Those night behindhand extend till Three
Thoes night prattled Extend till Three
Stunned by the way you say.
Nor moon, nor star, nor Mite
Stopped our night:
but emotion which has no formation.Has to be, I know it’s weird to.
Think of things makes sentiment,
Your story never stopped me from thinking.
Nor love, nor life, nor lust, nor anger, nor sad, nor friend.You have experienced it in my age:But me listening to you crazily Nor experienced or experiencing it in my age.
To the way as dogs day in fare vessel
Extensive to extend in sea, can’t stop pageant.
For more that problem,we gaze nightfell.
Sun wave only to waves not:, draught.
Thus much to eat, Portuges to kadazan.
What to choose, Moment owns not you,
On a spur of deed, pled to abundance.
Douche till hebdomad fare in perdu.
Esse of cloud offers Adam’s ale
Sensation self in bewildered, why not ego.
Bills of Piedmont, seem’s like rail.
Should not be drunken man has go.
Let man cease his thoughts
World will soften toward.
“You are proving again and again that I made a bloody big mistake…… Goddammit! William….” screamed Jerome sitting behind, gripping my shoulders as I was in highspeed struggling to control the handlebar to steady on the road’s edge in order to cut in a Motorcoach. Even the slightest shake on the edge of 4154ft from the ground would cost life.
It was notably one of the one-out-of-million-well-planned-trip-miraculously-happen-at-last. And it was Masinangudi, one of the splendidious hillstations in india. We were almost ready to set off from our native for the trip and Jerome handed over his bike key to me and said “You ride it machi”. All other friends were bewildered of Jerome’s decision because of my history with riding. We know accident happens, which is inevitable, but for me it happens almost everytime.
“But shift after reaching the foothill” advised Jacky with concern for one has to be well-experienced to ride uphill. And it was going to be the first time for me to travel hundreds of kilometres by bike, so i kickstarted excitedly and began our journey on the highway as the clock struck 2am. After hours of riding kindled my confidence to accelerate 120km speed on the highway that gave a fabulous feeling which can only be perceived by Bikeriders. The nearer we were getting to the foothill, the cooler the breeze began smooching us and in dark, the mountains looked like sleeping dinosaurs. As soon as we reached the foothill, we had such a nice cup of tea to warm up for the hillriding which was going to be hell-freezing especially in the month of December.
After having the tea, Jerome casually said “I am already frozen machi. Just ride it uphill too”. This time even I myself didn’t think it was a good idea to let an inexperienced ride on the deadly hairpin bends of the hill. Seemingly courageous, I kickstarted in dilemma as well as enthusiasm. In fact when I saw myself elevating from the ground after each kilometre, I got scared of losing control. But after sometimes, I was fascinated by the sceneries spinning around me as if I was thrown into a fantasy world. It was indeed bliss to fall in love with each and every inch of nature on the move with the cool breeze cuddling romantically. Absorbing the magnificent beauty of nature. I told myslef that every humanbeing must explore once like this especially by bike.
All the way to our destination, I felt like literally flying without wings. The trees, birds, mountains, clouds, the pure cool breeze, there the world itself wrapped in green were evident for why they call it Mother Nature. At last, after 5hours of riding from foothill made my friends weary but not me as I was refreshened each and every second by the beauty of the place. Riding all the way uphill is like reciting the most beautiful poem written by the favourite poet. It never ceased to engage us by its magnanimity. Then we safely reached Masinagudi, a part of the Mudumalai National Park in Tamil Nadu and is noted for its rich forests and abundant flora and fauna, which lies at a distance of 30 km from another famous hill station, Ooty. We were provided a treehouse resort by a friend of friend which is in the deep down of the reserve forest. After unpacking things as the sun set, I witnessed that the most beautiful part of the day was actually the night in the woods. It was enthralling to stay among the dark, deadly, terrific woods and mountains with the sounds of nocturnals. Tiresome put us in deep sleep after planning to go for trekking the GAYA mountain, the most hazardous mountain of southern India, the next day.
As sun rose from top of the mountains, I came out of the house wiping my eyes and saw the marvelous morning with birds flying all over the place that can only be experienced and never be explained by words. Later we were geared up for trekking but the native guy, who was supposed to take us, didn’t turn up. so Jacky said that we could go without him actually that would be more adventurous. The width of path to GAYA is exactly the size of single foot. After an hour of trekking, there were maze like paths and the one, we took, left us being lost at the summit of another mountain’s cliff. Though it was too risky as the sun was about to set, I loved being lost there in the realm of adventure. When my friends yelled blaming one another for the situation, I was standing on the cliff with arms wide-open and embracing the twilight. That moment I realised how tiny part I am of this tremendously divine nature. Suddenly there was this soothing mesmerising music flew around and it was from distance above where I was standing.
There was a woman sitting on the very edge of the cliff, playing the lyre facing the vast wide forest as if no humans exist but herself and the nature alone. While all my friends were panicked that she might be a witch for the place she sat and the music she played and the orange colour hair she had, despite their silly stance I stepped forward and spoke “how did you get there” she turned instantly and what I came across was a gorgious smily face with the glorious nature on the background. “I was flying” she smiled. She was from Germany and her name was Leena. “What are you doing here alone playing this music?” I conversed. “I am a research scholar and I am on the quest of untying the harmonious relationship between the nature and the music” she further talked about the mysterious knot of nature and music which I didn’t quite understand may be because of her accent but what I understood was how one should live in communion with nature along with music. As the time passed and the darkness engulfed the forest, she led us out of the maze and took us, as it was not safe to roam anywhere at night, to her tent on Maravakandy, a dam inside the jungle. She all of a sudden hushed and insisted me to crawl over the rock to peek. In distance, I was spellbound to encounter, across the flowing stream, a Tiger in the moonlight. “What a gigantic Form it has been gifted!.” She exclaimed quietly.
“Tiger Tiger Burning Bright in the Forests of the Night” I muttered staring it without a blink as Leena raised her eyebrows at me and husked “are you a poet? Mr. William”..
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Category : short story
Word count : 1000 words
Theme : wanderlust (adventure in specific)
Title : the writers choice….
Just do it… In style…
Kilk, Apna Tashan…….
👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍
“6:00 a.m. 27/04/2025” showed the digital clock as he woke up that morning and rolled his eyes up to the wall before him, still lying on bed. He turned right to see his wife, Ophelia still sleeping peacefully. He Caressed her face and gently pecked on her glabella. His stomach continued to rumble as it had rumbled the night before, the day before, and days before that…as if he had attacked a bakery and has to attack a bakery for the second time. He went straight to kitchen, rummaged the pantry to find a big, brand new, shining butchering knife and came back to the room, stood by the her-side of the bed raising the knife. “To be or not to be” he whispered staring at her peaceful Angel. He raised his knife further back. “Singggg…..chukkk”. In a flash of a lightning, the sleeping Lamb leaped Tigerly from her bed, swinging the knife she kept ready under her pillow and KGFed him before his raised hands came down. She wiped the blood spilled out of her mouth watching TV news in which the news reader reported: THE DEATH RATE INCREASED UPTO—— AND THE QUARANTINE EXTENDS UPTO———
Velan, a renowned advocate, lost in thoughts leaning on the backseat of his car recollecting the days and memories, is on the way to his village after twelve years. The only face which occupied his mind entirely is Bharathi’s.
When they were children, she follows him like a puppy whenever he goes and is excelled in crying aloud without tears if he refused to buy her the barfi Mittai which is her favorite. Knowing this, Munoo Anna, the barfi seller, takes advantage of, roams here and there shouting Barfi! Barfi! deliberately in the street. There is a beautiful temple in front of which, the jasmine field surrounded by the mango trees where they, along with other friends, play Kannamoochi(hide-and-seek) Nondipidi(hop-and-catch), in which, If she got caught to hop, he would get cought immediately to release her.
“Sir.. Sir.. we have reached.” told the driver, brought Velan back to concious state.
As soon as he stepped out of the car, his Amma hugged him and burst into tears lamenting about Bharathi. It had been twelve year since Bharathi passed away. It was of Childmarriage, after getting married at the age of 13 to have child when she herself was a child, she died of her labour pain.
“If I knew what was going on at the time, I would have stopped the marriage” cried velan, his forehead leaning on the portrait of Bharathi.
My eye of life, my mother, my child, My Ammu
Your tiny hands and feet, I even now retreat
Sister in birth but a mother of my earth
I lift you all around and never let touch on ground
Born before me My soul, gone before me must be My Foul
A part of me now is buried I am sick worried
Wish to join you over there
Don’t leave me here alone it is not fair
Sobbing is not bringing you back
The memories I possess, can’t take back
I wil never let that take back
I will never let that take back
Velan, drenching in tears, came out to the temple where they used to play hop-and-catch. The odor of jasmine reminded him of her voice which, he could still hear everywhere, let him sobbing. A child, playing there, came near and wiped his eyes with her tiny palms and meaningfully smiled looking at his eyes while her mother calling her name in distance “Bharathi”.
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Theme : Indianness
Specific theme : life in Indian villages
Mandatory device : a folk poem( rhyme is a must) describing a person/ nature / lifestyle / food style
Maximum words : 400 ( please stick to the word count)
Title : author’s choice
Just do it… In style…
Kilk, Apna Tashan…….
👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍
PIZZA AND PAZHAYA SORU
“She is my delicious Biriyani. The flavour of all her condiments in the rice is delicious but when I accidentally chew one of those condiments itself like cardamom for example, hidden in a morsel I take, it’s bitter” I remarked on my would-be wife’s characteristics, straddling with my half-trousers on, on the wall of a deep well in the middle of a paddy field. He, my cousin had his lungi folded up and straddled, facing me. Breeze messed his messy hair messier. Punching the wall, he stared at me for a while and then he turned away and smirked.
“She is my pazhaya soru and I’m her pacha molaga” He said. For a moment, I thought “how patriarchal! Does that mean that there is no flavour for her without him?”
“such a deadly combination” he added some moments later, answering my alleging thoughts.
“o come on man! Why do you have to say something so ‘country-related’ always countering me?” I asked.
“Do you know what Is grown in this field you are sitting in the middle of right now?” He belittled me “samba or kurunai? Three months crop or six months crop?” I pouted out my lower lip.
“Do you know W.H. Auden and W.B. Yeats?” I tackled him with a counter question. He gave a relegating look and remained silent.
“Both are great poets. And Auden was right about country people” I kindled him for response.
“what that bugger had to say about us?” he raised his eyebrow and jutted his tongue through his right cheek.
“In a homage poem to Yeats he metaphorized village to ignorance because they didn’t read Yeats’ genius”
“avan kadakiyan kena kooo” He said in his typical country Tamil dialect .
“My Tamil Selvi writes better” he said and sang in his high pitched voice.
The sun had set in the West
The mass has gone to rest
Even the waning moon hid his crescent
Why am I still lying feeling resent
It all started when this flower the spring had bloomed
Promised by the words of love and fooled
With the hand on my head I’ve been told
I’ll never be let down even when I’m old.
“Wow…but what’s between you and her” I inquired
“I couldn’t keep my promise” he said anxiously.
“Why” I asked
“engappan dhiyan” he shouted angrily.
“what Mama told?”
“avanga namma aalunga illa le” he replied very hesitantly.
Translation: “they don’t belong to us”. But I still can’t understand what that means!
MAD WOMAN IN THE ATTIC
1st December, 2018
This should have been my second nuptial night. We should be laughing, giggling and had had a wonderful time of our life. Now, I’m all alone in this dark room, turning off every decorative lamp that I meticulously bought and set up different light in different places that would create a perfect ambience for romantic actions and fierce love-making. I planned to make a chiaroscuro of your naked body by setting up a light in a place which will illuminate your full naked body half-naked because you may feel shy for the first time. How it would have been to be in the warmth of each other in this freezing December cold? I have been also longing for the warmth of love for a long time. But, It’s pitch dark now here, baby. I don’t even want to see myself. Everything is dark now: this room and my life without you; you, like the lights I scrupulously bought, not only illuminated my life but also adorned it aesthetically like the chiaroscuro I planned: illuminated my positives and darkened my flaws. The only wrong I did was concealing the truth about my first marriage. That fellow, Mr. Mason is a gull. He gulled me by getting his mad sister married to me. How I begged you not to believe that fraud. My Lolita, do you not love me as I love you so dearly. You know how ashamed I was? I was in no intention to deceive you. I really love you! Even after planning to marry you I thought I would look after my mad first wife too. You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her. She could not give me what a wife should give her husband. Nevertheless, I took good care of her. Only after meeting you and fell in love with you, I forgot all my sufferings and thought of dedicating all my life to you, baby. Now, tell me baby did I cheat you? Did I cheat you???
I overheard Rochester’s ranting to his lovely Jane, his Lolita on phone through a peep hole in door of his now-dark room. Oops! I forgot to add a double quotation. So what? Why care about quotation when a big full stop is awaiting soon. That Bastard—how dare he is to call me mad? O how was that, how was that? He did not get what a husband should get from a wife? You know he fucked me to all the satisfaction of his fantasy. Fetish fucker. I, like Anastasia, succumbed to all the desire of this Bastard of a Grey. Now he is bored so goes lusting after other women like a dog. Manacle rings for me and wedding ring for her? I’ll never let that happen. He was too worried about his room being dark and cold, right? I’ll make it brighter and more warmer. And how was that? How was that? “You don’t know how much torments I have undergone in my life past, because of her”. I’ll permanently escape you from the torments of life. I’ll show who this Bertha Mason is! Bertha Mason, a specialist ARSONIST!
“My sister really had a psychological condition” confessed Mr. Mason, Bertha’s Brother as I sat near his death bed and read the above paras in Bertha Mason’s diary. “This entry is the last one she wrote before she burned Rochester and herself that night I stopped your marriage” he said and died. With Bertha’s diary in my hand in the gloomy room of Mr. Mason I’m sitting alone overwhelmed with tears. My poor Rochester!
He, the admirer of my imperfections!
Never ever my days are bloomed without him_
And, his every night has never missed my lyrical lullabies
Ever to give its ears to hear.
My imperfections helped me
To shape him out with perfections.
I did, I did it! yes! passionately I shouted inwardly.
Years passed.
Now,
The umbilical cord has been severed!
He introduced me into his family,
‘His’, yes, he cheerfully welcomed ,”Here, My family Mom”.
I got understood well that My Son has become a Man.
My world is ‘He’,
But, in His world ‘I am NIL’.
Spending life in orphanage,
By thinking of the past and with
The bliss in imaging how He would be, now,
just grown or full-grown man?
during this 15 years of separation.
The pain of separation is tormenting me,
Taking me near the end.
I still firmly believe in that he would arrive
Ensuing my death to do the essential rites.
At last!
The charioteer of dreams, Time has brought my son
In front of me for one last-time.
Bed-Ridden me:
Difficult to breathe,
Trying to utter a word_
With my Son, the Sun of my life.
I reminisce, by stuffing my pupil with his presence,
Those special 10 months for every mother-to-be.
He dwelt in my womb where
He was stayed for 10 months. And, did
Some mischievous movements and unforgettable kicks.
Rare kind of jubilation I felt from
Whatever He had offered when He was inside me.
The best Of me offered,
Beyond the best is,
He to me.
The coward heart has no guts to beat anymore,
To see the tears in his eyes
even with my blurring eyes.
O!! How can I bear that the reason for his pain is me?
He is the treasure who came from me,
How can I let him feel the pain?
Heart of mine has been torn before it gets halted
by seeing his tears.
The muted ears boosted up with
The lullaby he has sung for me,
To have an interminable Sleep.
It is the one, His favourite,
It is the one, I used to sing,
Till when he was around five.
Sensing gratefulness to have
Him as My Son,
My eyelashes are gradually hugging together.
His voice is a pain killer to me,
My Grief-filled heart cannot tolerate,
The sin of being the cause of His painful tears.
So, nothing more to do,
As a retribution, I myself hold my breathe.
Blessed to be His mother…
The few seconds before
When all getting black in vision,
He is the last image fallen into my eyes.
Feel the Peace after the successful penalty,
Death greets me and avow:
The buried Love of your son
is what spouting as tears by him for you.
Death trumpets:
“Mother is pawning her whole life
To Death to raise her offsprings;
and, as well,
Every Father has sold his soul out
To God to fulfil his offsprings’ requisites”.
The sultry weather outside polluted the air hot. Nevertheless, the gentle breeze came into the classroom caressing the dense Neem tree, was chill as the ordinary, unnecessary-to-human carbon-di-oxide from the mouth turns to mesmerizing melody when blown into a flute. It came with a thousand muses to bloom the mad bud that was listening to mad interpretations of poem into mysterious flower of fiction; it came with a thousand psychedelics to drug me into wild hallucinations— wilder than that comes off Coleridge’s opium; to set me off to the weirdest of the journeys. The sound of the breeze hitting my ears sounded to me like it was whispering slowly:Bon Bloody Voyage!
***
As we drove through the bridge, across a river in the evening, the roads with the dimly lit street lights looked strange. The twilight in the sky seemed as if the dyes in the sky are worn out like somebody sucked the syrup alone from the ice candy lollypop. Holding the steering I jolted the lever underneath it with my middle finger for that’s my style and the high beam light flashed on the board on the half-way of the bridge and the dull reflection from it revealed “WELCOME TO someSHIRE”. The faded reflection from the first four letters of the last word was inconspicuously sombre to make it illegible. As the proximity between us and the board kept increasing we felt the pace of our vehicle decreasing despite of the fact that my speedometer showed 100km/h constantly. We crossed the entrance and abruptly the pace decreased but still the speedometer showed 100kmph. No vehicle accompanied us inside the city, but once we entered the city we saw the vehicles of the city moving like a limped tortoise. It was dim all around but not absolutely gloomy: The LED lights in the name boards of restaurants, shopping malls, grocery stores, the traffic sign boards. There was a tram going statically across the road that blocked my way and I waited approximately for I-don’t-know-how-long minutes. I was frustrated with the speed of my car and accelerated to 180kmph but still it was moving sluggishly. During this monotonous, five kilometer ride multifarious thoughts tumulted in my head. It’s oblivious about others but I tend to roll a lot if I am let alone for even a minute. So I was not amazed to have those thoughts rumbling inside that too while driving in this city albeit having my wife with me. Is it abnormal to be so?; If you think it is, remember that the great magnum opus of Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude sprouted in his head when he was driving his family to a picnic and as the thought relentlessly proliferated in his head he abruptly took a ‘U’ turn to his home. But whatever hell of a master-piece-creating idea had to arouse in my mind “there was no getting away from” that particular place for whatsoever reason. I think now I’m being monotonous. I myself could feel that but I cannot figure out why. Let me get right to the point. I was talking about the multifarious thoughts in my mind right? Actually, I was about to talk of one particular visualisation from those melange of mind videos, that is the visualisation of butchering a goat: usually a beheaded goat whose fractured hind legs are tied to a rope from clamp in the ceiling and make it hang by its headless head-side facing the floor. That’s how it is all over the world even if it is not like that all over the world, that’s how it is, to my knowledge and as far as I have seen. That Was the first image I got then I saw a butcherer drawing the small intestine of the goat like Dushashan draws the Saree of Panchaali in Mahabaratha. Again I’m still unaware of the reason for such evocations.
After a tedious 5 kilometers drive we reached the hotel in which we were going to stay. Until we got down from the car it did not occur for us to check if our actions are normal so as soon as we got down from the vehicle I punched and kicked the air like a kick-boxer rehearsing punches and kicks before entering the ring and by performing such movements, to our amazement we found that our actions are perfectly fine and normal. The transparent glass-slide door works with a sensor through which the drabby lobby is visible, opened inch by inch like a giant, ancient, mechanical door as we went near it, made us doubt that the door will be left ajar owing to mechanical problems despite noticing it moving an inch with regular interval of I-swear-I-don’t-know-how-long. It was rich in its architecture. The first thing that caught our eyes was the fountain in the middle of the lobby: it was modernly well-constructed. The water that jet out from the fountain stayed in the air for sometimes and fell down slowly. On the right side we saw a long reception table and on the left we had sofas and bean bags. On the wall we found interesting portraits and pictures in frames. They were all modernistic and surrealistic. One frame had these words on it: Carpe That Fucking Diem. My wife turned to me throwing her hands in the air and blinking at me. I shrugged at her, smiling. I turned my gaze towards the ceiling. ‘What is that hanging at the middle of the lobby?’ I thought and asked another question to myself: ‘is it Miss. Havisham’s wedding gown?’ No that was a chandelier. There was a huge clock hanging in a rod from the ceiling. It had ‘n’ numbers in it that I could not read the time in it. Only then I realized that I forgot about the watch I was wearing. I looked at my watch I thought momentarily it was not working. But after few minutes I saw the seconds’ needle moved some strokes. Rich granites laid on the floor in black and grey combination like a chess board. We approached the reception and said
“excuse me”
“yeeesss siiirrr, hhooowww maaayyy iiii helllpp yoouuu” the womam replied.
She was wearing a white blouse and black blazer and a black short skirt and full in makeup. But what’s so strange is there are dark circles under her eyes. But only later that I realized that not only her but everybody there had dark circles under their eyes like an insomniac patient who did not sleep for years. They always have their lower lips jutted out because of their tongue pushing it from inside and resting behind it which makes them look like a zombie.
“We are here for our honey moon” I said and smiled
“caann yoouu jussst pleaaassee coommee agaaiinn siiirr. Iiiii caaann’tt unnnderrrsstaaand. Yooouu aaaree tooooo quuuiiick”
“ufff” I sighed and I repeated as if I had understood the way how to converse with them. “weee aaarree heereee ffooorrr hooonneeyyy moooooonnnn”
“ooohhh thaaattsss grreaaatttt sssiirrr, maaayy iiii knnnoooww wheeerrree aaarrree yoouu frroomm” she had her lips extended until she finished that sentence which I suppose that she was uttering those words with a smile but it didn’t seem to like that. It was rather terrifying.
“Iiiii aaammmm ffrrooomm eaarrthh” I said and thought for a second: first of all why am I even talking like this. Secondly, why I even said I’m from earth. This isn’t earth?
“Why did you even said that? This isn’t earth?” my wife asked coinciding with my thought.
“I don’t know” I said
“are we in somebody’s hallucination?” she shouted at me angrily
“I don’t know” I insisted again. She let out a sigh of frustration shaking her head.
“Sssiiiirrr?” The receptionist called
“Yyyeeaahh” I replied
“Azzu this is awkward” she persisted
“shh” I said and smiled at the receptionist.
“caaannn yyoouuu filllll uupp yooouuurr deeettaaiiillsss in thiisss reeggiiiissssteerrr”
“ssuurree” I said and started writing.
I don’t know what happened to my writing hand. When I received the pen in my hand it felt like a quill but as soon as a started writing I felt like I’m having a pen that weighs a ton. I don’t know how long it took me to write my address in the register but sure that it was not the time I usually take to write such small thing. It was way longer than that. What I managed to write was this:
Azzu,
earth,
universe.
The woman took the key from the hanger behind and asked us to follow to the room. It was in the third floor. She went near the elevator to press the button.
“let uuusss ttaaakee theee steepppss” I insisted
“theee elleevaattoor wooullldd beee muuuchhh quuiickeerr sssiirr”
Again me and my wife exchanged a look and followed her to the elevator.
“siiirr weee haaavee commm tooo thiiirrddd fllooorr”
The receptionist shook us both. We literally slumbered on each other within the time the elevator reached the third floor. We walked through the gloomy veranda following the sluggish receptionist. We stopped her half way and got the key from her and told her that we would see to it. She was about to say something but we shut her off and sent her back. We were greatly relieved. We went inside the room, leapt on the bed, spread our arms and legs apart and relaxed. I asked my wife to switch on the fan. Nothing curious would have happened. You guys know it. We sat close to each other with our eyes smiling at the other ones’. Both of my hands went behind to remove the clips and locks of her hair to let it hang lose and to grab it by letting small bunches of hair between each fingers. She closed her eyes as I moved my head towards her. My heaped lips gave a gentle touch on her closed but still-smiling eyes. Removing my lips from her eyelid I tilted my head slightly for nothing could turn me on than rubbing the edge of my lips and cheek part near the edge of my lips in the longest and sharpest of her eyelashes. To turn her on, I started kissing her cheeks. I smudged my lips all over her face painting it with saliva. From the face I drove to the shoulder via nape of the neck and from shoulder to cheeks via the same road. She remained still when I kissed her face but I felt the quiver of her body and short, heavy breath puffed out of her mouth while crossing the path between the neck and the shoulder. She smiled like a child smiles in its sleep. She allowed everything without resisting until I went for her lips. She pretended to loathe. She kept pulling herself backwards as I pushed myself forward and she eventually she lied down. Are you such a voyeur that you still need to peep into my bedroom? If you are a voyeur, nowadays you don’t have to peep into others’ windows. You just have to peep into Windows. Anyway, if you are so curious – we made it like how Fermina Daza and Dr. Juvenal Urbino made it on their way to Paris. We did not stop with the first round. We went for the second round, third round and fourth round….and I was exhausted before the tenth round. But she seemed to want more – it seemed like she would be ready for hundred and one after hundred. But even she after some minutes felt bored. I remembered the romantic night I spent with her, without even touching each other before our marriage in her house while she was left alone. She was informed by her parents that they would return early in the next morning. I had to leave her before the dawn. That’s when I wrote my first song of Aubade.
O night!
Why are you not the don of dawn?
O Dark!
Why are you not the don of light?
O Earth!
Why do you revolve when the sun stands still?
O Hope!
Are you the metaphor of light?
O Light!
On your arrival is there any hope of being with my love?
O love!
Do you succumb to all these conspiracy?
O farewell!
You think you part us?
We say heartlessly:
Fare thee well
But in each others’ heart we dwell.
But neither Andrew Marvell nor any other poets would have written To his Coy Mistress or songs alba if they had been to this place. They would have rather wrote:
Being greedy for more time
Is the biggest of all my crime
When I got it as per my demand
I went actually mad
O how long shall I patiently praise
Your eyes, your breast, your forehead gaze
For every five seconds my dick
Goes on to give a kick
O my gosh my penis
Is no longer now a phallus
Any women does not deserve this state
Five minutes will be more than great
To make love, you need worldly eternity?
That would be the height of insanity.
We waited, waited, waited and waited at last we saw the hope of morning twilight. I could sense a heaviness on my head. When I saw myself in the mirror it seemed like my hair and beard had grown longer by 4 inches and my finger nails had grown longer by 11 millimeters. The time it took from dawn to the morning—we were also amused to see that we have developed dark circles under our eyes. But neither of us cared to react. I remembered a couplet from a doggerel that I wrote: Nocturnal creatures are owls/ Nocturnals like owls at night think about doing fowls. I wondered why it came to my mind at that time. We locked our room to walk down and have breakfast though we did not feel hungry. The sun is out but streets were unusually bright: as if thick layers of mist covers our sight from looking at things but no mist out there. We walked through the half-hazy visibly-invisible mist. “Heeeyy yyoouu sssttoopp theerrree” said a formidable voice. The man was dressed full in black, tucked his shirt in, wearing a leather boots. The only other colour in his whole dress is the buckle of his belt that was in silver colour. The badge in his left arm stiched to the shirt in the shape of a shield as a Lamborghini logo had these letters on it written in golden colour: S.S.P.D. He had pistol in a black pouch hanging in black waist belt on his right hand side and on the left, was a baton. It seemed that the officer was watching us from the place he stood when we in yonder distance but we did not notice. As we Crossed him he turned his head slowly and stopped us. “yes officer” I answered him and went near. The officer clutched my hand tightly: it took some time for him from starting to clutch my hand and gripping very tightly. Nevertheless, I could not loosen his grip even when he started to grip my hand. Then he took a handcuffs and cuffed my hand and Sara’s hand. “yooouuu aaarree unndderrr arressstt”
***
Attender Anand came into the classroom with a slip in his hand and handed it over to the professor. The professor, after seeing it announced “As two of your professors who should engage the next two hours are absent I will continue to engage the hours”. The energy of my muse doubled. Another heavy puff of wind came to hit me…
***
Behind the bars I was standing like a werewolf. I found myself consoling my wife who with one hand on her swollen belly and other hand on her back complained of fatigue. Suddenly my wife started yelping.
“Officer….Officer” I shouted, shaking the iron gate.
“ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…donnntt yyoouuu knooowwww whyyyyyyy aaaarrreeee yyyooouuu hheerreee?”
“ooofffiiiccceeerrr” I reduced my voice
“thaaaaatttsss gooooooooddd” the officer smirked “nooowwww ttteellllll mmmeeeeee”.
“Mmmyyy wwiiifffeee iiisss ooonnn hhheeerrr
Llllllaabbbooouuurrrr”
My wife started shouting and it sounded like it was it recorded and played 0.5x slower in a media player.
“llleettt mmmeee ccaaalll ttthhheee aaammmbbbuuulllaaannnccceee.
I was confused. He could have taken us to the hospital on police vehicle. But neither ambulance nor police vehicle could help because —
“ooofffiiicccer, pppllleeeaaassseee ooopppeeennn ttthhheee gggaaattteee. Iiii wwwiiilll cccaaarrryyy mmmyyy wwwiiifffeee tttooo ttthhheee hhhooosssspppiiitttaaalll tttooo aaavvvoooiiiddd mmmiiissscccaaarrryyy”. I pleaded
“yyyooouuu aaarrree cccaaapppaaabbblllee ooofff aaa nnniiicccee pppoooeeetttiiiccc Lllaaannggguuuaaaggee” the officer laughed “Nnneeevvveeerrrttthhheeellleeesss, yyyooouuu wwwiilll oonnnlllyy bbeee llleettt oouuuttt wwwhhheennn ttthhheee aaammmbbbuuulllaaannnce cccoommmee” the officer continued to laugh.
“Fuck you, officer” I shouted.
“wwwhhhaaattt?” the officer asked.
“nnnooottthhhinnnggg ooofffiiiccceeerrr. Pppllleeeaaassseee ooopppeeennn ttthhheee gggaaattteee”
When I was arguing with the officer my wife who was shouting like a slowed down recorded voice started shouting normally. The intensity of her sound kept increasing. As I turned back at the one last big yelp I saw squirts of water mixed with blood and mucus like substance travelling in the air in slow motion towards my face. I waited until it came close to my face and I moved a bit left side turning head right side. It crossed my face just missing it and went out of the cell between iron bars and splattered on the officer’s face. She had given birth to a beautiful Little Sarah. But that happiness lasted – I heard my daughter crying like my wife pretended to shout few minutes ago and she was kicking her legs slower than the slowest of baby-kicks.
***
The bell rang after three continuous sessions. Why did not the bell ring at the end of first and second session? Who cares. The professor was at the verge of completing the poem: “…and that’s how the poem comes to an end. The problem with the poem is that it has lots of grammatical mistakes. In particular there are lots of syntax error in sentences”. I would have rather been in the cell of SLOWSHIRE POLICE STATION
WOODS
“Hello!” I answered my friend’s call as I sat in the posh couch on the balcony of our farm house located at the center of our estate, which my husband inherited from his father, is situated in the hilly forest area of Dehradun, thirty five miles away from Mussoorie where we live now. As I comforted myself with the cup of tea, in the purple colored cushion couch with the yellow embroidery made in linen, I gazed at the snowflakes from my terrace, it is the mid-winter late-night and Dehradun is known for frequent snowfalls, disappearing into the darkness. “What made you call me at this time? Is that anything that I could do for you?” I asked Misha after sharing the pleasantries. “Nothing special Anne. It had been a quite long time, so thought of catching up with you” “oh” I replied. As she started her natter I got engulfed by something else. This place has always been a reason for my curiosity, more than its peculiarity and grandeur; it is the myth that whirls around the dark forests of Dehradun fascinated me. As I vaguely glanced through the pages of a book, sat over the glass top of a rectangular table made of redwood, named The secrets of Dehradun: Life(s) in the Woods, in which a few lines in the page three caught my attention “It is believed that, even today, in the heart of the woods, there are dark creatures like werewolves and vampires living invisible and invincible. They are said to be existing in the other side of the Guchhu pani river also known as Robbers cave which is prohibited for human purpose and it is also supposed that the human vicinity is forbidden for those creatures to enter”. It is the last copy of the book that has been written by a Historiographer Thomas Dean, which is said to have written in the 18th century. The original manuscript and the unpublished copies of this book had been destroyed by a fire accident in Dean’s house which also killed him. This tale is recounted by an old Librarian of the District Library of Dehradun, from whom I got this copy for 50000 rupees, had possessed this book which he claimed that his fore father got it from the ruins of Dean’s house and till now it has been their family inheritance. This book had burnt marks in most of its pages; its hard cover had been blackened by fire but couldn’t diminish the glory of gold impression in the title that seems to be etched instead of printed. I took a sip of my tea from the gold plated antique brass cup and tried listening to Misha’s batter without actually listening. The snow fall is becoming heavy, so I took my copy of The secrets of Dehradun: life(s) in the woods in my right hand and holding my mobile near my left ear, I walked through the lobby to the fireplace to escape the bitter cold. This place has always been my favorite, the paintings of Da Vinci, Gustav Klim, Ravi Varma and Rembrandt hanged over the walls, are my husband’s collection. He being the adherent fanatic of antique things and art works gets his hand in every possible precious item that he happens to comes across. The one that magnetized me is the facsimile of The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, an amazing artwork by the Dutch painter Rembrandt van Rijn of Seventeenth century. It is a seascape which illustrates the miracle of Christ calming the tempest on the Sea of Galilee. The vicious waves symbolize, to me, the unsettled emotions of human mind that ruins the journey. Like the tempest had been tamed by the Christ, one’s wavering thoughts has to be restrained to impose peace. The warmth begun enfogging me as I sat near the Fireplace and to increase the heat I fed few more logs to the flames and stirred slightly causing the fire to roar and devour. I felt a strange sense of dread mounting inside me. It may be due to the exhaustion after an elongated day. I desperately needed a deep slumber and never wanted to be awake at all and it dawned to me that I could not rely on Misha to end the conversation. I have to take the matter in my hands “Are you done with your gossips Misha”? I halted her banter finally giving up on her. It has been thirty minutes, still she’s blabbering, not even bothering to know whether I’m listening or not. “Yeah yeah, But you didn’t tell me what you have been doing these days?” Misha inquired not wanting to stop the conversation. I could not help rolling my eyes. “Misha, it’s indeed a long day. I think I need some sleep and the time is already fifteen past twelve” my voice could not suppress my frustration. “But why not some more time… let us talk na.. pleaseee.” “Mishh…” “Hey Anne what’s that sound” she intruded me. This girl is impossible. What all she’s doing to keep me chatting. “Misha that will do, I’m going to disconnect the call. Now you sleep and let me sleep” “Anna I’m not lying, don’t you hear anything. I could hear someone singing. Is anyone else home except you?” I knew at once that she’s not lying, when she repeated her question I could manage only to utter “No” not because of the quivering in Misha’s voice but the echoing sound nearing behind me. A dreadful chillness ran over my spines as if the warmth in the place has been drained and a mysterious fear gripped my heart. I could feel my heart throbbing traitorously but no more could sense my breath. I stood rooted in the place still holding on to my dear phone and life, waiting for this disembodied unhuman voice, shrilling over the walls of my house to reach me, and hoping beyond the hopes that it is indeed a terrible dream that I would wake up anytime soon. “Who’s that Anne?” Misha’s anxious voice ringed in my ears but could not find my voice. The hum, ghostly than before, not exactly a song, made my nerves shudder. I tried dreadfully recalling something about the lines I’m hearing now. I know it is nothing to do with my way out of this crisis but I comprehended through the words that it is a poem of Robert Frost Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening but not with the exact lines as I heard the appalling voice singing more clearly than ever…
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
I have promises to keep
And seconds to go before you sleep
Only seconds remain before I could make you sleep
…
To be continued…
kilk 
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