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Literature
The T.Nagar Hacksaw Massacre
Mangamma sat sipping her tea. The 10am rain pattered on to the edges of her sari. Usman Road was unusually quiet; an eerie sort of silence. She saw a spot of red on the other side of the Duraisamy subway, where vehicles still ran. She remembered telling her grandson that it would be rainy day in May before these streets would be deserted. The hot season; the kathiri veyil, was supposed to have started yesterday. And yet, there she was, saree damp in the rain, sitting where no one else had before – on the footsteps of Pothy’s Textiles on a Saturday morning. She took another noiseless slurp from her tea and began to descend the wet steps.
She walked to the Laxmi tea stall right next door and returned her glass. There was an unfamiliar quietness here, as well. Just the boiling of the water could be heard. She untied the knot at the end of her sari and pulled out three coins and left it on the biscuit tin. She turned around and looked at the man in black beginning to strike a m
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Literature
Episodes in Loneliness
Lamps and orange light. Two people engage with each other through a game of chess. An almost identical game they played. Rook for rook; knight for knight. Till he tips the balance by killing her pawn and denying her a chance to reciprocate. She watches her solitary pawn watch her game; pick up a pen and write.
--
He walked down a road; a flaneur-esque stroll. Heat, no humidity. Trees, no shade. Bicycles, two-wheelers and him. A still and stagnant afternoon; his movement barely disturbing the air. He looked to his left and saw a road lead into a street of families. A ball lay there, no sign of recent movement betrayed in its curves. The once-upon-a-time in him almost made him walk up to it and bowl one ball. But he didn’t. The once-upon-a-time when he didn’t know what difference existed in words like solitary and alone. He walked away from the street, leaving behind its sunlit sepia coloured stillness.
--
Soul crushing loneliness, he said. I agreed. With him.
--
Which he? Di
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Literature
Untitled
He kept looking up from his book at her. She sat on the other side of the hall, in the leather arm chair, the teal one. She’d come in about half an hour ago, wearing a flowery top, the kind without sleeves and straps, and washed up denim shorts. The top was light and flimsy, and had a different colour for her breasts than for everything else. Unlike most others, he was hoping it wouldn’t fall off. He found it more erotic that it stayed there.
In her hand, she seemed to hold an old book, seemed like leather-bound. She seemed irritated about something, her nose was all crinkled. He figured it must be her hair; it kept falling onto her face. She pushed it back and picked up her drink. It was something he never thought she’d pick; apricot juice. But then again, she was so weird he never knew what she’d have ordered. A hat, a pen and scribblebook, (that seemed to have verse inside? He couldn’t tell) a ring (was she engaged?), her hand seemed to have a weird red
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Literature
You
Too often plagued by the same vocabulary; a redundant, littered narrative. How many more times can I write of the same things? How much more can I talk of myself? So, I’ve begun to look at you; write you instead of me. And why not, you seem more worthy of being written
about.
That’s why I started thinking about you. Who you were and why I’ve always looked for you. I figured that if I understood why I want you so, I’d begin to understand who you are. Are you just a collective of ideas that I wanted you to be, written into poetry by my whimsical mind? That’s what I had once thought. But if I’ve written you in my head, why aren’t you there when I need you? Do I need to give you a name; eyes, face, fingers, chest..? Do I need to give you a body that its warmth might comfort? Does your silence need a hug to go along with it?
When I started looking for your hug is when I figured I’d have to give you a body, a face and a name. When there were se
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Literature
A Letter to the Lover that Never Would Have Been
 
Dear ...,
            I’ve written in earlier pages that some of the most powerful emotions are found in cherished moments of intimacy. I’ve come to think now that I might have been wrong; that maybe, the desperate longing for intimacy is as powerful an emotion. Because of you, I find myself struggling with my loneliness. Yes, I blame you. I blame you for turning my solitude into loneliness. I blame you for pushing me into this state of chaos; which I’d learnt to love, because it let me be around you.
            I’ll be honest. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t like that your gaze makes my knees weak; that your touch quickens my breath. I don’t want it to be this way; hoping for you around every corner. I hate that what you think of me is all that matters; that haunting want to look beautiful in your eyes. Neither do I l
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Literature
The Dance in the Mirror
Awkward, crazy and fumbling; three words to describe most of her. Her hair; her demeanour; social life; ties with family; relationships in general; sex; the way she carried herself, sober or drunk; her writing; her tastes in music; her days; her conscience...awkward, crazy, fumbling. She vaguely remembered a time when she could fit things into boxes and they would stay that way; friends, boyfriends; parents, kids; bitch, angel; right, wrong; work, fun; unnecessary drama, necessary interaction. Somehow they had all dissolved, these boxes. She was trying to figure things out, trying to remember the last time she knew who she was.
They say you become the person your company wants you. But then again, it is the person you are that picks the company you keep. This had confused her for the past half hour, as she lay on her bed, rain pattering at the windows. She’s been watching herself change, with the company she keeps, that was true. She liked new things; did new things; said new thi
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Literature
To be
I stand; I stare; I look at Chaos in the face (it chose to have one at that moment) – the swirling (and shaking and hopping and linear) mass of nothingness and infinity. I stare with an unsettling calmness; blank face and palpitating eyes. I stare not in anxiety or terror (or maybe in both), but with patience; waiting. Waiting for it to be. For Chaos never comes or goes; it is or is not. If Chaos could creep in and slither out, it would not be Chaos. Chaos is or Chaos is not. It exists or it doesn’t. So I wait for it to be, afraid to blink lest I miss it.
There was a hop, skip and a tug of my hair and in that shriek of pain, Chaos was. I jumped into the shriek; bleeding silence. I was in Chaos. There existed no systems; and all systems. I saw blue and red and pink and mercury. I didn’t know what they were. Blue was a box and red, a note of music. I stared in the insta-second I was allowed to float. You can’t do anything in Chaos, you go by its movement. You are
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Literature
Scar
Ten in the night. Her table.
She stared at the blank page in front of her. She knew what she had to do. It was simple.
At least, that’s what others had told her.
“Ha!” She thought to herself. “‘Easier said than done’ to them all! What do they know anyway? They’ve never had to think. Gah!Yes,yes, much easier said."
She sat there, looking around her room for ideas; for inspiration. She gazed at the picture frames on her table – heart shaped ones, self decorated ones, ones with her; with her parents; with her friends; and her favourite- the one with Ronald McDonald. That one was taken when she was six. She loved that day. But, somehow, right now, that didn’t matter to her; didn’t matter at all.
She looked at her Mac, in sleep mode; her phone, switched off. She didn’t need messages flooding into her inbox dozen to the minute demanding her attention. No, that wouldn’t do. Not quite. She knew what they’d be
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Literature
Red
He opened the door, keeping one eye on her. Her hand was slipping through his pants already. Fuck. She loved tempting him. Why not? She was bloody good at it. He opened the door and quickly pulled her in, lest the moment escape. Pushing her against the door, he moved his body into hers. Still wanting to tease, she hid her kisses behind her grins and giggles. He pursued earnestly. She rewarded him. A quick flick of her tongue to the corner of his lips. And then she watched him for a second, with intense eyes, while he decided whether that was pleasure or pain. She knew that would do the trick.
He put his arms around her, lifted her and threw her on to the bed. She just smiled; a sly little smile, dripping with the conceit of seduction and yet, a hint of innocence that she knew he loved on her. She handed him the reigns. Take me baby, I'm all yours, she offered her breasts up for him. One intense kiss and she surrendered to him, knowing she wouldn't regret it. She never had. She was his
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Literature
Of the black-headed visitor
He came to me, with his wiry moustache
Coming closer, inevitable was the clash
Gullible fellow, he was my second of the day
Closer, when he was at the end of his way
"ZZZZTTT", score for the Pest-o-Flash.
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Literature
And all you heard was....
So you were walking down the road so red,
You saw it all rosy; didn't see the blood
Till you heard a sound, heard a laughter,
You'd heard a girl and you quickly sought her
You looked in the bushes,
You looked in the silences,
You thought you'd found her,
But all you found was her laughter...
You finally found her in a nearby ditch, laughing away,
A smile on her lips, tears in her eyes and flowers in her hair
She wanted no comfort nor did she crave no lies
She looked for no hand to wipe them tears in her eyes
She tried to talk to you,
She tried telling you of pain,
But you couldn't understand her,
All you got was laughter...
She told you a love and its pleasure
And of that butterfly that once kissed her
She told you of things you thought didn't matter
Till she told you death was much closer
You said she was wrong,
You said she'd live,
But you didn't see the knife,
Cos all you saw was the laughter...
And so you, with your rosy-red glasses, walked away down the path,
She, with her tear wa
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Literature
Of the Unsaid
A nights so full of conversations that
The words threatened to spill into dawn
And yet their echoes stay trapped in that night air
Our memories as loud as the smothering breeze
Our pattered laughter and the gurgling rain,
And tickled squeals that kept the cold away
And yet all we hear is a stand-alone silence
Seated between you and me; that speechless air
Lingering between your lips and mine as we sat
In that silence that forbade the spoken word
And the sung tune; allowing only the smile
To walk from my eyes to yours
A silence that knows its worth
And knew it was worth much more
In that silence we walked, holding hands
That were damp with nervous sweat and sweet, sweet rain
Two unhappy hearts, side by side; convinced
That 'better' was an illusion
Meant to wither and die away.
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Literature
Going Up?
He pulled back the jagged metal doors and walked in. She immediately (as if she had expected it) reprimanded him, "Please close the door!" She did it every, single day. In that nauseating nasal, tone of hers. "Bah!", he thought as he pulled the door closed, in a deliberate slow manner and touched the letters "RT". He had heard her voice every morning, asking him to close the door. Sometimes, when too many people were there, he would even elicit a "Have a nice day" from her. But then, he would never have a nice day. He had days. But they were never nice. They weren't good, either. They were barely tolerable.  And most weren't even that. The pain, the madness, the frustration, the disgust; they came at him. Like those hideous, blood thirsty monsters that hide in the inner closet – waiting to devour you. Mostly, if you let them, they would kill you. Mercilessly, ruthlessly, with sadistic pleasure.
The constant whizzing and the echo of her voice in the air accompanied him. T
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Literature
Sorry
The sounds outside were getting to her. She wasn't able to think. Maybe a good thing, Anjana thought. Her thoughts were ruining the serenity that she didn't have, anyway. She felt the usual few million caterpillars running around inside her head with a couple of slugs sucking on the inside of her stomach this time. She felt herself swallowing down her sobs and screams, with a look of feigned dignity on her pale face. She sighed. When had going home become such an unbearable experience? For Anjana, it got worse with each visit.
She was staring outside the window; they were passing through T. Nagar now.  The bus was obviously stuck in the permanent traffic jam that this place seemed to harbour. It had been almost a year since she had come by this route. A year since she had gone home. Feeling fortunate that she had got a window seat in that crammed bus, she continued to stare at the million people buzzing around the place selling, buying, driving, getting to places, getting par
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Literature
The Street
It was the month of August. I stood at the bus stand and watched the sea of people in front of me; a sea of peddlers, vendors, haggling customers, bargain hunters, thieves, beggars, pickpockets, bikes... There would be men walking around wearing all their wares around them and there would be men walking around wearing nothing at all. Policemen would stroll about brandishing their wooden sticks and stopping the occasional motorbike to collect what was not their due. Security guards of those big shops (which were the reason so many people were here) would blow their whistles and scream obscenities at any man, woman, child, animal or bird that blocked the entrances.
I watched the crowd flooding into these stores while some waited outside till they were absorbed by the displacement mechanism that the crowd here seemed to work on. The ladies, for some vague reason, were dressed in their best saris and decked out in their heaviest jewellery. The flash  of colours were almost blindi
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Literature
The Tale of a Reaper
"Sugar!" he would growl. And then would follow a string of obscenities and curses, that, I would choose to ignore. I would walk across the cabin and fetch him his sugar. And he would slap me. Hard. Across my cheek. This was the story of my life. Aye, at least this had been the story of my life until he had died.
That was five years ago. Five years ago, he died; and after twenty years of seeming captivity, my life began. His death was a trickle of water on a parched tongue. Such forbidden ecstasy. Like an eagle let off its shackles of restraint, I soared; soared in the blue, blue sky they called freedom and between the clouds of happiness. I soared without worry nor bother.
Until one day, it hit me. Aye, as I stood in the market place with not a penny nor a bushel of wheat, it hit me. As I slept through my first hungry night, it hit me. What hit me, ye ask? It hit me that I wasn't an eagle, but an eaglet; a mere fledgling trying to learn to fly. All of a sudden, I found myself fl
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I just felt like writing a long note this morning, that may be read only by chance and by a stranger if at all. And I felt like typing oddly. Not like writing like I usually do. Maybe because typing makes me feel like I'm doing busy work and thus affords me less guilt than writing. Although what I should be doing is reading. I'm simply streaming consciousness here, there is no aim or objective but to type and type nothing in particular, in particular.

WHAT AM I DOING, I often ask myself these days in periods of existential angst, but then again my life isn't so lofty that I would use words like existential angst. More of dramatic exclamations to be mildly cathartic. At times is so that people give false reassurances. Okay they're not false, well they're not entirely false. But they're false to my low esteemed self. In anycase, WHAT AM I DOING. 

I understand no one knows what I'm talking about, which is fine, because no one is going to read this anyway. But I'm just letting myself be lost in the little things and letting them make me happy, because the big things scare me. I'm very excited in this moment about how I've not had to look at the keyboard this entire paragraph. 

My phone vibrated and a paper bag 4 feet above me shook. Normally, I would associate the vibration with the shake, but today, I'm inclined to think that there's a nervous rat in there, trying to escape. Poor rat. 

I woke this morning wanting to be hugged by an orangutan. But we both know that's not happening. Who we? Well the orangutan and I of course. You know who the best most famous orangutan is? The librarian at Unseen University. If you've not encountered him yet, please go do that. Who you? Well the person who may reading this. This is a very tree falling no one around to hear situation.

UGH WHAT AM I DOING.

deviantID

Evil-Am
Am
India
Welcome. Amrutha. Call me Am. Only half-crazy. Unfortunately. Prone to mood swings very often. Random. Erratic. Very. Save the world. I love me and hate me. Yes, I'm just like you.
O_O
I just felt like writing a long note this morning, that may be read only by chance and by a stranger if at all. And I felt like typing oddly. Not like writing like I usually do. Maybe because typing makes me feel like I'm doing busy work and thus affords me less guilt than writing. Although what I should be doing is reading. I'm simply streaming consciousness here, there is no aim or objective but to type and type nothing in particular, in particular.

WHAT AM I DOING, I often ask myself these days in periods of existential angst, but then again my life isn't so lofty that I would use words like existential angst. More of dramatic exclamations to be mildly cathartic. At times is so that people give false reassurances. Okay they're not false, well they're not entirely false. But they're false to my low esteemed self. In anycase, WHAT AM I DOING. 

I understand no one knows what I'm talking about, which is fine, because no one is going to read this anyway. But I'm just letting myself be lost in the little things and letting them make me happy, because the big things scare me. I'm very excited in this moment about how I've not had to look at the keyboard this entire paragraph. 

My phone vibrated and a paper bag 4 feet above me shook. Normally, I would associate the vibration with the shake, but today, I'm inclined to think that there's a nervous rat in there, trying to escape. Poor rat. 

I woke this morning wanting to be hugged by an orangutan. But we both know that's not happening. Who we? Well the orangutan and I of course. You know who the best most famous orangutan is? The librarian at Unseen University. If you've not encountered him yet, please go do that. Who you? Well the person who may reading this. This is a very tree falling no one around to hear situation.

UGH WHAT AM I DOING.

Comments


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:iconevil-nj:
Evil-Nj Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2010  Student Writer
Gah.
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Evil-Am Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2010
Gah you too.
Reply
:iconevil-nj:
Evil-Nj Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2010  Student Writer
and to you.
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