The woman far away

Crimson clouds behind the walls,

Roosting near a crow caws.

Here she weaves her brocade;

The river girl seemed to fade.

Made of gray yarn like the rain

In the lonely room insane.

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Waiting so long

 

Look back while the morning comes,

Find your face on the mirrors edge,

Ride the moonlight rays,

It rains while you hide in shade.

 

 

What’s that, that stays the same?

What’s in playing with your crown?

I’m staring through glass,

So wear the grey before you fade away.

U Word Essays

Underpants, umbrellas, uterus’s, understatements… I’m really starting to wonder if I should dump the current word essay format and write stories about underpants and umbrellas.

These word essays have become a writing journal of sorts and are rather pleasant to work on but they’re starting to make me a little impatient. Write fictions seems more interesting now, but I can’t use the word essay or word story challenge till I’m done with this challenge I’ve. So the stories about flying umbrella wielding mermaids who are out to lay eggs inside the heads of unsuspecting… Maybe I shouldn’t give the story away just yet. And yes my head does have a tendency to come up with disturbing fiction.

Untamed, unspoiled,utopia, uncensored… “U” seems to spend most of it’s time working as a prefix. Do letters feel bad about not have a lot of words that they have exclusive access to? “U” seems like the sad chap who always has to rent his suits. For every usual or umpire there seem to be 40 unclean, uncertain, un-this, un-that.

A lot of words that start from U feel serious in a bad way. Uniform,umpire,undertaker etc. they seem to scream somber.  Utopia- that’s not a happy word, it means happy things but doesn’t seem very happy. It drab and serious in comparisons to Paradise- which seems to leap at you with excitement.

A sort of unsoiled utopia. That’s what the exams would have been if there weren’t so many holidays between each exam, and if the exams started in the morning instead of the afternoon. I would have have just walked in and out, writing about stuff I heard heard through the year and spent the rest of the day at ease.

There’s a species of happy laziness that can’t survive with too much free time, and there’s no way you can “study” for journalism so here I am writing, and speculating about future stories involving flying mermaids.

The Glass House

I understand why she can’t stand the house, some people don’t mind being seen so much as having to see.

Down a wide, green, cobbled road, after the sleepy houses that have been around since the end of the British Raj, is where the family’s new house in Mangalore is hidden away. These large house that could have only existed in a time that has passed, are now green with moss, have plants booming in untamed corners, roofs collapsing, red tiles cracking and adventurous dogs (who take advantage of the very uneven terrain, frequent slopes and drooping trees to climb onto the sunny remains of roofs). The newer concrete  houses with aged cement, mossed paint, and small yards are also lonely as their owners also decide to leave town and live in countries where their children work. New, luxurious apartments have sprung up in the area. Smaller but very charming little apartments that have housed at least one generation also line the road, bolder than the behemoths drawn to the back of their plots.

Our house, the glass house, is down this road, down a small cobbled slip that runs down a gentle slope. A white house and a white car, clearly built by a man quite a lot of money and very little taste or reservation, guards the entrance to the lane. Travelers often stop to look twice at the awkward, white stone and wood, built in what is unmistakably supposed to be inspired by old Indian mansions. On the other side is a grey moss covered wall, and large trees that hide a large house behind it. On the other side of this entrance is a path to a large apartment.

Behind the awkward white house is an empty plot with old house that is surrounded by wild grass, and has a roof which has crashed to the ground.  It has a curious amounts of books inside, which are now a sickened shade brown. Behind this empty plot is our landlords house, and after that is our house. After the grey compound wall on the left, which houses a large grey house with a well forested garden, and a lonely old man, is a large courtyard and a two story house rented to three people. This house, with resilient wild flowers and plants exploding all over it, would have been rented to four people if there wasn’t a property dispute going on. Behind it, at the end of the street next to us, is a pink four story apartment that looks like a house. It does a poor job of hiding the street behind it.

Anyone who walks onto the tiny street is immediately spotted and heard by everyone on the street (maybe even by the people on the street behind it). Many species of bored housewives,canines and felines have eyes ready to pounce on anything that stroll by. The residents of the apartment can also steal glances unnoticed and unobstructed through our street and the next from their elevated windows. The awkward inward folding gates to our house is guarded by the Muslim women who are always drying clothes at the bottom of the apartment, the three families in the house before it, and the matron of our house.

She is always in her living room that looks straight at the gate. She asks adroit questions that’ll help her determined the age and occupation of at least three generations as she smiles and permits you to open the gate. Walk down along her house with an endless supply of young relatives sticking out of the many windows, and up the stairs try to avoid the inquiring stares from the living room of the people who live below us. The stairs end at our house which faces a window to our landlords house. You can often see their feet or upper torso as they leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen.

On the left you can see the entire street, and the entire street can see both you and into the first bedroom of the house. Above these house you can see another apartment from where you can once again be observed unnoticed. On the right you can see a basement. We used to live in the large apartment above the basement.It’s surprisingly populated for a basement. You can also see part of a large, old house behind it.The house is a perfect rectangle. Enter the living room and you can see straight down to the end of the house and into the street behind us. You can peek into all the room on the right and through their windows. You can also look left and once again see the basement and the house behind it.

There’s a strange man who’s always at the basement. They tell me there must be something wrong with him. The something is likely to be a physical condition but I’m not sure. He stand there, mostly during the afternoon, motionless between the always locked office and the three stairs to the elevators. He is clad in unassuming formals, well-worn old shoes and has rapidly graying hair. He talks to a few people occasionally, but never leaves his post. You’ll never seen him moving and you can’t afford to look at him because his post lets him look right at you.

Every room but the washroom(which has just one window) lets you see and be seen from at least two sides. Every side seems to have a conversation float by, every direction seems to have someone who look away when they catch your glance. no other house on the street must be able to see as much as we can, no other house can be seen as much as we can. She tells me it’s like the walls and roof have collapsed just like in all those old houses. I wonder what the view must be like from inside those shattered mansions.

Sounds From An Open Door

The room’s a cozy corner placed in the strangest way possible. Open the door and the world right in front you, but the room is still pulled back into the far end of the plot.

Overhead my neighbors feet thunder and scatter as he realizes he’s late for work again. A kid whines and implores this parent to look at something. I imagine he pulls at his fathers shirt as  autos ignore them. My UPS screams as if annoyed at having being woken, and the window sequels as I close it. The chair squeaks as I turn to the left and reopen it.

After a session of charging at howling vikings and dodging the metallic rings of swirling scimitars I hear curious footsteps and then a quick shuffle. I realize the door has been ajar for the enter day and the swaying branches having been singing as they always do. Lazy scooters buzz past as the housewives get a move on before the mid day sun catches them. I forget about the footsteps as the windows theme announces its shutting down.

Light dew floats by when I return that evening. My neighbors’ wife seems to be talking to someone on her balcony. Proof of her existence is always rare.  I prepare for my french viva as the neighborhood fills with the sound of cricket balls flying, stone wickets failing to stay upright, and uncles offering helpful tips. My monitor buzzes monotonously and more fights about the score ring out as more childish voices appear.

Thunder rings out but the voices don’t care. I step out and listen to the dirt between my feet and earth scrape. I wonder if there is some ancient part of us that loves to be reminded that in a world that sees so far, that dirt still scrapes lightly beneath moving feet.

V Word Essays

V feels more natural hiding within a word rather than starting words of it’s own.Violent, vortex, vox poluli, villan, vigil… now it seems roman.

Voila! The letter V. I can’t shake the feeling it’s very foreign. Do you think V ever feels jealous of W? Or DoubleVay as it’s know as in french. Or maybe W is the evolved form of V. I’d go on about how V must have been the creation of an over-enthusiastic grammarian hopping up and down excitedly at a table of bored,ancient grammarians explaining how having double the number of V’s would make the language awesome. But I feel like somethings amiss.

I hit a hundred blog posts yesterday, I should be more confident about my writing by now. But my mind can’t help but wonder. It doesn’t seem to have registered the fact that writing one hundred different articles is no mean feat. Even as I try to ramble write about the letter V, I wonder if I should redo the challenge. Write fiction with the words the letter inspires instead of being a hipster.

Oh well. It’s not like that should be much work. I’ll probably have more time if I’m not trying to put up posts everyday, but honestly I don’t care to plan ahead. I just want to write. Voila!

Poor Rapunzel

Poor Rapunzel locked away in her room, her corner, her gender. Poor, poor Rapunzel. Didn’t she understand it was for her own good? Why are women so blond yaar? We just have their best interests in mind but they never see.

Look at her now. Choking down tears. What’s the point in suppressing tears? She looks so ugly like that. Don’t even get me started on how annoying the muffled sobs of girls are. Why is she ashamed? If she was a boy we wouldn’t have let her cry. If she was a boy all these problems wouldn’t be there. Now who will marry her? She looked like a cow, but now she’s a buffalo.

What is this short hair hungama? Doesn’t she care about her looks? It is not Indian culture. We’ve lost our standing now. All the neighbors have seen. They’ll say look at that girl; they’ll never come to her wedding. She’s marked. She’s almost worthless on the marriage market now. We let her color her hair. We sent her to medical. But still she cut those beautiful locks.

She’s lucky. She doesn’t understand. If this was Pakistan, no? How much more a villager would have done if she’d gone all over the city after with a boy who, god forbid, might be Muslim. So lucky she is. Anywhere else this would call for an honor killing. She’s lucky a beating is all we gave to remind her of her place, to punish her for cutting her hair. Now we’ll have to find a better astrologer. The family will have to sell a few kidneys, but hopefully we’ll find one of these Americanized boys for her. Some of them like short hair.

But we? We are martyrs. So much we have to suffer. This would never happen in my Grandfather’s day. This would never happen in your Great Grandfather’s day. What to do? Kids these days. We should have been smart and kept her at home. One day a prince will take her and make her his long haired prize, just you wait.