Red.

She cleared the wooden table and carefully kept the washed glass vase besides the wall.
They were lying near the table, smiling up to her, all packed in brown paper.

She put them inside the vase with contrast to the flower, and whispered to herself.
"There isn't much color in life, but I know how to fill in some."


And yes, the red gerberas did glisten in glory, and filled color.

When he picked up the rifle.

He looked stoned. His eyes had a blank stare in them. I shook him twice, but to no avail.



He stood at the door, and went on to look at the blazing fire at one end of the room. It was snowing hard, way hard outside, but with just a jacket on, it did not look like he had any sensation of what so ever was going on around him. I was uncertain of what his expression was meant to convey as well. One thing I was definite about, there was a storm raging somewhere inside him. Would not it be inside us too if we saw one of ours being burned, kicked, abused , and killed right before our eyes? His kid, standing with a slogan in his hand, being pulled by the officials into some wagon, his wife's kameez being tattered into a thousand pieces, and a maniacal laughter all around. Those dogs. All this while, he was there .. lying there, with his legs severely wounded, his wife raped, dead , his son being taken away to some place he had no clue of .. but he was helpless. He was wounded, and slowly giving way to a mental vacuum, whilst the images in front of him grew more and more hazier , and the pain went to become more and more excruciating .. the images more hazy, and hazy ..

A rattle on his lower arm brought him back to his senses, or so he thought. Something struck him, and his reverie broke off in the middle, or maybe it was just his conscious decision, maybe the end of his story was too painful to be thought of. The moment he came back to his normal vision, thoughts circulated, and he realized he was not in the midst of a gore anymore. His body which was shivering as he was daydreaming about his past experience, stopped doing so, 'cos now the scene ahead of him was different. Though, the pain which the memory brought along with it .. ah, it would not ever change.He was himself, without his family ofcourse. When he moved on towards the rifle hung on the left, with a glint of revenge and venegeance in his eyes, something did not surprise me.



..



Man- protagonist. An unknown guy whose swept in the middles of a bloodbath with his family. Sees his family beaten up et al, and takes up arms as a desperate measure for revenge. I wonder if you need this, but anyway!

Dying everyday.

Lena entered the room from the door at the back, which connected my room, (just for the night) with hers. She came in, and pulled the chords of my corset so tightly, that I felt unable to breath. But no, I could not complain or mutter a word, not because I was scared, but ever since last night that I was entrapped here, my vocal chords and the sound echoing in them, had faded away, or precisely died. The black skirt I was wearing was too short to even cover my lower half's one fourth, but I did not care, I didn't have any shame inside me left, or probably there wasn't any asset I had to hide, 'cos someone would come in and tear me apart. I pulled up the fish net stocking, which were probably a saving grace, as they did manage to cover me up an extent. Lena put some brig
ht red lipstick on my thin lips, and hurried off saying I should sit on the bed with rose petals all over, with my legs in a "slutty" manner. I didn't know what that meant,but I just sat, and started having glimpses of the past.
I was in New York, happily living with some friends in an apartment, and ready to come to Chicago for my job. Had sent my bio data and all that to an office in Chicago and the only reason I chose them was they offered a whooping big amount of money for a small job that I'd be doing for them, their only demand was they wanted a full length photograph of me. I could not manage to see through all this, and so I did as I was told by the letter I recieved from them. Two other girls had applied, all asked for full lenth photos, but only I got selected. There was no sorrow inside me to leave the girls back, except for Natalia, because she was the one with who I had interacted much. So I packed my bag, waiting for a guy to come from the Chicago office to guide me through the procedure at the Chicago airport.
After reaching there at around 2 in the night, a vague darkness was all around me, I always heard this place buzzed with activity but I had no idea why everything

around was so silent all of a sudden. Little did I know that I had been chloroformed during the way, and was now being taken off to some place called "Red light area" The guy driving the car was giving me occasional glances, as if he was about to climb on me, and rape me off. I was scared, and wanted to jump out of the car, but the other guy probably assumpted it and said "Don't cha try doin' anything gurl.." and took out a silver gun and pointed it at me. So I just kept shut and waited for this ride to come to an end.
After about half an hour I came to this place called "Red light area". Bright red and green neon lights flashed at cottage like places, and I looked at awe in the voluptous girls hanging around with elder or younger boys in skimpy outfits.

It was then did I get face to face with an ugly truth inside which I had been envolved. I wanted to scream, but words failed me. What happeneed to me next? I was taken to the "boss" who examined me from up to down, and asked a woman to take me to the changing room, and give me clothes. I had them, but for them clothes meant something which could not cover even half of you.



Without any knock at the door, a guy of 19-20 years stepped into the room I was sitting, and jumped onto me without speaking a word, and did what I cannot describe. It would be a shame for my parents if they came to know that they're well educated daughter is trapped here. I don't know how much he pays the people, but I get raped every night. My soul is torn into pieces, and these pieces are burning in a fire of lust, and sex.

I die everyday, and lose the leftover me with every passing minute, every passing second.

--x--

Prostitution is heinous, it is ugly, it is inhuman.

And yet.

The twist in his expression,
Her violent, miserable sobs,
His lost daughter,
Her husband to who she bids goodbye.
The untold, inexplicable human misery.
And yet the helplessness.

.

Bomb blasts in India. In Pakistan. In Thailand.

What are we coming to?

This goes for the victims.

When he walks away ..

That moment when you lose track of life. You're going too slow and its almost blazing past. Maybe, somewhere, you didn't try that hard.
You don't ever want to let that feeling sink in. That image, that ugly memory of you watching his pulse dying.
You want to sit, recollect those innumerous , silent conversations, maybe even attempt to fix his gaze in your mind. Even when the world falls down on your little shoulders, you want to believe he will come to your rescue. You simply do not want to break away from those hands that have held you so warmly through out your life. Its amazing how a moment turns life upside down. A moment brings the tint of life from white to gray. The man was your Hero. The way he defined perfection, and demanded it too. How, when you were small you wanted your Ideal Man to be like him. Yes, he commanded respect too. But also let you get away with the mischief, sometimes saving you from bash ups too. He was stern, only because he wanted to save the fragile, little you from a cruel, tragic world.

He never gave up on you, but now you have a haunting image ahead of you. It appalls you, threatens your memory and you want to erase it. But too late.

You see the same man struggling for life, breathing his last. That broad frame of his, as it now shrivels to skin and bones You want to believe it never happened, close your eyes again as if you woke up from a nasty dream. Its not your past, you cannot shut down a door at it.

You only weep as you see your Father's corpse being carried away, being buried away ..
You want to believe it never happened, and then again .. you have to.

The loss of a father is perhaps, one of the greatest and most severe. Keep my friend's father in your dua/prayers today. Please :)

But your heart's a mess.

Its strange when people cut you off from their lives, abruptly or not so abruptly. A lot of times you incite them to do so, most of the times it is uncalled for. You think your relationship is flowing in just the right direction when you hit a huge, monstrous boulder and blah, the past seems like a sepia tinted photograph , the corners of which have been fed on, the color of which has almost vanished. You're living in a shell with a window that opens nowhere. You want to get back to them, laugh on the silliest things again, cry on the smallest squabbles again, give each other hi fives on the lamest jokes ever, fall for the weirdest people together. Together.

Pick apart

The pieces of your heart

And let me peer inside

Let me in
Where only your thoughts have been

Let me occupy your mind
As you do mine.

Yes, Gotye is glued to my mind. I have a strange connection with music and books. People don't move me all that much. Yes, characters in books do. They move me so so ridiculously that I feel like I've lost a friend when I finish an exemplary piece of literature. It could be Tariq from A Thousand Splendid Suns , Ashley Patterson from Tell me your dreams or even Severus Snape from the Harry Potter series. These characters add taste to my coffee, which my taste buds taste bland due to the incessant exposure maybe. They make me feel like I'm having a conversation with my favourite people. And music ? Don't even ask . Chris Martin could be worshiped, because he permanently glued Yellow, Clocks, Paradise, Violet Hill, Lost, Viva la vida to my brain. John Mayer, his voice rings and reiterates in my ears. His voice is soulful, and it also conceals a certain kind of sadness, guilt, misanthrope too maybe. It is a disease, the best disease, Mayerism, like a friend and I say. Gotye sings to me, "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness" You can also get addicted to a certain, delirious joy. That's the joy music gives me.

Coming back to you. Yes, you. Its strange how disconnected we've grown. We talks for hours and hours. Skype is the place we've seriously "moved in" and yet I feel very strangely about us. You say I'm one a person you used to know, but then, nobody hangs on to people that they don't relate to for so long. Maybe we have something between us, something more than a bittersweet love-hate circle that starts from both our hearts and ends at our lips. Yes, we never talk about what we really feel about each other. Friends, lovers or nothing? Maybe somewhere you don't know either. Maybe both our hearts are a mess. Maybe we like being cluttered with too many feelings on one occasion, so that we can conceal from the world what we really, really want, what we really, really believe, what we really, really are trying hard not to reveal.

But then, when you try too hard to hide a secret, then is when it gets revealed to the world. Me? I am as broken as ever.

I'd smile on the surface, laugh too crazily, cry too miserably, put up a facade, but then you know it, somewhere deep down inside you. Its only a facade.

I hate every bit of me, I hate what I see in the mirror, and yet I don't want to improve it. You know why? It is called resignation, when you quit trying to make changes because you don't know what you really want to change. Then you try to put up a facade, a little too smartly.
Sometimes you choose between personalities. One day, you want to be clad in a blue, miserable, gloomy robe and hide inside it to not allow anyone to intrude thy privacy, other days you want to be a bohemian, all chirpy and vivacious, and perhaps somewhere to want to hide your sadness behind layers of glitter, gazillions of feigned smiles.
But then, maybe you are indeed somebody else and nobody at all. Who are you then, really? Nobody knows.

Goodbye

Its amusing how you can look into the mirror and stare at the eyes of a perfect stranger standing ahead of you. They were Soul Mates, how and when did he change so much ?
His ways, God's ways are mysterious, and how and why he makes you meet some people, is a rather huge mystery.
Why had she ever met him, why had she smiled at him at the first meet, why had she waiting just for "one" sight of him. why had she given up everything for him, why had she fallen for him? AT ALL? The worse that he could get.
It seemed so perfect when they got married. All that her eyes could see was how madly he loved her, like each cell of their bodies had decided to be tied unto each other till eternity. Like, only.
Now was different. She had now been broken. With the innumerous ways in way she had been abused, not just physically by him, but even mentally. The burns, marks, injuries, cuts told a story of how pathetic each night with a monster had become.
He would be drenched in alcohol. She would be beaten, kicked, abused, accused. Protest? It was out of question.She was the wife, she had to "endure".
It was now , a tad-bit too late, even the brain refused to cooperate, and finally, like many an unknown face, she decided to give in.
It was that fine, cold, February night, she burnt herself, and shut the case of another grief-stricken wife, with undying love STILL in her heart.
Where she lay in eternal sleep, she still loved him, the Angel turned into a monster, like a dying man loves his life.

With shivering hands her friend tore her note- "I could have tolerated if the injuries were only on my body .. too bad, now they're on my heart. Goodbye."

Just felt like writing after reaally long. I guess I really did miss Blogger.