Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Behind those closed doors

A few moments ago, 
opening up her purple streaked umbrella, she got down from the bus. Local buses, that ran between her home and office, that passed by a market and the convent school and that carried her to and fro, except for today. And today, she got down in between, without picking up her son from his school or going to the vegetable market. Yes, she got in between. Passing by the bare withered trees, she entered into an unfamiliar avenue.  A dramatic busy street, where nobody startled, nobody cared. Among the hundreds walking across the street, she was one. Entering into the compound of apartment, she raised her head to see the top of the building, but she couldn’t. The rain drops still continued its fall. 

She stood for a while under the search board of residents list and took the elevator. On the third or fourth, there is the house of a man who taught piano classes to some..some of his friends, some of their children and so. She might have reached the fourth floor to find in a place where she can send her little son for his piano lessons. There was a security guard instructing some workers, standing near the floor that wouldn’t even spare a stare as the woman would walk in his house and they shut the door. 

And downstairs stood, the middle aged man with an eye on her, watching at her every move, trying to draw out her intentions. Why was a beautiful woman like her going alone to the house of a young man, and at this time?  In the rainy afternoon, when nobody is home. He had been made to believe that she was going to engage in something illicit. Something out of the so called morality, a man and woman must be expected to abide by. They are going to do something that would bring a shame to both and destroy two individuals, two families and an entire society. 

Torn between the thoughts of a middle aged man and the shut door of the apartment, we really do not know, why did she go there?  What goes on behind the shut door? Is she discussing on her son’s piano classes or is she doing something else with the man? Or is she the melody by which he played his piano ever?  May be…Man’s curiosity will never end. But sometimes unknowing is much better than to know. Because,  knowing is Human and unknowing is Divine…

Sunday, June 15, 2014

The Murder of the Murderer

This is what happens when,
A song of the murder
Becomes the murder of the murderer
It was a day before; I saw him and her,
Running on the streets,
Laughing out and screaming aloud,
He never forgot to kiss her hair,
While, it was playing with the breeze.
So alive it felt like and
They owned the world; I thought-
A love breaking all the clichés and rewriting epics

Then, there was an elegy of slowness
An elegy of fathomless infidelity.
Heard it, echoing from a distance
Wondering with her eyes like a child,
She asked him what it is of.
And he told her with a lovely smile,
"It is the song of our love
Somebody will write one day"

The vibrations in the thick air began to roar,
The cool breeze becoming wild storm
But only an apple fell down the tree.
Empty words sprung with no meaning,
Blue lights of the red streets,
Dead souls, stunned faces
Life torn apart by life,
The street that went pitiless,
Till the end of times.
A society that destroyed itself,
While daughters of Eve in search of the apple.
The humans repeated their mistakes again and again,
Yet, the world moved on.
And then, the love that made mountains
Began to crumble down back to the soil.

The doom, the terror, the blood.
Stabbed him! Yes, she stabbed him.
And bathed her hands in his blood,
She knew that he loved her more than anyone,
And also that he was ready to die for her.
So she did it again. Stabbed! 

She drowned him. Tied him up to her chest,
And drowned him in the flood of blood, a river.
Seconds that will never return;
Time inevitable, Existence’s shortness.
He was stabbed but she was dead.
And when he was dead,
She was already in the coffin,
Covered with in some impure whites,
Waiting for the Judgment.

She asked me, why am I dead?
And I told her in a low voice,
You were not you, but you were him.
You stabbed and left him wounds but death is yours,
He bleeds and the pain is yours.
She gave me a smile
And returned to her coffin
Covering up herself in some dirty whites.
Uttering his name in the quiet of its dark,

 And here at the end of all things,
To him, who got stabbed and not died,
I want to say,
She has left you but I am here.
And I love you so much more than her and
will write you a story
But before that,
Come to me, a second time
Upon words and promises,
Let’s own something
Others will never understand

And for a last time, lay with me on the ground
Under the trees where we made love,
And kiss me while you have tears still falling in your eyes
Hold me tight for one last time
Give me your ears to whisper
And I want to tell there a ‘sorry’
Because I am not me
I am her, the remains of her
The woman who is already in the coffin...
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