Threat

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It’s a vicious cycle. This endless cycle of disappointment.

You say words I never expected you to, words that sting like a mother. Then I defy you in those open acts of rebellion that are the shining feature of my personality. Stubborn. Irrational. Self-destructive.

It makes you glare at me, my defiance. I can feel the heat of your anger rolling off your skin. Your compulsive need to tame me making your hands itch. I can see your fingers twitching. I can feel the red spots in your vision.

And that is when your hand rises. The end of the power struggle. Your victory over me. Brute strength always wins this battle. Especially when I am right.

You are in control. And you leave no opportunity to remind me of that.

But that is not where the story ends. Because the wounds you inflict on me are the signs of your real failure. Your failure as a man. They are the evidence of how wrong you are.

One day, I shall parade them. One day, when you’ve ruined me enough for nakedness to not bother me anymore, I will parade them. One day, you’ll feel my shame. One day, you’ll see disappointment and hate in their eyes too, like I saw in yours.

My bruises might be hidden for now, protecting you awhile, but one day, the bloody gashes inside my head will give me the ink to write out your doom.

 

 

Image Credit: https://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/art/are-scars-on-body-217843735

Relative Reality

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The image is blurry, as if seen through a film of smoke. Fading memories – realities slipping through my fingers.

One of them said it never happened. One of them whispered that it did. One of them laughed at my perplexity. One of them shrieked the sordid details in my ear.

Hours pass each day as I think and think it all through. Real or not real, who will ever know?

And how does it matter – my truth or their truth? The universe is all relative and history is written by winners anyway.

Real or not real – they have fucked up my brain. The damage is done now and I’ll never be the same ever again.

Image credits: agnes-cecile on deviantart.com

Things That Are Real

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Five Years Old

 

  • The green umbrella we shared that July evening when neither of our mothers were watching. The way you held my hand – your fingers wrapped so tightly around my own.

 

  • Your anger when that other boy pushed me off my bike on accident. The rainbow in the sky and your hand placed protectively under my scraped knee as I cried on the pavement.

 

  • The house we built from chairs and blankets and toys in the veranda. The dolls I cradled in my arms like our babies and the clay bread I served you with a smile when you came home from work.

 

  • The day you pulled me against your chest to show me how my head barely reached your nose. Your steady breath on my forehead and my foot making circles in the dirt beside your toes.

 

  • Your wet, trembling lips against my warm cheek and the thundering of my heart in my chest. A curious parrot watching and my mother calling me for dinner from far, far away.

 

  • The last hug we shared and my promise to call before getting into the car. And the little strip of paper with your number that I lost long before I reached my destination.

 

  • My bones trying desperately to run to you and the ropes pulling me back from your waiting arms. The conviction that you were the last real thing I felt before I fell.

 

  • Your fading memory that I hold onto so hard. And the cuts and bruises that the ropes inflict on my struggling fingers.

 

  • Fingers that want nothing but yours wrapped around them like they did so many years ago. Like they might never do again.

The Story of Two

Dots. Ink blots.

Letters. Connections.

Words. Meanings.

Sentences. Feelings.

 

Endings. Beginnings.

 

Stormy skies. Calm oceans.

Gentleness. Explosions.

Brown. Yellow.

Autumn. Spring.

Buds. Flowers.

 

Nothing. Everything.

 

Stories. Songs.

Here. There.

Quiet. Bright.

Smiles. Laughs.

Dimmers. Spotlights.

 

Fingertips. Palms.

Smoke. Touch.

Breath. Life.

 

So little. So much.

An. The.

Me. You.

~Diksha

 

Dust to Dust: A Dreamy Visit to My Old School

The run down, black, metal gate stood broken on its hinges, allowing us only a narrow passage to pass through the premises of the deserted school campus. Right before us was an old marble sculpture, its detailed features were blunted in many places but the kindly visage of the woman was still clear in the stone.

Moving along the old corridor that ran to the left of the sculpture, we reached the very last room. The two windows with the broken fiber glass panes gave us a partial view of a dusty classroom through the metal grills with chipped black paint. Pushing open the wooden doors, we carefully stepped inside.

Old wooden armchairs crowded the place, termite eating at their shaky, squeaky legs. Some chairs lay overturned on the floor and some stood with broken armrests.

Numerous beams of the cheerful sunlight had lit up the depressing room with our entrance. The dust particles we had unsettled were floating about in the brightness. Coughing slightly, we examined the chamber.

The floor was barely visible beneath the thick layer of dirt that had accumulated over the centuries. Intricate cobwebs adorned the silent fans and bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Rotting boards hung askew along two of the walls, the green cloth covering almost entirely eaten by worms.

Along the front wall of the classroom were two wooden cupboards, one of which had a tiny, old lock hanging from its latch. Between the two cupboards hung a majestic green chalkboard, its slate rotting away like the rest of the furniture in the room. On the floor in front of the chalkboard, an old security camera lay with a withered old sock covering its glassy eye.

All around the clothed camera lay dusty, half decayed pieces of paper, all displaying a uniform message, ‘Adieu XII – B!’. All over the room, we found other papers full of doodles made during mindless chatter, silly drawings singing of the abandon of youth and emotionless goodbyes punctuated with a hope to keep in touch.

The room which stank of decay and time was enclosed by walls which were alive with memories.

As I looked around the broken chairs once again, dozens of carefree schoolgirls grinned at me, thrilled that they had been discovered at last.

~Diksha

A Riot of Color

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The streets here are filled with people. There is colored powder floating in the air. The sound of laughter has made the neighborhood come alive. There is heady excitement on everyone’s faces. Music drowns all other sound apart from one. The irregular repetition of a single phrase, delivered in a light-hearted voice, now from one’s mouth, now from another’s.

“Bura na mano, Holi hai!”

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Flights of Fancy

When life lands you up in situations where it is impossible to express your emotions, what do you do? When thousands of insane ideas tumble around in your mind, gasping to be let out, what do you do? When a streak of sudden, unintentional creativity serves you up with a beautiful story, what do you do?

My mind muddles up when I think about all the wonderful ways in which people can express their feelings. Tell their story. Or someone else’s. Create something of their own. From nothing. To everything.

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