped for a second to enjoy once again this sight of selfless love. And do they even know that they are being held safely by mother earth’s hands? I prayed to the great mother whose omnipresence can be felt in these green fields.

I rode through the muddy path crossing the green fields into the temple street. Our culture so rich, so many gods at every turn of a street there is a Ganesha idol, decorated with fragrant flowers. The remover of obstacles. I got off my bicycle as I passed through the idol and removed my chappals. I folded my hands with great reverence and said a quick prayer. The next letter had to be delivered to the Temple priest of Sitaram temple. I had heard a lot of this temple and was eager to visit it. The opportunity presented itself today and my heart leapt with great joy. A white envelope from Chennai with an elaborate address, all in capitals was addressed to the temple priest. I dropped the envelope at the temple office and entered into the temple to have a good darshan. My mind seemed so peaceful after an encounter with Chennamma that now I was here to absorb holiness. The Sita Ram darshan was a feast to the eyes. I was lost in a different world for what seemed timeless.

My eyes opened and I was reminded by the bundle of letters that there was more work to do. I took the Lord’s blessings and was on my way back to the bicycle. The temple priest sat at the edge of steps with head bent low. He seemed to be disappointed and lost. An inner voice urged me to talk to him. The priest seemed to be around sixty years old and his eyes beamed with devotion. Respect rose from the bottom of my heart and I began to spoke him ‘Sir, are you in some deep trouble?’ He seemed shaken and lifted his eyes to look at me. In his right hand tightly folded was the letter I had given. He wiped his tears and cleared his throat and began to speak. 'This letter is from my son who passed away a month ago in a terrorist carnage....' He broke into tears again. Just listening to him punctured my heart. I placed my hands on his elderly shoulders and looked into the vast sky. Blue. Huge. without an end, without a beginning... I prayed the almighty to give him the strength to overcome his tragedy. Words at that time seemed meaningless...With the bundle of letters I walked back to my halted bicycle...          

  to be continued...

Choices...

This week's words: 

Breach; noun: an act of breaking or failing to observe a law, agreement, or code of conduct; a gap in a wall, barrier, or defense, especially one made by an attacking army; verb: Make a gap in and break through.

Ember; noun: A small piece of burning or glowing coal or wood in a dying fire.

Tentative; adjective: Not certain or fixed; provisional.

 Image courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rickymontalbano/3108143427/

Heaven on earth! Sundays, that's when time stands still (atleast that's how it is to me). My limbs refuse to move. Bed coffee. Breakfast in bed. Or a sunday brunch. Wearing shorts full time. The events of the day are tentative. Waking up at nine or ten, no irritating voices hauling in your ears, no images of your 'HARI SADU' boss harassing you. On sundays I cease to exist... On sundays I live!

One such wonderful sunday I found myself in my backyard, taking a nap on a straw mat. The radio was playing classic Bollywood numbers, they were celebrating a renowned singer's birthday. Our backyard was a safe haven, my father hardly frequented the place and this meant I was lucky enough to escape a lecture on breach of conduct and role of youth in modern society: now and then. I can't boast of my success, I have been a victim to these monologues in the past. It was only after close observation I realized how safe I was amongst these trees and their shadows. 

My neighbor beckoned to me in loud voices. I was dreaming about eating ripe mangoes. a heap of them. Heaven! A rat seemed to invade my delicious mangoes in my dream and it was calling my name. The anti climax dream shook me and I woke up. 'Friend, what about our business proposal?' I shook sleep away and began to seriously consider the business proposal at hand. We were planning to run a restaurant in the nearby neighborhood. 'Lets have a meeting and see how things shape?' I replied wiping away sleep. 'Fine...will do' Velu replied and went away punching numbers on his mobile. Meeting ON, Sunday OFF.

We four neighbors have been friends since school. We would sit in our backyards and discuss with each other about concepts in physics, formulas in chemistry and theorems of mathematics. I looked around my backyard and realized that this piece of land has been our temple of knowledge since ages. One more brain storming session coming ahead. Our business meetings were mostly brainstorming night outs. Morning we would have designed a business plan with huge success rate. I gave up my heaven for one more brain storming session in our backyard.

The ember shone brilliantly in the night. And so did our ideas... Youth, we can shake mountains, drink up oceans and reach the stars. But only those who cease to exist and choose to live!!! 
 

The girl at Piccadilly....

3WW CCLXII

Each week, I post three words. You write something using the words.

Then come back and post a link to the contribution with Mr. Linky (but please, link to the exact post, not your blog, by clicking on the exact post title and paste it to Mr. Linky below). As  always, there's no hard-and-fast rule that you have to post on Wednesday.

 

But I invite everyone to check back often to read and  comment on other contributions. This is, after all, a community for writers who clamor for feedback.

 

This week's words:

Admire; verb:

Follow; verb:

Piece; noun:

We were the first to arrive at Piccadilly, a restaurant renowned for Iranian food in Mumbai. With a childish excitement, the three of us dropped our shopping bags and began to admire the place. A bored fat bald waiter walked by and passed on the menus. Before leaving he forced a smile, I haven't seen a smile followed by a frown and then again disappear into a frown. The dentist in me was awakened by that smile. His teeth were discolored and his gums were swollen. My sister seemed to sense it and begged me not to venture into a 'Lecture on oral health awareness'. I decided to let go, this one time. The writer in me immediately came into action, I placed a patch on his eye and dressed him in a large black cloak (in the back of my mind) and lo! I had my own version of a pirate... 'Pirate in Piccadilly!' I cried aloud. We all laughed out loud and exchanged our versions of the waiter. My sister thought about Adolf Hitler and my husband thought about 'Shrek'. How cute!

Iranian food was ordered and we fell silent for a while, mostly busy with our mobile phones. The small place began to fill up with groups of three and fours mostly.... People began to settle down and the waiter appeared and disappeared with menus and orders.

A loud shrill, yes the voice was scary and I dropped my phone... Amidst all the anguish and disgust I realized the words she was singing was from my favorite song: 'Dream........ Dream.. Dream..' by Everly Brothers.

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

I hit my head to the table trying to pick up the phone... The bump and the song seemed like a dreadful combination. I couldn't take my eyes off the girl, my ears definitely wanted to get folded and turn sound proof. Why don't we have that option...

The girl  dressed in blue jeans and a bright colored top looked chic. She continued singing in the same irritable voice... to a young fellow who seemed to admire the song. His face was lit up. The whole room fell silent and people gaver her their complete attention, more out of shock rather than out of choice...

My sister whispered to me, where's the remote control to turn this broken piece off... we giggled like little naughty girls, an elderly woman tried to clear her ears with self made ear buds. They looked like tooth picks covered with tissue paper. The rest of the crowd gaped at the girl in blue... and then to our rescue came the waiter who carefully placed the food at her table.

We couldn't help but bless the waiter. To our eyes he now looked like a flying angel. Our prayers were finally answered. She literally dived into her food,, using both hands generously. The rest of the crowd continued to have their dinner in peace. We paid our bills and walked out of Piccadilly with memories of good food.

After about two to three days later, my husband and sister were fighting for the newspaper. I rushed out of the kitchen. The Piccadilly girl's photo was in the newspaper. She was the same girl, there was no sort of confusion about that. The text below the photo was from a Mumbaikar. The piccadilly girl was living in their streets for ten days. She had made the footpath her home and began to live there. When people approached her to offer help, she had put up a bold fight even with policemen and was slowly becoming a nuisance. Another observation made by the columnist was that she was wearing branded clothes, an expensive watch and some 'cool' shades. She spoke in good english and claimed to be from Delhi. She also added she had fled from home to Mumbai to become a model.

We were surprised. The Piccadilly girl seemed to stir up a cyclone everywhere she went....