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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.

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 match softly so as not to make noise. Mangamma found this all unsettling. Maybe this was the apocalypse her grandson had been talking about. Pulling her saree around her head, she began walk towards Kalanther Madeena shop, where she worked. Although there’s probably no point in doing so, she thought.


Vellachaamy watched the old lady walk away, disturbed. He then attempted to light his cigarette again, as quietly as he could. Having lit his last, he threw his matchstick away and took one long, deep drag. He hadn’t smoked in twelve hours or more, which in itself was unusual. He remembered having saved this one for his evening tea, in fact. But where had been the time or space? So here was, smoking his surprisingly first cigarette of the day. He couldn’t take it anymore, this fucking silence. There was no cacophony of vendors shouting out the price of their wares and customers announcing the price of those wears. There were no orchestra of horns of the busses on the bridge. There were no prayers from the mosque. There were no security guards blowing their whistles at any man, woman, child, bird, animal or vehicle blocking the entrances.More than anything, it was silence at the tea shop that freaked Vellachaamy out. There was no chatter. No clatter of glasses, vessels, spoons. There was no jokes with the tea master, no Appu to make fun of, no newspapers to fight over. There weren’t even any samosas. There was no noise, not even the buzz from a cigarette.

And watching the emptiness; the uncanny emptiness. Murugakanna looked at the empty roads in disbelief. He wasn’t pouring tea into glasses because there was no one to drink it. He didn’t mind if no one paid for the tea, he just wanted to make some; have some purpose. He didn’t know why he woke up in the morning and opened shop. He guessed there would be no one here. And yet, he wasn’t too surprised when Subramani’s mother-in-law and Vellachaamy came in for their morning tea and smoke, respectively. He related to them, trying to make the day seem normal somehow; trying to hide the looming emptiness in front of them.


If this were a normal Saturday, these roads would be bustlingly busy. The crowds here ran on a displacement mechanism, there being no place to make deliberate movements. You just went where the crowd took you. This crowd was, of course, dominated by the large, imposing women in their best silk sarees (inevitably a bright orange, green or violet), with their purses filled with food, water, pepper spray... anything to survive this place for a day.  Pothy’s, his neighbouring shop, rarely was less than three-fourths occupied. He remembered being unable to believe his uncle when he told Murugakanna that there were thousands of women and children that flood this store everyday. And yet, when he took over the tea shop, he realized this was a reality he would have to live with, learn to love maybe. And eventually he did.


And hence, the emptiness filled the space, looming over an already gloomy day. Murugakanna refused Vellachaamy’s money for the tea and sent him off to work, with a glance of his eyes. He sat down on his stool, (which he was very unaccustomed to, usually having no time to sit) and scanned the area for people; any people. And then, the crows came.


The crows flew around Pinjala Subramaniam Street. Murugakanna was wondering when they’d discover Ranganathan street, a little down the road. He heard some squawks and a fake gun firing around the street. He figured Old Man Karuppu was walking around trying to scare the crows away. He wanted to take some tea to Karuppu, but knew his senses would not handle the trip. Besides, he was scared of vultures, and knew they’d be coming before the officials. So he just sat and watched; wondering if the Big White Car would be turning into this road today. He knew that if it wasn’t here in approximately three minutes, it wouldn’t turn up. So he sat and watched. And then decided to make some food. To have some purpose again.


Karuppu, on the other hand, had too much to do. He was walking around firing a simple roll-tape gun at the crows, keeping them from picking on the meat. He walked in the middle of the road because the sidewalks were too littered. He swore under his breath at the crows. He had never liked them as a species of birds, as such. Not since his twelfth birthday, since a crow performed its mythical function of stealing his food that his grandma had made. Ever since then, he managed to deprive any crow of food that it might have a chance at. He loosened the kerchief around his mouth for a second. He realized the cloth was being an effective barrier, between the stench and his nostrils. He usually complained about the smell on this road; loving how he could declare – “I worked with death, and I still think the stench is unbearable.” But today? Today, no. Today, he understood the weight of that statement, with each step he took. And brought his cloth back to his face. Each step was hard, you see. Luckily he’d had practice. He’d worked around Usman Road for twenty years now, in a variety of shops and roles – sugarcane juice, peanuts, underwear salesman, roadside astrologer, sweeper, back-office guy. And yet, his most treasured skill was navigating through these roads. The first time a person walks on this street, his eyes would be fixed on his feet, finding clean spots on the road stained with spit, pan, faeces, stray pieces of fruit and nails and needles. But as time passes, you stop worrying about that. And yet, today, wading through that street in what he didn’t know was blood or shit, Karuppu had to re-learn how to walk through those streets, one careful step at a time.


Suddenly, the crows all shot up into the air at once, circling their way up an imaginary staircase. Karuppu, startled, turned around and saw the Big Man passing by in his new Big White Car, on time. Although for what, was beyond Karuppu. He watched the car glean by, still radiating newness. You knew you were rich if you could afford to travel in a white car in Chennai. You knew you were really rich if you could afford to drive that white car recklessly in Renganathan Street. Everyday. Through the hordes of people, all with the potential to spit their paaku at you, throw food at you, throw sharp things at you... throw sharp things at you.


Karuppu stared deep into the darkened glass; searching for the Big Man’s eyes. And Vanna stared right back at him, comforted by his invisibility. He urged the driver to stop the car at the corner of Usman and Ranganathan. Vanna was not in his trademark white veshti and white shirt today. He had stepped out from his house barefoot, in a vest and lungi. He had to hurry, see it with his own eyes. He was seeing it now, but still couldn’t believe his eyes. Things were quiet and empty. Through the darkened glass, all the red seemed blacker; all the brown looked green. And it was all wet. Stained by the rain. Vanna lowered the glass slowly, eyes fixed on the looming building of red and white. From inside the car, a flute played out.
The radio sang out to the street, “Putham pudhu boomi vendum nitham oru vaanam vendum, thanga mazhai peiya vendum, thamizhil kuyil paada vendum..”


His doctor had told him. He’d told him again and again to keep his anger under control. But he’d never listen. The slightest thing would send him into a rage. Yesterday, for example, he yelled at his rooster. It didn’t crow when it was supposed to. Because of that, his wife couldn’t wake up and make him his tea. He blamed it on the rooster. And Vanna yelled at the rooster. For a good fifteen minutes too. Till he realised that the rooster wouldn’t understand him; more because it was an Andhra rooster, than because it was well, a rooster. And this is what had sent him into his rage for the rest of the day. He knew he was going to be made fun of and criticized for a while. But what did they know about that unique relationship between a man and his cock? But he didn’t know this would happen, this mini apocalypse.


Staring out at the ugliness, his gold chain irked him. Vanna slid into panic. The beads of sweat peeked out and wondered what was going on, why they were called upon. His fingers itched for the handle and out he went into the rain, lungi and all. Bawls were choked by gulps of panic. He ran for the door of his building.


“Saar, Vanna! Saar! Saar!” Ramesh yelled out. What was wrong with this man, he wondered to himself.
In wondering, he stepped back into the car. He’d broken out in cold sweats by now. He sunk his head into his hands, oblivious to Vanna’s shrieks and screams from outside. The man was pulling his hair out, but Ramesh had more important things to look at; the colours inside his eyelids. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at rain on the windshield. He looked to the right, and saw the pillayar temple was locked shut. On a Saturday.
None of this was supposed to happen. He ran a palm across the imprint of Vanna’s palm on his cheek that lasted through the night.


All he wanted was some extra money. He should have known that he should not have taken the car for personal use. But it had worked. Well, almost.Not that his religious conscience was helping. Vanna had ordered him to take the car over to Egmore and get it blessed by Bodyguard Muneeswarar. Instead of that, he took it over to Sarika’s house. And why did he ever do that? Why? He started hitting his head on the steering wheel. Lightly at first, in regret, his hair grazing the steering wheel. Pretty soon, very much like his boss outside, he worked himself into a rage; at himself. He was banging his head right into the steering wheel now; slowly, strong, and deliberate. Till the entire road filled itself with the sound. Like the low moaning of funeral bells.


Vellachaamy was just about to walk in to his stall when he heard the low moaning of the Big White Car. He ran towards it, tying his veshti up. He was barefoot. A solitary vein stuck to his foot somewhere. He grimaced in disgust and continued running. He was used to disgusting thing sticking to his feet as he ran through these roads; faecal matter, pasty peanuts, sticky pineapples, pieces of meat...So he took it in his stride and ran upto the Big White Car.


A sudden knocking tore Ramesh away from his self-reprimand. He screamed at the figure in black through the blackened windows. He stepped on the throttle and drove away. The air was such. It gave you the feeling that anything could kill you.


Vellachaamy looked around. There were no dogs or cats either. Not even monkeys. Something underneath an abandoned pushcart caught the gleam of a sliver of sunlight. He walked towards it. He looked at it. He pondered at it. He spit at it. And he walked away in disgust.


The hacksaw lay there; one of the thousand that had led to this grave morning. A man in his lungi sat outside his shop and beat his breast for his had-been customers. Another, having driven up to CIT nagar, got out of his car and rolled his white-clad body in the rained mud. One figure in black sat on the pavement watching the last of bubble fluid flow out of a what had probably been a child’s hand, into the blood-mixed puddle. Karuppu, exhausted from his shooing, sat on what used to be a fruit pushcart. And watched the massacre soak in the unnatural rain.


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.

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