Monday, 10 October 2011

The Beauty of Love.

    The beauty of love - I wrote about it once; in a play. I disliked writing plays - I disliked what I wrote. I wrote it more than two and a half years ago. I was not in love - but traces of love had not left me; that carefully embedded shard within the very valves of my heart.

    The beauty of love; taking the 137 - that red London bus - to Brixton station, accompanying her through the ever crowded Piccadilly line, kissing her by Regent Park, walking with her through Chinatown, passing the London Eye with her memory. ‘Her’ - how many different ‘hers’.

    The beauty of Love, sitting with my pipe and flask in the dead black night of St. James’s Park’s winter; while strangers - both drunken and sober alike, stumble across as most do, in such friday nights. Or sitting within the Rose Garden, watching the nigh dead bushes of roses; again in the winter. Two different winters.

    Walking - oh, the beauty of love - as though it were death himself on the Jubilee bridge. The lost wraith, too cold to move, to restless to be still. The beauty of love - in my fingertips frozen, unable to fill my pipe - so cold, that even the lighter would not burn. Did Love poison my lighter too? Where did it come from? Was it in the stillness of the silent Thames that I wished to dive in and seek out? Did it lie at Primrose Hill? Or, the Phantom of the Opera? In the wine that was poured on me, or the whiskey with her eyes before me? Did I litter it in all these places? Dropping crumbs every time I walked by, sat, drove, ran and slept?

    In Victoria? In Vauxhall? Streatham Hill or Earl’s Court? The empty beds - always Queen sized - perhaps a King. A King in a king sized bed? Was it in the loss of faith, or its renewal? The destruction of peace, or its construction?


    Oh what people do with the beauty of Love, in the beauty of Love, for the beauty of Love.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Ram & Aparna

When she first heard his voice, there was silence - and then, meekly, and almost reluctantly, she said 'Your voice, it wasn't what I expected it to be.'
'Did you expect it a few pitches higher?'
'Yes, but it's so..'
'It's so…?'
'It's so,' she hesitantly continued - as though admitting it would betray her gender. 'It's so.…sexy.'

***

'You must sing,' he said; saying it, as he usually does to most people because he liked people singing. Of course, he never expected anything good of their voice, he just liked them to sing. And she, calmly, but with that peculiar sense of womanly reserve, and with that red on her cheek, sang. The world, halted. He was on his lonely bed - again, and the world halted. Such a voice he had never heard before - not at least in lay people. He thought, just then 'I've beheld beauty.'

****

'Sing me something,' he'd say.
'Hmm, what?'
'Surprise me.' And she would, with her angelic voice. Again. She was his lullaby. And one day, his lullabies ceased. And she, like that phantom that appears only in the night, disappeared. It was morning now, and morning held no place for her. She came in his night, and left in her morning.

His night remained still. He did not know which part of him died then, he merely knew something did - like the stench that emanates from something dead hidden within the bushes. He last heard, that she seldom sings now, and she last heard, that he seldom sung too. And their song, died.

But lo and behold, their trace - like fresh steps upon still white snow - remains. And how it remains - oh God, how it remains!

Ram aur Aparna

Monday, 23 May 2011

Not His Nature.

They sat down on the cold wooden floor. It was morning. She told him of her days of loneliness, of which, he could understand well - all of it, and more. He told her of his. She kept silent for long. The trees were rustling out of their London window.

'I'm sorry,' she said.
'Why?'
'Because I don't know what to say - because I can't understand it as much as you.'
'I hope you never do,' he replied. She kept quiet once more, with her knees clasped within her arms. He looked forward, like a lost man, of whose likes we often hear in fables, plodding through the thickets without hope. He did not stir, and she merely looked at him. Perhaps it was pity, perhaps it was guilt, that she added such great sorrow to a man who already bore such deep wounds. But then, as though it were wrested from her mouth with force, she blurted:

'Love yourself more!'
'Why?'
'Call me a whore, call me a horrible person. All the things I did to myself, I did, because I didn't love myself. I felt cheap, I was treated cheaply. I didn't love myself. Don't put me, don't put others before you. Love yourself more --- please!'

Her porcelain skin, now stained of tears, grew red. She couldn't say anymore - she was distanced from him, by the pain he felt, and the pain she may never know. He stirred at last.

'Love yourself -- please?' she pleaded again.

'It is not in my nature,' he smiled.

Friday, 29 April 2011

In Time

In time, you'll forget me, and I, you. Only we can stop this, but we know, we don't want to.

Friday, 4 February 2011

Life II

A man watches his eyes within the bathroom mirror - a bottle of  liquor in his hands. He falls down - and weeps. Life.