Metaphysical dark

Shadows aren’t flat at all. The part you see on the ground is just their skin. There’s cerebral depth in their steps and stillness. Careful now, nothing worse than when you aren’t afraid any longer, for the night becomes a person to you; it’s not sunlight that brings love.

Simply put there’s nothing worse than having to stop when you to try to get a hold of your higher self, while chasing things you should be running away from, only to have your eyes close on you. You should get dressed, we’re going nowhere and the stars are always out.

Woken beauty

Sleeping beauty was laid to rest and around her they built a palace. A great wealth of treasures, servants and luxuries filled the palace. They waited on her and for the prince.

They grew old and weary, but the prince never came.The walls and gems had been ravaged by age and the servants were dead.

The kingdom fell without heirs and was invaded. Their language forgotten, their people scattered. Forests grew around the palace till it was history, then legend and finally myth. The world went on while beauty still slept.

One day when the finally cut down the forests to build a new new city they found the palace. The carried away the now crumbling walls and dusty loot but nothing was greater than the marvelous woman who never grew old or died.

She slept and slept, never eating, never aging, never awaking. A marvel unexplained by science. Still time passed and she was forgotten, just another museum piece after a thousand years of research had revealed nothing.

When she was eventually forgotten she was stolen. Again they tried to understand her. They dissected her, cut her into pieces and auctioned her off. A arm here, a finger there, a heart a continent away. The head was still mostly intact and studied by a scientist of poor fortune. Once while drunk the scientist couldn’t help but admire the face he held and kissed it.

The head awoke and screamed a terrible shriek. Her eyes went wild and her howl carried across the air, her blood flowed once again. And then she withered away and was dead.

Serious E-Stalking

It’s one thing to google yourself, but stalking people who share your name is a far more interesting and rewarding experience.

Psychologists say people like hearing their own names and I guess its true. I don’t know many people with my name and it’s unusual enough for no-one to have ever made a nickname that’s stuck. Maybe that’s what makes me feel like the name is mine and maybe that’s why seeing people with the name is so weirdly fascinating.

The many websites that explain what Rijul means also list an bunch of stars and planets that go with the name and even offer you advice on what Chinese zodiac signs or birthstones you should get for your self. But that’s just the usual crazy.

Most of the Rijul’s I found had the surname Jain. I always figured it was a Jain name but was surprised to find that it was unisex.  If Google images is to be believed nearly all Rijul’s wear suits and a terrible number of them are on LinkedIn for no reason. Seriously there are teenagers called Rijul on LinkedIn sharing Dragon Ball Z memes.A surprising number of these teens wear suits which makes me feel bad because I might have only worn a suit twice in my life.  And I still haven’t found a single Rijul under the age of 30.

But the most Bizarre thing about the image results is the large number of images of cakes with the word “Happy birthday Rijul on them.” There are easily more than 27 of them that come from a website called “HappyBirthdayCakePic”

On twitter the most prominent Rijul is a Rijul Jain who says NASA launched moon missions with computers less powerful than out phones while all we do is launch birds into pigs. He hasn’t been active since 2011 and like all the other Rijul’s wears a suit.

There is a website “1happybirthday” that offers birthday songs that you can download. It even has Spanish translations of the happy birthday song dedicated to Rijul’s. Unfortunately its sung by a white lady who keeps saying bday and reeejwel so it sounds kinda weird.

There’s also a blog that is run by another Rijul who extols people to be gentlemen and women. I also found a video called Rijul at 9. It’s a video of a small kid playing at the park. The fact that the park is deserted, the video has no previous views, the video-maker makes no noise and seems to be filming from a far away location make the video really creepy. And of course even the dam kids was wearing a suit.

The uncool-est thing I found was an urban dictionary entry about Rijul. The entry goes :

An awesome name of a dude who likes to play guitar and basketball. People enjoy being around Rijuls a lot. Rijuls are party animals who love to socialize.
Girl 1 – That dude is so awesome. I wish he was my boyfriend.
Girl 2 – Yup, he’s a Rijul.
The entry has an equal number of up-votes and down-votes.And of course it made by a guy called Rijul. I don’t know how to feel about this.

There’s also a website dedicated to some Rijul’s wedding. There are plenty of “pre-wedding photo’s” of some other Rijul’s on Facebook but none of them go so far as website Rijul. No not even the Bengali blog that has picture of another Rijul (in a suit) signing his marriage documents goes as far as website Rijul. Because website Rijul has three websites about his marriage that is yet to take place. The websites tell you all about what they want their guests to buy, where in California they are getting married, about their family members, what their friend think of them, what their siblings think of them etc.

Their about page has been edited. Possible because the previous entry made it clear they had never met each other and had been forced into the thing by their parent’s. Now it has some generic messages about love. And of course the numerous pictures of Website Rijul all have him wearing suits.

You might ask what the point of all my stalking and this essay was. I don’t know, I’m usually the one rolling my eyes at the people who stalk people on Facebook. But I had an hour to kill and at least it was entertaining.

While I ran

I should have paid more attention to my map but the night air was far cooler than I expected. I had to move before the chill reached my bones.

A figure in robes dragged his feet behind me. And here I thought it was only the fluttering of my own robes in the wind that I heard. Maybe it was, but I knew I had to run. In the maze of mud buildings and cobbled streets I could not see where my path would end, where it would go.

The sweat cooled my back as I turned, a roof here and wall there but not a single lamp to guide my way. Within windows the light would mock me. I knew I would not run far. On a roof someone took my hand and said “Let’s swim to eternity.” I looked again and the flat, walled roofs were covered with water. But I dared not look at who held my hand.

The air was warmed by fire but my fingers cold and dead like wood.

I leapt and flew, to an old man’s store. How could I have known? In the darkness I never saw the strings. In my fear I could not see him like the spider on her web. I heard people watch and shadows dance as the old man pulled his strings.

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.