Beginning, Middle And End (After Phill Kaye)

All of us are great stories, intricate events stitched together; imperfect, incoherent pieces that fit perfectly. We’re all great stories but we aren’t all written as chapter books. Each story with a beginning, middle, and an ending but not necessarily in that order. When seen in its fragments you’d notice how life in its inconsistency brings seems all that more beautiful.

‘Chapter 351’

The old man sat on the park bench, by the river; the memories that were buried like fossils, now dug up, fuel the agony of his loneliness. They say if you repeat something too many times it loses its meaning to you, the sunset is nothing more than 6pm to him anymore. He sits here, trying to recall how she looked, trying to recall the full life that he had lived. A life filled with love, now no longer. He tries to water the flower, a flower that has long since withered away.

‘Chapter 271’

The man cradled his child in his arms for the first time. He gazed on as he saw his little one, so peacefully resting in his arms. Fatherhood had changed a man whose heart had been hardened by the short-comings of life. His incoherent pieces had fit together perfectly now.

‘Chapter 231’

The two strangers exchanged glances, they were both boxes labeled ‘fragile’ but life had forgotten to handle them with care. Both of them had given up on life and love, to serve the wish of their families they both got married. An arranged marriage was never in their books, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Happiness had to come second to their family’s desire and society’s perception of 30 year olds who are yet to be married.

‘Chapter 57’

The two broke  out in a fight. One cared too much, and the other, a little less hopeful. That had been the last time that he bummed a smoke, as hopeless as he was, her affection had given him a little hope in life. Such is a best friend, I suppose. Or was that all?

‘Chapter 151’

The boy finally mustered up the courage to tell his best friend that he was in love with her. She felt the same way, life seemed like it couldn’t get any better. He had finally found his happily ever after in a gawky, little girl. She wasn’t perfect, to him, she was art, and art isn’t meant to be perfect, its meant to make you feel. He stared at her, glancing awkwardly at first and then looking into her eyes all at once. Who would’ve thought that first love would set in awkwardness between two people who knew each other like their favourite books?

‘Chapter 170’

He still thinks of her, life didn’t serve him right. His happily ever after was short lived. Nothing seemed right anymore. He lit another one, his eighth one in succession, all of her affection had kept that lighter at bay for 10 years. That was gone now, what was stopping him?

‘Chapter 421’

The tree has returned to the ground from which it rose, in its place lay scattered its seedlings. The story now coursed through their veins. As they reach for the sun, the look through their leaves and see the story of what once was. The old man is no longer.

‘Chapter 1’

There was once a man and a woman, and from the tree of their love blossomed a sapling that would one day compose a story in the crevices of its rings.

The Palette Of The Sky

We were sat on the roof. I looked at her- her eyes glistening. I stared a while, trying to hold onto this memory. She gazed upwards, as the vibrant colours danced in the palette of the ever changing sky; the marvel of the summer sky- so able- to hold on to the fickle attention span of my jittery lover. Not everybody knows how to admire the sky, to them it becomes a daily phenomenon- she was special like that, to me, I would pride myself over the fact that I understood her. I’d probably go to incredible lengths for her, but that’s easier said than done. I write, so I express my thoughts through pen and paper, and she? She’s a painter; her brush was her magic wand. Give her a paint brush and something to work on and she could turn a dull stone into a gem worth treasuring. My art didn’t seem to hold up next to hers, for you can only do so much with words, but mine were all for her. I felt like the night sky; shrouded in the dark but, my words were the stars that adorned me.

My mind tends to wander when I’m with her, usually fixated on her, but in a world of my own- painting constellations. I fall back to that roof- next to her- as I watch her still dazed watching an empty canvas being painted from end to end in incoherent strokes- no colour seemed dull.  

I call out her name, I say,

“Do you know why the sky looks like this?”

She smiles at me, she says, “I’d rather not go into the science of it right now, I’m too busy admiring the sky.”

My back now placed against the warm tiled roof, my hands arched behind my head- I lay there looking up towards the sky as I begin mumbling.

There was once a time when the sky wasn’t as beautiful, when the colours didn’t dance and intertwine. The sky would turn plain purple at dusk and then dull orange at the hour of dusk. No one marveled at the sky back then, no one cared to even look, the sky only served the purpose of telling night apart from day.

Amber was the Nymph tasked with bringing the end to the day- a spirited, small thing- she was different from her breed. More often than not she’d be found amidst fields of flowers rather than playing in the forest with the others. It’s said that the days lasted longer in summer because Amber would get tardy in painting the sky – distracted by the beautiful summer blossom. But she found no particular interest in her work, it was the same routine every day, no change, no beauty. The sky wasn’t as captivating as the flowers beneath her. On special days, when her anger got the best of her, the day would end in a blazing red sky- the only time anybody really cared to look at the sky.

Amethyst, a rather secluded Nymph- often found amidst the rest, but always lost in his own world. He loved the stars, but even with his colossal wings, those unlike any other- he could never reach them, but that was all he longed for. The nymphs of the forest would dance and sing amidst the trees all night long- while amethyst would steal away to a secluded tree and watch the stars simmering away until it was his time to paint the sky purple- to birth a new day. On winters, the spirited nymphs would shy away early- I suppose they didn’t like the cold as much- that’s when Amethyst would get some more time alone with the constellations he longed for. He let everybody sleep in a little longer on these harsh wintry days.

One night as he sat on his tree, away from the forest doused in the merry making of his community- his gaze fixed onto Amber sat across him on the other branch- looking below at night blooming water lilies as the moon glistened on the steady water. Neither of them were there to strike a conversation, they just wanted to admire the beauty of nature- one so ignored by the rest of them. He looked onto her now, glowing in a bright beige colour. He hadn’t noticed her before, even though they were both artists of the same canvas, despite that- their strokes never collided, they never had the chance to- it was decreed by the laws of nature as such- so they dare not tread on forbidden territory.

You can place the barrier of time on the palette of the sky, hoping that the colours won’t mix into a mesh of unintelligible colours- but the world doesn’t lack bold artists willing to remove that barrier and tread on roads untraveled.

Love is perhaps difficult, maybe not the easiest to come by and certainly not the simplest to hold onto- but when you understand somebody, truly understand the inner workings of the mind that they’ve locked away from everybody else- perhaps naming it love becomes easier. 

The two spirited sprites fluttered through the forest- admiring the nature that they held so dear to each other- it was time for Amber to paint the sky orange again, bringing an end to another day- only this time- she took Amethyst by the hand and flew him across her sky, letting him work on her canvas. The two danced across the summer sky- waltzing all across- painting the sky with the incoherent strokes of their brushes.

 He placed his hand on her face and kissed her as the zoomed across the dusk sky- touching the clouds in certain places and leaving the others in a dull blue. He suckled on her trembling bosom as he carefully slid off his tunic. The sky was their canvas, and they were bare artists- lovers set loose on an empty canvas- an expression of their desire for each other. The sky lit up in vibrant colours for hours that day as they made love on the clouds- the heavens taking on the colour of the one that dominated, then shifting into its transitions. Amethyst kissed her neck as she stroked her brush across the dull clouds and for the first time the sky turned pink- the pink that brought out the love they bore for another. They took each other by the hands and danced until the stars came out- and the sky was still painted unlike ever seen before. The ether transitioned from the burning red to amber flames and finally to a pink that dulled away into purple- giving way to the night sky, bringing an end to the day.

Two artists as one created magic on the plain canvas splayed out for them, making love through their colours on the celestial ether, leaving a trail for humans to marvel at, and thus we began to gaze at the sky- one that now served as an inspiration that touched the hearts of many rather than just serving as a teller of time. Each kiss, each soft touch- another joint stroke on their canvas no longer dull.

I sat straight now, the stars were out; they twinkled unceasingly, leaving a trail to latch onto in the night sky.  I looked at the amber soul sitting next to me, her gaze now towards me- captivated by the marvel of the sky yet oddly beguiled by my rather strange story, she smiled at me admiring the words that I laid out for her.

Stuck

I close my eyes and I’m back in that room. The curtains, dark brown- almost muddy- from the neglect, cover the windows on both sides of the room. Sunlight creeks in from one little gap in between the curtains; it falls in front of me, but I don’t notice it much. The room, dimly lit, doesn’t have much in it, I see a fan above me- not spinning anymore, I see shelves stacked with books but the labels on them are blurry- they aren’t important to the dream I suppose. I’m on a bed, but I am not lying down. I am sitting; I am sitting still. The bed has grey sheets, the sheets are messy, maybe, I was sleeping here a while back.
I notice the room more carefully, the walls are all painted grey and there’s a picture on the wall- just one. The picture, it’s very dark but not blurry- it’s in clear focus. The hands holding my head finally let go of their grip; sweat drips down from my hair, slowly to my chin- forming a pool right beside my feet. My eyes- wide open- now look on at the picture hanging on the wall; I see somebody, but I do not know whom.
The person is alone, and I see no expression on his face. It is as if he is staring back at me, gazing into the labyrinth I have created within myself- much like the frame in which he is stuck, I have imprisoned myself. It is as if I am gazing into the deep chasms I have folded myself in, ones that I cannot navigate out of. I did not create a world of endless grey skies, I have created a world with no sky at all- and in my creation, I am the sole inhabitant- jettisoned from my home to dwell in the purgatory I have created for myself.
My eyes remove themselves from the picture; I do not understand why I am back in this room again, I do not understand why there is a portrait of somebody that I have never met and why that is the only thing in this room that is in focus.
My eyes wander frantically in their sockets. For the first time, I notice that this room doesn’t have a door. I am stuck and I do not know how to get out. I don’t scream for help, I don’t think anybody is out there, I did not have the luxury for that thought.
I am sitting on this bed, my head falls down on my hands again and I am numb. I don’t decide to get up, but I find myself standing; my hands to their sides- splayed out. My gaze turns upwards; I am looking for a way out.
I notice the white ceiling fan- the only thing in this room that has a vibrant colour- almost as if it were calling me.  I notice my left hand gripping something that wasn’t there before. My hand throws itself upwards- the rope falling across the fan and on the other end.
Breathing… heavy breathing…. Not anymore. I have found… my way out.

Little Raven

Welcome to my humble abode
Yeah I know it’s not too shabby
But I promise you, it’s quaint.
I feel fine really, yeah,
Except for the times I hear the rain fall
No, it doesn’t make me sad, that’d be too dramatic
It makes me feel, empty, you know?
I long for something
A cup of chaa or some hideously made coffee.

Yeah, no but isn’t too bad
No one dies without chaa
You see,
I’ve never figured out how many spoons of sugar I need in my cup
It just doesn’t feel right
But sure, yeah; I’ll get used to it.

But then I wonder if this house is what makes me feel empty
It’s too big of a space for one person
Well, any apartment can feel too big if you’re the only one there
And then, I might’ve gotten used to living with someone
Four years isn’t a short time, you know?
I’ve had four more to get used to it
But it just doesn’t feel the same
I’ve tried to find the perfume she’d put on her
To make this place feel a bit more like a home
But yeah I guess it never smells the same
If it’s not her neck I taste it from.

I’ve never claimed to be a brilliant or a very good person
But life’s been treating me well in station
I guess karma forgot to close my account
Or maybe it’s had it’s dues and decided to go on a vacation
The butterflies on my head say otherwise though
Red and dead they rush around in despair
But there’s always that one little blue one,
Which really doesn’t seem to care.

But hey, my life is pretty great
I’d be a hypocrite if I said I had complaints
I just don’t feel the same without her
When it scorches, blows or it even rains
But I’ll get over this; I’m sure it’s easy
She’s praying for me from right up there in heaven
I’d love to leave this house to someone
To go up join her and say cheers to the little raven

Touche my friend,
Touche.

Silence

27/0617

You have thoughts,

Thoughts which you allow to fester,

But not to exist out in the open.

The thoughts flow like liquid,

Moldable,

But you do not hold the power to bend them.

The thoughts try burning their way out,

Through your skin,

With the acidity of their crippling darkness, 

But you try to contain them;

Through every wall that they burn down,

You build a new one,

Your walls do not have doors,

Because you are afraid of what these thoughts represent,

In fear, 

You find,

Silence.

You have words lying,

At the bottom of your throat;

Words which try to claw their way out,

Looking for a gap,

A crack in your fortitude,

One that was forced down your throat at the age of 9,

But all that you could tell your loved ones,

Was that you were fine,

In guilt,

You found,

Silence.

You have dreams, 

Ones that you cannot share,

Ones where you are free from the burden,

Of the shackles imposed onto you,

A burden you want to relieve yourself of.

In your dreams,

You  see what life is like without the silence,

You find stability,

Peace and harmony,

But it goes in vain,

Because that is a reality,

Which you cannot obtain,

So, in sadness, 

You found,

Silence,

In fear of the unknown possibilities,

You hid your words,

In fear of being jettisoned like an astronaut,

From the spaceship of your broken happiness,

You did not allow the words to exist,

Out in the open.

Your deepest insecurities,

Stay hidden,

Remain unreal, 

Non existent, 

Until you allow it to leave your lips,

Your pale purple lips,

Lips that are the doorway to the truth,

A door whose hinges are tired,

Of holding its burden, 

Hinges that are waiting to give away,

But they must not,

In shattered mirrors, 

You saw yourself,

In silence.

Imagine

Imagine tomorrow if we got our first coffee for the weekend together like we always did.

Imagine if we got to fiddle with our coffee for hours like always because nobody else has shown up yet.

Imagine if the waiter didn’t ask for the bill again because I’m too busy listening to you rant.

Imagine us switching off our phones so that we don’t have an excuse to look down and ignore each other for a second more than we have to.

Imagine us getting out and walking around for hours looking for another place where nobody can listen to my silent amazement as I gaze into your deep brown eyes.

Imagine me holding your head against my chest once again as you almost fall asleep.

Imagine me holding your hand and fiddling with the ring on your index like an excited five year old.

Imagine my rough lips on yours once again. Imagine me passionately pulling you close and making you mine like always.

Imagine if it was perfect, if there was nobody else in the coffee shop for the rest of our lives. That we could talk to each other for another eternity. That I could see your hair smile with your eyes as I kiss you on the forehead, that I could hear your laughter at my childish amazement. That I could feel your soft arm brushing against mine as I sipped on the last bit of my coffee.

Imagine my rugged fingertips on the back of your neck for one last time, as I kiss you hard as if to say goodbye.

Imagine if we had a proper goodbye.

Imagine if I could see your rickshaw disappear at a turn for one last time.

Imagine if I had one last text on my phone afterwards,
“I love you.”

Imagine if we could sip on the same horrible coffee together for once last time.

Criminal

Her mother always told her to believe in God. Someone who was so powerful, that he could shift the entire fate of the universe in the whiff of a finger. Someone who’s so divine and forgiving, that he’d forgive any crime if you repent to him enough. Someone who’s so kind, that he wouldn’t let any of his children be miserable if they looked up to him.

And so, she’d always wondered why he decided to take the only life she had ever known away form her; just when she was reaching out to him. She still remembers everything, quite distinctively. Her family would stay up all night to pray and take seheri even when it wasn’t Ramadan. Her dad was almost never home. And when he was, almost never able to bring around 3 meals. So they would fast, using that as an excuse for the hunger. They’d look up to the heavens every night with their hands clasped together only to ask for one thing, salvation. From the life that they’d been granted.

Salvation. And now,

She wakes up every morning feeling dirty. Every muscle in her body creaks like an overused old armchair. Her head almost gives into a thin, sheering pain. The kind of pain that you can hear, like a telephone that’s been put out of the dialer for too long. She wonders if cutting her head open would cure it. She wonders if it’s worth it.

The steady ray of sunlight fills her bucket faster than the meer trickle that seeps through the rusty tap. The faint beam gently sneaks through a small hole on top of the quadruped tin structure, cradles her soft naked skin for a bit and then slides down into the barely occupied plastic tub. It tries to remind her that she’s alive. A reminder she desperately needs to prepare for the next day.

Emptiness , often followed by a feeling of dissipating sorrow fills whatever soul she has left as the thin stream of water rids her body of the sins from last night. She doesn’t know what she wants in life anymore. All she knows is that the marks on her body and the sins they carry pays for her food. She doesn’t know where she’ll go or what she’ll become when she’s too old. When the customers stop coming or when her body’s no longer appealing. She doesn’t know who’ll be there by her side when she’s finally “free”.

Freedom. Taken. Never given.

Her father was and probably still is a drunkard. She has’t seen or heard much of him in the last 3 years. Except the one time he came around to ask for money. She could smell the alcohol dripping from his beard through the thick air freshner in the brothel room. But she gave him the money anyway. Less out of love and more so because she knew if she didn’t, he’d go home and hurt her maa.

The funny bit is, he looked lost. As if he stepping into her world made him contemplate the gravity of the decision he made.

She still wonders if she really meant that less to her father. A commodity, exchangeable for money. They were cooking that night, when they heard the gradually louder exchange that went on outside. The loan-sharks had sent men.

The men had started to pillage through every room in the house, looting everything they could carry on their bare hands and destroying what they couldn’t. They were going to either take the money or take everything they had. She took refuge in a small storehouse behind the kitchen. But one of the men found her.

Apparently her dad had kept her mortgage for half the money he owed. Twenty thousand taka. That’s how much she was worth. Not a penny more. She hoped that her father would come for her or atleast try to take her back. But he was always to drunk for that. She’d like to think that her mother was trying to get to get to her somehow, but at one point even that seemed a faint possibility. And they promised her a good life, the people who took her. One free from poverty and hunger. Free from the devils she’d been fighting all her life. And so, she took it.

Today, some new girl in the brothel told her that her that maa had died. Some old man came around and sent her the message. But apparently he warned her so that she wouldn’t show up to the funeral. She’d only ruin the sanctity of the programme. His words sounded like he was accusing her of something. Of some crime she was so extremely guilty of, that she would be too unpure to attend her own mother’s burial.

Sanctity, pureness, holiness whatever you call it. She gave up all of that three years ago when she ‘chose’ this life.  She wonders if she ever really had a choice. She wonders if  God would still forgive her. She feels used, only to wash herself off and to be used again. She feels like she’s a parasite living only on the edges of ‘pure’ society. They look at her like she deosn’t belong, careful not to touch her like she’d somehow spread some fatal virus among them. They look at her like a criminal, someone who’s on death row waiting for her time to come. She’s a criminal, she knows that. She’s a criminal for the ‘choice’ she made. She’s a criminal to herself, to her society, her family. But above all that, she’s a criminal to her God.

Strangers

Strangers in the dark,

We met to light each others paths,

With hands held tight, 

Our candles sparked

Strangers in the night, 

We walked a long way;

Our hearts were tranquil now,

We had each other.

Strangers hand in hand, 

We were no longer unknown, 

We waltzed through the dark, 

Like we weren't afraid anymore. 

We were strangers in the dark, 

And we were finally, 

At the end of our cave;

We saw the light shine bright on our eyes.

Strangers on a journey, 

We took together, 

But as we reached the end of our tunnel, 

And we finally saw each other, 

We were once again unknown,

One to the other. 

Strangers in the dark, 

Travelling together, 

Hand in hand,

Hearts tied together.

Lovers forged from the desolate night,

Strangers once again,

In the face of light;

Lovers composed of nothing but, 

Carbon and bad timing.

These days I don't play for free.

I've been wondering where to go with life lately. I've always been a failure at academics. I've never excelled at sports or at clubs. But lately, I've been failing at stuff I've always considered myself to be good or rather, better than average at. I've been loosing. Literally and figuratively. Well, more literally than ever. The anthology I've picked to describe you gradually defies me. I've considered the miles between us fragile as I've always believed that home is where the heart lies. And I'm pretty sure our hearts lie at the same place. But lately, I've been wondering if I left my home way too far behind. This city's been getting to me, and so are you. I don't know where I want to go from here, I don't know what I should look for. I wish I could give up on this, sooner than too late, quicker than too slow. I just want to come back to you. I wonder if I want any of this anymore. I wonder if I remember every last scar on your body like I used to. I wonder if I'll ever listen to your voice again. You know how these crowds unsettle me don't you?

P.S:
I love you.
I miss the way you smell.
Well of course you know that.
Bye.

A Rainy Tuesday

19/5/17

We sat there,

As we watched the ice cream, 

Melt before us, 

One last time.

I raised my eyes, 

From the muddy puddle, 

And I saw your face,

Expressionless, 

Silent.

They say, 

Silence, 

Is of two types, 

One,

Where you do not know what to say, 

The other, 

Where you have so much to say,  

But you do not know what is appropriate;

Only,

I don't believe our silence was shared this time.

We sat in our corner, 

Mirror images of each other, 

But only, 

We hadn't noticed the crack,

In between our mirror, 

That had parted us, 

Midway; 

Perhaps now, 

We were, 

A bit different.

Our eyes met, 

As you broke the silence, 

You were the first one, 

And you said;

That you've so much more to see,

So much more to do, 

And I sat there, 

Still, 

Unable to break my silence,

Unable to cry out loud.

It was raining outside, 

The rain was perhaps,

The only thing I liked about that day, 

The rest is a piercing memory,

That I cannot forget;

I cannot forget, 

How this time,

Your lips did not curve,

As you said those three words.

I looked down again, 

At my chocolate puddle, 

As the brownie turned soggy, 

As it soaked up the ice cream,

It was all a mesh now, 

And I stared as my tear drop,

Made the puddle ripple,

And the ripples thinned down as they touched the edge, 

Like the years, 

That had spread us thin now.

I looked up, 

From my puddle,

Only to see, 

That you, 

Had finally left, 

On a rainy Tuesday, 

In search, 

Of your next big adventure.

The journey

One fine sunny day,
I had embarked on a journey,
To a place,
I had long since longed for.

On the highway,
Driving across the empty road,
I looked on at the clear blue sky,
Ahead of me;
The white clouds fluttering away,
Carelessly,
Like little butterflies in a flower garden.

I drove across the countryside,
Amidst the hills,
And across the fields of yellow;
The sun peaking out in between the clouds,
It's golden rays sparkling on the water,
Beneath the bridge.

Beyond the hills,
Across the river,
The sky had turned an odd shade of blue,
A shade that reminded of fear,
Fear of joy,
Of losing what was never mind,
The clouds were no longer careless butterflies,
They were,
Packed together in outrage,
My heart no longer fluttered,
It sat still.

I drove on,
In search of my destination,
The place I had long since longed for.
The place for which I had travelled all these miles.

I drove through the foreshadowing clouds,
Amidst the dark grey,
And roaring winds,
I was perhaps,
A bit scared,
For loneliness in the dark,
Is a sight I hadnt wished to see.

The clouds had cleared up,
My sky was once again calm,
My red once again beating;
And my feet once again still.

I was in search of a destination,
I had long since heard of,
But I had never seen the daunting beauty
That captivated every soul,
Leaving them,
Spell bound to its endearing appeal.

Across the valleys,
And the fields of yellow,
From beyond the hills,
Reverberating my red,
I had finally reached my destination.

But the sun had set,
On my Sandy beach;
And the infinitesimal grains,
Slipped away,
From beneath my feet,
Like the illusion of time,
Always fleeting.

Perhaps,
It is the illusion of a captivating destination,
That sets us on a journey,
We would not have otherwise taken,
Only to find,
That we had loved the journey
More than the place,
We had long since longed for.

The Musician

She’s that one voice on the other side of the phone that’ll be keeping you awake through cold winter nights. She’s that one desperate ‘sigh’ at the end of a sentence your story is incomplete without. She’s that one complicated smell on a windy winter evening that tastes like summer but feels like a thousand raindrops on your skin. She’s that one faded shooting star in your sky that you wish on every night, even though she’s not there. She’s that one person you can see from a million miles away and still fall for every time you remember her. She’s that one beautiful flower in the middle of the forest that’s the answer to all your prayers, the cure to all your diseases. She’s the one flower you can never get, but you want and you die for everyday.



She’s the one that’s been killing me with her song.

Let Them In

The bag was flung to one corner of the room, the clothes stripped off and thrown on the bed. Like any other kid, when school ended, I felt so free. But, my story wasn’t like every other average child. Our stories are all different, aren’t they? I’m not you and you’re definitely nowhere near to me. We are all so different, yet all so alike. Why is it then, that we face discrimination? Just a little thought in the mind of a 14 year old girl. The bag dropped, so did the clothes, I went out to play. That’s something pretty normal for a 14 year old kid, isn’t it? Too bad that the difference between reality and the realm of human perception is so tainted that what seems is never what truly is. I wonder how many people know what it is like to be forgotten, it’s like living in an isolated realm away from mainstream humanity. However, the laws of humanity do not apply here.  I heard that they talk about us all the time; allegedly we are all over the news. While they debate about our lives, I being the victim of this hateful world that is dictated by man’s greed, see no ray of sun light shine towards me.
For a 14 year old, I surely think a lot. They say that maturity comes with age, with age comes experience and experience gives way to maturity. However, when you experience life in the form of a gaping abyss that sucks you into its darkness, you are bound to be more mature then your age would allow.  Coming back from school, that day, that evening, it was all a distant memory in some fairytale land that we once lived in. Those are all just fragmented memories now; it almost feels like they were dream sequences. When we were little kids, we were told about shooing stars. Make a wish upon a shooting star and it’ll come true. However, when the sky came crashing down on us, there was nothing mystical or enchanting about it. As the sky plummeted down upon us, we were helpless, afraid, alienated from the rest of the world. Left to our own devices to suffer, as our world burned down, the world outside just sat and watched.
Did you ever wonder how trees feel like when they are uprooted? Torn from the roots, taken away from the mother earth that it belongs to, stripping it of its home. No one wants to leave their home behind, but what do you do when there is no home left to stay in? Home is where the heart is, but in this inhumane, cold, abyss of a world, the heart grows weary of the constant fallacies that it faces.  I had a home, a life, I went to school. In one tragic moment that was all torn away from me. I had lost everything and in the eyes of the world, I was now a refugee, the bitterness that came to mind, how I bite my tongue while saying this word. To the outside world I was now termed as a beggar, just that instead of begging for money, I would beg for a country to live in.
We had to leave behind our country; some were smuggled out in oil tankers, others in trucks. They promised us safe passage to Turkey. We didn’t really care where we went, who would? We were mentally scarred, we felt naked, stripped, torn apart. We gave all we had left to the smugglers; the journey would take two days according to them.  We just wanted to feel safe again. We wanted to be away from the constant dropping of bombs. We didn’t want to live with the constant question of, ‘will there be a tomorrow?’ We put all our trust, our lives at the hands of unknown people who would take us to an unknown land under sordid conditions. But, at least we would be safe.
The first day was almost over; we were half way to our destination. It was the dead of night. Everyone was asleep in the truck. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t put myself to close my eyes knowing the horrors that I had seen. The truck suddenly stopped, it wasn’t supposed to stop at this time. I peered out to see what was going on. The truck drivers got out, two big men. They were very hairy, they each had thick beards, they were talking amongst themselves, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying in their thick farsi accents. They were coming my way, in a sudden shift of fright I sat back against the truck, but they had spotted me peering by then. While I closed my eyes as to pretend I was sleeping, I felt cold skin creep up against my mouth. It was a big hairy hand that pressed against my mouth, I couldn’t scream and by God I did not know what was going to happen to me or whether I would come out of their alive, they dragged me down the path into some woods. The truck stood there in the middle of the road and all its tenants lay asleep unknowing  of what my fate was. In the woods, the other man was waiting. What happened later was a series of screaming and the only memory I can recall of it was the pain and the screams, the pain that their vile pleasure had given me. After that, I couldn’t put myself to speak to anyone about it. We were on our journey, on our way to our destination, but I was lost somewhere. I knew that a part of me was left behind in my own country, but the rest of me was lost somewhere in those woods.  I couldn’t put myself to tell anyone about it. I felt so impure, I felt unwelcome inside my own mind. No matter what I tried to think about, my mind would be stuck in the memory of that night, in the woods.
We had reached Turkey, that’s when the stomach pains started. It felt like bone crushing pain. I couldn’t bear it. We had just entered Turkey, but everything was still so frantic. The chaos still didn’t subside, amongst all this I didn’t want to bother anyone with my petty stomach aches.  When a tree is uprooted and left out of the soil, the mother that nurtures it, for too long, it’s bound to wither and die. Even after you plant that tree in some other place, it still takes a long time to get back to being healthy, if you’re quick enough that is, but still then it can never go back to being a 100%. We had a place to stay now. It was a safe place. But it still wasn’t home. I don’t think any place could be home now.
I was back at school, playing with my friends, we were laughing. It felt so good to be back in a school uniform with a bag on my back. All of a sudden, I screamed out. I shrieked in utter pain, the intense pain in my stomach. I woke up from my sleep, back in my slummy bed. The dream of going back to school was just that, a dream, the stomach pains however weren’t.
We weren’t welcome in Turkey anymore. We were treated like sick animals, no one wanted us. Where would we go? We didn’t have a home, we were the citizens of the world but we were still homeless.  Their troops raided our shelters and forced us to leave. We had nowhere else to go. We didn’t know what we were doing, we just followed everybody else. We got on miserable little boats in hopes of weathering the horrid seas. The seas were dangerous, but at this point, danger was a daily aspect of our lives. The boats were overcrowded, babies, old people, newly-weds. We all wanted, one thing, to start over. God had mercy on a few of them and took them to Him. The woods stripped me of myself and the rough seas stripped me of my family. I was a 14 year old, sick girl with no family, alone with strangers in the sea. After 5 weeks at sea I found out what my stomach pains meant, two abhorrent men had cursed me for life.  I had no one left in this world to look towards, just the hope of a new life. The psychological trauma made me want to kill myself. I was just a little kid, upon whom God had no mercy. When we washed ashore somewhere in Europe, we didn’t know where we were, but all we knew was that we weren’t welcome there. We were citizens of the world without a home, all we wanted was to be let in. All I asked was to, let me in. 

Happy Endings

Sometimes I wish I could touch your fingers for just once more. Sometimes I wish I could get lost in your arms for one last time. Sometimes I wish you’d rest your sleepy head on my shoulder again. Sometimes I wish we could get sip on one last cup of coffee together.

But hey, I guess happy endings are a thing of the movies. I couldn’t say I don’t believe in love, that'd be too romantic. I couldn’t say you took all I had in me away. And I couldn’t say that I don’t want to have my heart torn out by somebody once more.

But that doesn’t change the fact that what you took, I can never truly replace. So instead I try to fill myself with the smaller joys in life, like cradling a newborn or seeping through the fading twilight with a bunch of fireflies in my hand. Till I find hope in someone else’s sun…

Love Today

Love today,
Is a blurry picture;
It's bikini waxes,
And body features;
Love,
Is no longer I love you,
At the end of a date;
It's more of a,
Wanna fuck?
Sure,
That's great.

Love today,
Has boiled down to,
Calling her cute names;
But not asking her,
If she had a good day.

Love today,
Is all for the show,
And not enough about what's inside the heart;
It's hard to live in such a world,
Where you're a hopeless romantic,
And everyone's just miles apart.

Love today,
Lacks emotions and feelings;
It's a materialised version,
It's Monetary dealings;
It's not about the love,
It's about the size of the diamond rings;
For a hopeless romantic who writes poems,
That stings.

I want love of a simpler kind,
When I love you,
Had actual meaning;
When love and the thought,
Required feelings.

I want a love,
Of the smaller things,
One where you write poetry,
Not buy diamond rings;
One where you need,
Just one mixtape,
To tell her how you feel;
Not a thousand YouTube links,
Just rewind the cassette's reel.

I want the love,
Where you stay up all night,
Talking on the phone,
You wouldn't need night clubs,
You'd just stay at home;
Facebook texts,
Lack a certain feeling,
Like hearing her breathe heavy,
Those things used to have meaning;
Or hearing her laugh,
At a joke you said,
Which you thought was lame,
But she loves you,
All the same.


I want a love,
Where I text her 1-4-3,
A lot of you,
Might not know what that means;
The love that I'm talking about,
Required beepers,
Not phones,
You see.

I wanna love her,
Like she's the most beautiful person I know;
I don't have to see her nudies,
I don't need her private parts on show;
Instead,
I want to know her private parts,
Like why she does what she does,
And why she likes,
Yellow hearts.

I want a love,
Where you love and care,
For one another,
Not parade each other,
Like trophies,
On facebook.

I want a love,
That's emo songs and poetry,
Not heart breaks and fuckery.

Notes to self

You’re worth it
You’ve always been worth it
And although you don’t feel like it most of the time
You. Matter.
Not to the world, not to anyone else
You matter to yourself
You deserve all the life you’ve got; every second of it
And you deserve to grow along with the trees around you
You deserve to learn
You owe it to yourself to grow and to learn
You owe to yourself to make use of how much time you’ve got left
And if you ever need a break,
If you ever feel like it’s getting too real for you
Take a step back; recollect yourself
It’s okay to let yourself roll
It’s okay to make your life a dream, as long as you can handle it
Let it slide
Let it in
Let it love
Let it live

Amen

Departure

The sky had lost its last smear of red. Her black stilettos clanked on the concrete as she made her way to the same spot. It was around this time, every November, she’d come to visit me. Her blue-black hair gleamed even in the dark, casting an eerie look. Her smoky eye makeup didn’t help either – I always hated her fashion choices. To be honest, I hated every choice she made after I left, but there was no stopping her. It was how she expressed her loss, conveyed through layers of paint, glitter and misery.  She tried desperately to conceal her scars, but alas, how could she mask the indelible memories?

She shuddered as she grew closer to her destination, but not out of cold. The concrete had changed to wet moss at some point so the only sound was that of the howling wind. She furrowed her brows as she registered the presence of new stones planted on the ground. More of them. Gradually, she found the stone with my name carved on it. She grazed the writing, reminiscing. All her endeavors to remain composed went in vain; black tinted droplets streamed down her cheeks. Every damn year she would convince herself she was over it, only to break down completely when confronted. From the small pocket of her dress, she pulled out a delicate white flower, exhaled a deep sigh, and gently placed it down. 

She never really forgave me for my premature departure.  

~Noyolee

The Bridge

The sky above us lit up in an odd shade of baby pink. The clouds are sparse up there today, tiny, incoherent lumps of white floating around callously. It's evening time, perhaps. I don't look up, in particular, but I can sense the calmness in the sky, the stillness in the weather and the tranquility all around us. We're in a park? A forest? A meadow...? There are trees all around us, dark brown, bushy trees. The leaves are a fiery tinge of orange, not the fading kind that you see in autumn, not the dead leaves. The leaves are still on the trees, like an orange overcoat tailored to fit the season perfectly. There's not much around, nothing substantial to look at. We're on a bright winding path, extending back to as far as our sight can see in its shimmering glow and going further away into the distance where we aren't paying attention. You're in a white dress, the details of which slip by me. My mind is here, so am I, but I am not focused on the clean ribbon that ties the dress down at your waist, or how the thin straps lie ever so gently on your shoulder. I am more focused on how your thick hair curves around your right eye and falls on your shoulder, how you like to wear your hair on one side, you say that it's because you hate it when your hair gets in your eyes; I suppose wearing glasses doesn't make it any easier.

I cannot recall how long we have been walking, time doesn't seem to have relevance to me now. I am only fixated on the person walking beside me, and she seems happy, and I suppose, so do I. For once, she doesn't catch me brooding my time away, rather, she finds me smiling and conversing and being a different person. I do not know how long this walk is going to be, but I do not want it to end.

In front of us, in the near distance, I can see a stream, a rushing stream. The sound of the gushing water over the lush banks of yellow grass is so endearing, we speed up our pace, the stream seeks to be the center of attraction now. Over the blue, restless stream, lies an old wooden bridge, it's no special bridge but it is beautiful, rustic and perhaps even unstable, at this point. Simplicity has always been more captivating than forced exuberance. For a moment, I do not wish to crossover the bridge, I want to sit by the stream and let the time pass, for a while, as if I'd be willing to do anything to make this walk last longer. I am not particularly interested in where we are going, rather I am interested in talking this walk with you; a walk that does not need a destination. You seem to be happy, until you are no longer. You're caught in a hurry but I do not know why, you start walking again, and I follow, for I have always followed.

We're on the bridge, but no longer walking side by side, you seem to be eager to crossover the bridge, you are no longer interested in admiring the natural beauty around us. Perhaps, I wasn't either, all this while, I was enthralled by your bewildering sight; too bewitched to notice how the birds chirped stopped chirping around us, or how the pink sky was finally turning grey, I was too busy to notice the sun setting on our perfect evening. I didn't notice, any of it.

The bridge doesn't bode too well as we walk over it, I take cautious steps, but you no longer seem to be worried. As I walk slowly, I notice the bridge cracking behind me. I try to catch up to you, and perhaps, I realised that I should speed up my pace as well. We finally crossed over, to the other side, but I suppose, we left the bridge a little too weak.

The winding path behind us no longer seemed to continue the same way. Ahead of us was a short walk until the meadow cleaved into the pathway separating it into two different ways, going far away from each other. I walked behind you, you did not seem like you wanted to talk. Your hands were folded on top of each other, your gaze no longer towards the road, it shifted downwards. You looked at your feet on the dull road, as if you were trying to hold on to this walk a little longer, trying not to be interested in where we were going.

You finally let your hands down, you stand, still and you look back at me. You give me a forlorn look, one of sadness, anger or maybe some of both. I have always tried to understand the mystery hidden behind your eyes but this time I cannot decipher this code that you have put up for me. You turn around and walk, this time, eyes perfectly placed on the road ahead and you walk away from where the road parts, on the brighter side of the road, where the meadow cleaved into our pathway.

I find myself, at the mouth of the partition, I want to go back, for a moment, I walk down the path from where we came, this time without you. I had more time to notice mature now, I walked very slowly, as if to prolong my walk, as to allow the time to pass without me. I noticed now, how the baby pink sky was no longer bright, how the orange leaves weren't actually orange, everything was dull now. I had finally reached the stream, but the bridge was no longer there, I could not cross over, to where we came from. I suppose, we burned that bridge down when we crossed it.

Metaphors

I have always been afraid of heights,
Just looking down the balcony made me quiver,
But lately I've been hanging on a ledge,
Only this time I didn't shiver.

My knees locked,
My body caved in;
But for reasons apart,
Perhaps a drunken sin.

I dangled from above,
But this time I looked down;
There was no one to save me,.
She wasn't around

I held on with one hand,
I thought of letting go;
The ledge turned to straw,
I couldn't hold on anymore;
I remember falling,
But I looked down in delight;
I had finally let go,
Of my fear of heights.
(and falling)

Next thing I remember,
I am on the beach,
Where the ocean and the land,
Are at hand's reach.

The ocean travels the world,
And it meets the sand,
Only,
To be pushed back again.

The beige sand seems accepting at first,
But it changes its mind,
It gives the ocean a thrust.

The ocean doesn't give up,
It loved the sand,
In efforts vain,
He came back again.

Only this time,
The restless wave lost its might,
It's hopeless efforts,
Fell rather light.

I'm on my roof,
I'm admiring the sky,
The thing about it is,
It doesn't lie,
It is calm in its lilac serenity,
Red in its angry rage,
The sky never hid,
Behind it's blue cage.

The sky looked ethereal,
In its bright sundress,
I loved it dearly,
In dry and in drench.

But my sky,
Shuts me out,
It hides behind,
The darkest cloud;
I stare,
I gaze,
In patience,
I wait;
But nothing.

I stare at the mirror,
I look at myself,
My skin turns pale,
Dear, I need help.

I do not want a life of metaphors,
Anymore,
I am empty,
Depleted to my core;
I do not want to think of you,
My sky;
I no longer want to bear the thought,
That my clouds cry.

I do not want your rage,
I want serenity.

I do not want to be your ocean,
I no longer want to be pushed away,
I no longer want the waves to be,
My heart that sways.

I am tired of falling,
I want the straw,
To be concrete ground,
I want my night's sleep
To finally be sound.

I am hurting inside,
But I cannot show,
I do not want these metaphors,
Anymore.

Lilaboti

The cold water felt good on his skin. It made him feel numb, something he desperately needed right now. The steady stream coming out of the showerhead washed the soap down his body, forming a creamy puddle around his feet. It looked like it was clinging to him, using him as support to survive the torrent trying to pull it way. He lifted his feet, slowly letting it go. Some things need to fade away before you give them hope.

He looked into the mirror as the puddle of foam started washing away. He wondered if the foam felt any pain as the drain consumed whatever life was left in it. Or was it numbed by the cold water too? He looked for himself in the mirror, for whatever of his youth was left. He cleared the fog on the mirror with his hand to get a better look.

The face of a confused old man stared back at him, almost as it was accusing him of something. He took a step back, afraid of his own reflection. What was he worth anymore? What kept him going?

The five thousand taka he got from his pension was all that was keeping him afloat.

They cut him today. Forced retirement. The new manager felt that he was just too old to withstand the pressure of this sector anymore. He felt like an outdated equipment, something that should have been put out of order a long time ago. He’d never complained about a single thing in the last 20 years. Never left to a company offering a higher salary, never asked for a promotion or complained about one. The only thing twenty years of loyal service had earned him was a retirement party with one cake and a dozen or so balloons. Even then, he was confused whether the people gathering around him were actually there for him or for the cake. And as he got on the 9pm bus for one last time, he tried to contemplate his life, where he’d go from here. How he’d keep her going.

She’d been paralysed for the greater part of the last 10 years. Road accident, major brain damage, lucky to escape death. ‘Lucky’. Ironic word that one. Just ‘lucky’ enough to not die, not to be alive. Is being stuck in a body being unable to move called being lucky? Or is life in itself a gift; however horrible, and painful it may be?

It kept getting harder and harder for him until today. He could manage hard, he couldn’t manage impossible. At least, not anymore. Their only son had just gotten into college. Private uni., six figure semester fee, plus pocket-money for hanging out with friends. His only daughter’s husband had called last week, asking for money. Apparently he’d gambled his last payout away. He threatened to divorce her if he didn’t get it by the end of the month.

He had been trying to find a job, but no one was willing to hire a fifty year old retired press worker. He was worthless now.

The foam was almost non-existent now, they’d faded faster than he thought they would.

His hand reached for a small wooden cabinet beside the mirror. It was worn down. The first thing he felt was a thick layer of mosquito web. Well, at least something found some life amidst all of this. Everything was still as it was five years ago, untouched. Her expired old lipsticks, her eyeliner, even that rose-flavored perfume he’d bought her on her birthday lied there in a corner, covered in dust. 

A teardrop almost escaped his threshold, travelled through the cracks on his face till it melted with the water dripping from his hair.

He didn’t dry himself, instead he put on a pair of ragged old pajamas and dragged himself down the hall to his bedroom. His eyes automatically looked down at the lifeless body lying in his bed. A forty five-ish woman, long and lean in demeanor with the prettiest set of eyes he’d ever seen. She still looked as beautiful to him as she did on day one. A smile covered her pretty face, she almost looked like she was at peace now.

He knelt down beside the bed and kissed her on the lips. It’s been years since she had last kissed him back. And even though she couldn’t say it to him, he knew she was hurting, crying to bite down on his lips for one last time. He wondered if it was selfish to keep her alive like this. The doctors had always been against it. Told him that she was in pain and it was better to say goodbye. But he wasn’t ready to let go, he never will be.

He laid down beside her, slowly, careful not to crumble her dress. He was shaking as he turned towards her, trying to drown his nose in her hair. She still smelt wonderful, he thought. The dimmed light coming from the street in front hurt his eyes. He slowly curled up against her body and covered his eyes with her hair. She felt soft, softer than she already was.

They had no flamboyant romantic backstory, no. They both came from modest backgrounds, never really asking or getting too much from life. Their parents chose them for each other, and they were lucky enough not to hate the guts out of each other. They were a good team yes, good enough to keep going for twenty years. But no, he never thought being in love with her was a possibility.

The first time he felt that she was something special was the night it happened. Office party. She looked wonderful in her matte-maroon sharee and black bangles. He couldn’t look away, not for a second. His sight set on her eyes, even when they got on his bike to get back home.

And then… the usual story.
12 pm, Indira Road, over-speeding car, rich brat drowned in alcohol on a night out with his friends. The case didn’t even go to court. The police filed it as a normal road mishap, with no mention of the boy or his car being there. The boy walked away with a minor warning, nothing else.

He took out all of his savings, did what he could, even loaned some money. Nothing could buy her back, the notes finally felt worthless.

…

It was raining when he came home tonight. His shirt stuck to his body, glued by a mixture of sweat and rain water. He checked up on her pulse the first thing he got home. He has always wondered how her eyes still looked so alive within all that hurt, how she still looked like she’d get up from that wheelchair and welcome him home with a hug. He looked away and opened the drawer to his left. Twenty thousand taka, he counted what was left of his savings. Half of what he owed to loan-sharks. Her meds cost more than ten thousand a month. The one week notice didn’t help.

He turned and looked at her pretty face once more. She was still lying there, peaceful as ever, showing no real sign of life but the slow pulse showing on the heart-rate monitor. In one split moment of desperation, he lunged forward at the lifeless body and grabbed her by the neck. She moved for a bit, her arms threw themselves at him, as if she was trying to escape. But he knew it was just her nerves reacting, trying to fight back. He tightened his grasp until her muscles relaxed and she didn’t struggle anymore. The pulse monitor beeped with one continuous line showing on it’s screen. She didn’t move anymore. He couldn’t look at her, so he quickly escaped into the shower.

…

He glanced at the small spider at the corner of the room, it was busy doing it’s own thing, not giving two fucks about what was going on in the room underneath her. Her face seemed much calmer now. Calmer than it usually did. He gave her a tight hug, almost crushing her in his weary arms. But she didn’t respond, she didn’t push back, her body didn't reciprocate anymore . She was dead. She’d been dead for the last 10 years. But it hadn’t hit him this hard before. And it hurt, like hell. He screamed, he screamed as loudly as he could.

Her body muffled his despair as he held his face in her arms, as tightly as his arms would allow him to. What had he done? How had he done this? Why had he done this?

He couldn’t cry though. He tried as hard as he could, but the tears wouldn’t come out. He felt as if something was ripping out his soul, tearing through it with a butcher knife like some sick medieval torture camp. And that ‘something’ was so fucked up that it wouldn’t let him cry, it wouldn’t let him ease the pain. He wanted to say that he was sorry, he wanted to scream that he loved her. But all he could manage to get through all that hurt was a name. Her name, tearing through his vocal chords,

“Lilaboti”

The Garage

The only light in the room, hanging low like a dilapidated chandelier, illuminated a murky-yellow glow, insufficient to distinguish anything. It swayed in the gentle breeze that seeped in through the small gap of the garage door. It wasn’t that cold, but the man in front of me shivered both inside and out. I don’t blame him. There wasn’t a single soul that didn’t cower from my glare; also, people tend to fear those who tie them to a chair in an unknown garage. His eyes, the only mobile part of his body, scanned the room restlessly, desperate to find a weapon or an escape. Chained like an undomesticated creature, he thrashed about, endeavoring to grasp freedom.

Draped in the shadows of a corner, I observed him with an eerie silence. At first he resisted and opposed the thick straps digging into his reddening flesh. Then, slowly, his fidgeting came to a minimum and turned into a more defensive demeanor. I watched his diaphragm rise and fall as he clenched his fists to keep him from panicking. The piercing red veins in his eyes added a touch of idiosyncrasy. I knew he had reached the peak of paranoia, when even the slightest rustle of leaves made him jerk. The ropes debilitated him completely, draining every bit of sanity left within. It was working – I knew it would.

I took one step out of my concealed corner, my distorted silhouette falling on him. His drooping head suddenly caught sight of it and began to interpret it with squinted eyes. As he deciphered the owner of the shadow, a flash of terror registered on his face – only to be replaced by a placid composure seconds later. I smirked; he thought he could hide it. But I was faster than that. In a slow cat-crawling manner, I came to stand right in front of my prey. The odor of anxiety exuding from his body was indeed delicious. He wouldn’t meet my eyes; and who could blame him? Last time he did that, he found himself unconscious in the back of a truck with no recollection whatsoever. That was how it always went.

I gently tilted his head upwards but his eyes darted away from me. “Well. Are you going to tell me the truth now?” I tenderly stroked his cheek. A shiver of disgust vibrated through him. His lips formed words and chew them back again before finally uttering “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  A smile played on my face, a blend of amusement, annoyance and anger. My voice fell to a seductive whisper “Don’t you, Richard?” His wide eyes flew to meet mine in disbelief. He thought I wouldn’t remember