Certitude

 I've been thinking about this a lot lately- ' What am I defined by?' 

And its been quite an ordeal to actually come to a fairly appropriate answer. Life has taught me to forgive, to forget, to give up in some situations, to accept. But when will I learn to retaliate? To know that it is not always possible to give up on things? It is not mere angst right now thats getting me all bottled up. Am just way too frustrated to know what to do. I can hardly believe that am asking myself such weird questions... Oh, maybe its the result of the indomitably idle mind which sticks to my skull making me feel as if I am trapped in a spider's web. My mind seems to get entangled in the first thread of the web and the void kills me slowly and painfully. Sigh, no one seems to be matured enough in this cruel world...to understand. 

 What about friendship complicating our lives? 

" Hey, we got to save our asses first. We will think about you if we ever get the time'' This is precisely the reason why helpless 'us' fails to garner support in everyday life. We end up thinking that our friend had genuine problems (and still has them up on their shoulders) because of which he/she wasn't able to help us..We hardly think of the reverse situation. Sad, but reality bytes. Well, in some cases certainly. 

I have been  told many a times to take myself seriously. But I still haven't found the answer to what happens when we take ourselves seriously but others fail to do so. Our friends constantly betray us. We are betrayed by present lovers....resulting in they becoming our ex-es. How often do we retaliate? There are bonds....and then there are more bonds. The randomness of life erupts from the moment we fail to get our attitude right. Man must know how to adapt...and then get adept at adapting. Some confessions are hard to make but when they are made...man must forget. And be happy. 'Cause we know we don't want to get one back from life. 

Till then, happy teething ...from a simple to a complex level...

Is it not  what our aim for sure is? :):):) Are we sure we know what we want from life? :)

I Still Love You....with no regrets...

I get butterflies in my stomach when I think about you. My heart beat quickens when I know you are near to me. Your scent fills the air, grasps my senses and am totally overcome.Your words stir my soul...setting my heart aflame. I vividly remember every moment of passion between us, the times we have made love....when every inch of your warm skin touched mine....when Love knew no bounds. When it was all about Lust. The heat slowly starts filling in...generating itself gradually between us. We grasp each other and cuddle. For a remarkably long time. Insanely. Oh, we are in Love, you know.I gaze into your fiery eyes, my darling, and it is so captivating. We are not lovers in disguise.. we are mere spectators of what love can do to us. 
You made love to me last night and I wanted more. Tonight WE made love. And Bliss it was. I guess I want some more of that tender touch of yours. The way you and I become one. You gently graze my neck, sending shivers down my spine. I lose myself into you and you let me do the wildest things that I have ever wanted to do as you tighten your hands to pull me closer to you. I feel your lips on mine...its so sweet and warm inside you. No more words. I feel something rising..something that heightens our senses. Deep inside you...what I remember the most is your arms wrapped around me. Everything cannot be lust. I love you ...I still love you....without any regrets...

P.S. :- This piece of writing is a documentation of my personal experience and not a figment of my imagination. I did not have to work my grey cells at all for this!! No effort needed.:):):)

When I read a book

When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me.

~William Somerset Maugham

The mighty spires of a medieval city rise up on all sides, reaching for the sky. The citizens go about their day doing their usual jobs- farming, fishing, forging, weaving. I stand in front of a mighty stone edifice. Perched on a hill, high above the rest of the city is a castle.

The drawbridge is slowly lowered. I step on it with some trepidation. It is not often that an outsider is granted audience with the King. The entrance is flanked on either side by a guard holding a steel halberd. There is a chamberlain to receive me and escort me to the King's chamber.

I pass hallways lit with torches on both sides. Their flames flicker, causing pulsating shadows on either wall. The grim faced chamberlain leads me through a veritable maze of stony corridors. We reach a flight of stairs.

There is an imposing figure of a royal guard on every second step as I slowly walk up. I can feel my pulse palpably racing as I ascend the stairs, leading to an ornate wooden door opening into the royal chamber. Finally, I am in front of the door. It creaks at the hinges as two guards slowly open it.

Eventually, I muster up the courage to step inside the room. It is richly decorated with a detailed embroidered tapestry running across the walls, culminating in velvet curtains with satin edged finishes. The king was facing the window, his back turned to me.

I wait for the door to close behind me and slowly unsheath my dagger. This is the moment I have been trained for, sent for. I shall end this tyrant's rule with one swift strike of my glittering steel. I lunge towards him....

“Lunch is ready.”

The assassination would have to wait. My mother has cooked her usual sumptuous lunch for me. Bookmarking the page in my book, I get up. The Malazan series by Steven Eriksson truly takes you inside the pages of it, into his world.

Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird

Unlucky thirteen. Yes, Rick was thirteen years old. It was his thirteenth birthday and he did not have so much as a cake to cheer him up. Rick was, in the true sense of the word, an anomaly.

Thirteen years prior, his father had been gleefully expecting his son in the maternity ward. His wife had gone into labour prematurely and they rushed to the hospital. Mr Fernandez was there by his lovely wife's bedside, a first hand witness to the miracle of life. His mood changed dramatically when little Rick came out. He was black, which was a problem since both him and his wife were fair. After that, all hell broke loose.

Mrs Fernandez tearfully admitted to having an affair with a colleague at her office. She begged her husband to forgive her and move past this, but he steadfastly refused. His pride had been punctured and his ego had taken a hit.

The divorce was messy and the worst part of it was that Mr Fernandez got custody of the infant Rick- a walking, talking personification of his wife's betrayal, and he never let him forget it.

Now, thirteen years later, Rick was still reminded of it in every single waking moment. His father remarried and he had two “white” step siblings, just like his father wanted. They got all the love and affection that was rightfully his. His family barely even acknowledged his existence. He was a stranger in his own house. But he had one friend.

A blackbird's nest was just outside his window. The blackbird sometimes came into his room. At first, it just flew around for a bit before flying out again, but soon it began to sit next to the morose figure of Rick and chirp incessantly. He found it amusing to the extent that he would leave out crumbs and biscuits for it.

Over the years, the blackbird became his companion. They had more in common than just colour. Like him, the blackbird is the proverbial pariah of the avian community. Few people tolerate a blackbird nest on their ledges or even on the trees. Blackbirds neither possess the colourful plumage of a robin or the sweet voice of a nightingale or the graceful flight of a jay. They are the outcasts, except to Rick Fernandez. For he understands what it is like to be a blackbird.

Every year, Rick found more in common with his feathered friend. Every year, he found one more way to look at it. Thirteen years, thirteen ways.

Now, as the rest of his family have forgotten about his birthday and gone to the country fair to have a great day, he is once again in his room with his old friend. He softly sings “Happy Birthday” to himself and the blackbird enthusiastically chirps in accompaniment. To the world, the chirping is a distasteful cacophony, but to Rick, it is the sweetest symphony on Earth.

Going to the movies

Do you know what is my favourite part about going to the movies? It is not sitting in the plush velvet reclining chairs. It is not seeing characters come to life in crystal clear HD clarity. It is not even the brilliant surround sound that brings the hall alive.

No, my favourite part about going to see a movie is when my family insists that I go and get everybody refreshments during the interval. One of the greatest mysteries remains as to  why they do not get it before the movie starts, when there is no time pressure or rush.

But, being the adult son, the man of my family, I stride forth to do my manly duty.

I survey the onerous task ahead. There is a large guy in a business suit who is absorbed in a conversation on his Blackberry. In front of him is a couple intent on showing everyone exactly how much they love each other. I sigh in exasperation and take my place at the end of the queue.

The couple take their own sweet time, playfully arguing over the menu and pecking each other on the cheek. I can feel my heart rate increase as precious seconds tick away in their quest for romantic condiments.

“Just choose the bloody popcorn and go!!” I almost said out loud.

Finally, they settle on nachos and dip. I see one last amorous kiss before they finally cut out of line and leave for their movie.

Mr. Blackberry seems to be in a heated conversation with his associate. This argument has taken the epic proportions of a UN debate. The topic of such vital importance- golf.

The clock mercilessly ticks down to the restarting of the movie as he can't seem to put his chat on hold to order. Instead he gestures with the skill of an autistic mime as to what he wants. The poor high school guy behind the counter has no idea what to give.

I have to restrain myself from pulling his Blackberry from his hand and flinging it away as he cannot bring himself to stop his golfing discussion to tell the guy coherently what he wants to eat.

Finally, the high school guy successfully deciphers his improvised sign language and pointing and gives him a Diet Coke. He walks off, oblivious of the heartache he has caused me. It is my turn next.

Faster than the guy can type, I reel off my entire family's order. Time slows to a crawl as he moves from the counter to the various dispensers and starts putting my wishes into cartons. My eyes are bulging and my blood is rushing as I notice that the movie will resume imminently. After an age, I have my order ready.

Balancing several large buckets of popcorn, cups of soda and other assorted snacks is no mean feat, but with the dexterity and finesse of a ballet dancer, I rush back to the hall and run up to my seat. The movie starts right on cue. I just made it.

“You forgot to get a Slurpy for me. Oh and while you're at it, your sister would like a Snickers.”

How To Tell A Story

Sophie was in a bad mood all day. She had been left in charge of her kid brothers, James and John while her parents had gone to a gala. The two of them seemed intent on ruining her day with their crazy antics. She tried calling up her friends, but James and John kept interrupting her demanding a story.

               

Finally, she conceded to their incessant demand and sat them down on the couch. Sitting opposite to them, she carefully surveyed the look of expectant wonder on their faces as they sat with bated breath, waiting for her to start.

“Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen...”

She was cut off by her little brother James. “What were their names?”

Sophie was flummoxed. Her little terrors demanded details to her characters.

“The king was Ferdinand...”

She had barely spoken when John interrupted with a question of his own.

“Which Ferdinand was this? Was it King Ferdinand who ruled Spain in the 1400s? Ferdinand the Just, ruler of Lyon? Ferdinand I of Parma? Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in the early 1900s?”

Her brothers obviously knew their history well.

“Ferdinand of Spain!! Okay?” she said, in a distinctly frustrated tone.

“This would mean that his wife was the staunchly Catholic Queen Isabella.” said James, “They were the ones who funded the voyage of Christopher Columbus to discover the New World.”

“Hey! I saw a book in Dad's library about Columbus and his accidental discovery of America. Want to go see it?” said John, animatedly.

“Sure. Bye sis. We'll be in the library if you need us.”

Sophie recovered from her daze and smiled weakly. She had told a story good enough to get them off her hands.

Adolescence

                                                                       
         
Thabo is fourteen years old, but he isn't your usual adolescent teenager. He does not have the usual fourteen year old worries of homework, girls or how-to-look-cool. Thabo has very different worries from your average fourteen year old. He has to worry about staying alive.

Thabo is from a village in Northern Congo. One afternoon, the rebels came to his village as he was playing in the field with his friends. Everybody desperately ran to avoid being caught. He ran with a group of his friends to the far end of the field and unfortunately the jeep followed them there.

From the distance he could hear a machine gun fire, as more jeeps rolled into his village and began their customary indiscriminate slaughter. He didn't even stop to look back for his own survival depended on him running.

He could hear the deafening roar of the engine getting closer. He needed to act fast.

There were two other boys running with him. They split in a different direction while he suddenly jumped off the trail and rolled into the undergrowth. The driver of the jeep did not expect this and continued his pursuit of Thabo's friends.

Thabo dived through a bush and hid under a small clump of trees. The thorns cut into his forearm and neck and insects began crawling up his spine, but he dared not move for fear of attracting attention. He lay in his supine position for hours as he heard more vehicles drive past, searching for potential child soldiers.

He lost track of time, softly reciting his favourite song to himself. After what seemed like an eternity, the sound of gunfire abated and the jeeps could not be heard any more.

Cautiously, he crawled out of his hideout and surveyed the destruction around him. The rebels needed child soldiers for their armies and to clear minefields, adults were usually 'sport'.

He returned to the village to see people slowly crawling out of their hideaways and searching for their separated family. A few huts were on fire and some bodies lay out in the open, nothing unusual for such a raid.

He found his mother and father, hiding in their improvised bunker under the house. His younger brother had unfortunately been captured. He would soon be wielding an AK47 for the rebel army.

Thabo was fortunate enough to get away... this time.