the lost stories...

>> Friday, December 17, 2010

Those stories
I’d written -
moonlight shone through them,
as though
specters outlined the hues
without substance
when words came,
wearing forever an affable guise of
earthly bliss

Their delicious and blithe tones
lingering musically in the horizon-
how far away,
close to silence,
and yet; so very clear

and so they are,
the testimonials of immortal pain
amiable signs which survive
everything that was exquisite
remains, behind
their enduring celestial veil

and meanwhile,
my only solace exists
in resurrection of
memory, the aftertaste and reflection of
the body which had sinned, but the spirit
redeemed ..

I scribble these verses,
only to tear ‘em up,
throw the ramblings unread
into a fire

and yet, you never know..
as the blistered pages sparkle
dwindling into
the rosy cinders,
the spell might be broken,
and I may claim again –
the lost prose
that forfeited liberty,
and my failed genius..

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two grannies..

>> Sunday, November 21, 2010

It's the story of two grannies in my maternal village.
I had seen them since time immemorial, saw them old and wrinkled, exactly the same for past - don't remember how many years. I visited my Nani (maternal grandmother) once in the gap of 3-4 years and found them the same; affectionate loving caring but invariably venomous about each other and backbiting.

They were not my real grannies, someone in my family tree, some great great grandfather must have owned mammoth portions of land and prodigious mansions. He must have divided his estate amongst his children who in turn would have done the same and down the ages after every division the present status of these families was reduced to bare minimum. They all fought for the meager resources, blamed their parents for siding with a particular sibling and unrighteous division of the property, but life went on…

My grandfather managed to stay away from this; he was the only child, a zamindar; he inherited extensive property, was well educated, he doubled and tripled his possessions and had his own solitary habitat at the edge of the village.

Whenever I went there all distant relatives and neighbors invited me. I mostly sojourned the village on some occasion with all my cousins and we made a tour of the village and of course never forgot to meet those two sweet grannies.

They were sisters in law, now widowed. Their husbands were brothers. In his life time, their father had split the property and his portion of the residency between his sons(their husband). In quick succession both men died, their children grew up, left for bigger cities in search of employment and the two ladies were left alone fighting with each other. Interestingly both grannies had sons (not sure how many...coz I had seen none) and no daughter.

X granny was elder than Y granny. It was impossible to make out who was older. I had heard stories of their beauty and charm in their prime but I couldn’t picture them young. I wondered how old they were and often questioned my Nani. Nani had no definite answer but she made some vague guesses .. Whatever - they looked antiquated but I was equally surprised by their energy as they worked very hard from dawn to dusk and their stamina in trying to put each other down in almost everything that they did. It seemed they had been alone since eternity with their entity solely confined to each other.

To begin with -the bone of contention was a huge hall in their dwelling. The entire house was divided with same number of rooms for each other but that huge hall was a common property and both grannies used it as storage. Both owned a partitioned small mango garden, little piece of farm and in off-season they made pickles, papad (that they sold in the village market) and also did some stitching and knitting. They were famous for their variety of pickles and both tried to prove - their pickle tasted better.. their mango was juicier .. their farm was ideal .. their roses were brighter .. their stitching and knitting was in fashion . their side of the turf was better kept and lustrous ...n so on n so forth...

When we visited them we gathered in the courtyard surrounding the colossal ruin of their house that was set in a dell - amidst some goats on the rooftop, hens squawking away and few frail dogs quietly watching. We sat on cushionless rough benches near the doorway loving their enchanting sweetness looking through their wispy white hair. Both of them served us a variety of delicacy, trying to exhibit their traditional culinary skills. I can’t forget the taste of their rice rotis, aaloo puris, fried eggplants in mustard gravy ..chilly pickles .. suji ka halwa ..ohh the list is perpetual ..

Later in the evening either of the two came by our place to smear - how the other granny was torturing her .. trying to capture her share of land .. spreading false stories about her…etc etc . They labeled each other a ‘witch’ and had remarkably sharp tongue when they talked about another.

Entire village was amused by their stories. Sometimes the grannies started quarreling from the wee hours of the morning. The reasons of these bickering used to be as small as- someone dumping her side of dirt in another’s domain or someone trying to put water in other’s pickle spread in the sun, someone trying to steal mangoes from the other’s garden, or someone letting loose her goats in the other’s fields and destroying her crops. Villagers enjoyed these barrages, they all gathered to watch them exchanging verbal abuses- which contained nasty language and an attempted character assassination, everything unimaginable in typical rustic flavor. Some village women sided by their favorite fighter to make the fight spicier ..

I visited my Nani few years ago and in the evening was awaiting their arrival but neither of them showed up. Finally I asked my Nani and she replied that Y (younger) granny died few months back during the winters. That year they had witnessed one of the chilliest winters and Y granny could not endure the gruesome weather. None of her children came to see her so the villagers collected money and cremated her. X granny was shaken after that. In Y granny’s last days, she was the one who relentlessly took care of her and since Y granny’s death she was bed ridden.

At once I stood up and ran to see X granny, she welcomed me with tears in her eyes. On that occasion also she only talked about Y granny but she called her “dulhan” ( that’s how elder sister in law addresses the younger one in my village). She narrated Y granny’s illness, her desire to meet her kids but none dropped by and now that X granny was herself bedridden her own children were not concerned ..

I left with a heavy heart and when I returned to the city .. after few days I heard from an acquaintance that X granny passed away.

Though both grannies appeared to despise each other probably they were each others pillars of strength in some strange way and after the death of one the other had nothing to live for..


pS- I had written this story almost 5 years ago and had posted it on a site where I am no longer active. Was browsing through – 'coz I had nothing better to do and thought it deserved a copy here on my blog ..

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Cimmerian

>> Friday, November 12, 2010

phlegmatic self
savagely shrill -
the elfish quiet
of a wintry night,
every pulse,
beating vehemently
chest and shield
clamoring together
in hungry fury

dying flames
stifled in grate,
vault fitfully,
raven fragments -
psychological enigma
before my brain

in spasms of
secret desperation
I lean there -
endeavoring to lynch
affinity from
humanly fiends
whose claws were
clobbered steel

descending into
condensed miasma
of starless night
harking the muffled
voices of darkness
I crawl closer
to wrinkled Death,
ambushing in thicket -
a rancid supplicant
waiting for
door to be opened


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in - between..

>> Thursday, November 4, 2010

I don’t like indifference
the coerced dormancy
impedes my verve,
goading viciousness -
while it lulls appearances
in an abominable
stringent repose

the animated soul within
has shrunk
in fear of rejection
it is turning sinister
lying in ambush,
full of cold
stealthy impulsion

I wish to wreak vengeance
upon your mind
for this sin of body
I am abysmally, mortally
distressed

the candid shift
in your disposition
from invitation to avoidance
smudges the suggestive,
and penetrative

Formerly I loved you.
Now I must hate you.

silent passage of
raunchy towards apathy
has left my soul crouching
betwixt extremes,
woman's body twitches
with longing
to avenge the death of
the lover

I feel it shall never --

never repay this ennui -
by some necromantic spell,
you’ve robbed me off
my intensity and insanity

the desire of conquest
doesn’t elevate me
there is nothing to lose
naught to win
I hate it here, and yet
let me be
just like a coarse wine,
unshaken -
steady within cup.

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familiar strangers

>> Saturday, October 30, 2010

the temperate weather
chimes the turbulent dirge of
autumn, before launching the winter in -
I love, and always did, its grand
ineffable music,
foreboding and sniveling,
with its uncanny disposition of
release and ruin
as the day shortens to wintry span
the edge of inflamed sun blushes horizon
you and I, outdone by concluding rays,
hasten homeward

over this street and around it
is a placid twilight
the vivid moon, deep cerulean
ample meadow of constellations
soon make it a night for holiness -
there are no moaning winds,
not a friction in this knot
the lips utter no sound
my transparent cornea wafting in shadow
taps softly on your shoulder
you strain a tear which drops of itself
from the iris and skims its way
to spray the ground beneath your feet

nature, with her mercy and malice,
her pinnacle and corruption,
simulates that cosmos -
the human heart,
in which abodes, a paradox
centuries and seasons
discipline it to a quiet stature,
the incidental instincts
augmenting helplessness subdue desires,
sinful spirits in the hour of parting realize
that love and love alone is
the keynote of destruction

thus you and I, prematurely
before taking parts in this game,
when the stakes become abysmal and critical
silence that yielding smile,
forefend that inebriated look
at the bottom of which lurks
a fatal sweetness --
it has been a long night
the intermittent autumn tears
haven’t cooled my smoldering heart,
they have only set it steaming.

--


pS - Title Credit -
Perry Strange

--

pPS - we are trying to converse in poetry.. one for one..

now his turn to take it forward ..

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prosaic ..

>> Monday, October 25, 2010

To grope like this, in a supersonic stream of apprehension, sustaining reverberations and appearances, hiding bruises and blisters on the surface, could not be called living. I had unbarred the spout of passion and through it.. invited a stream of voices, sermons and mockery ...

I do not blame anyone for reviving these sentiments in me. I had a refuge from this ruckus of the senses and I could muffle the inner voice which acerbates my life. I could hush my scrutinizing reason, which moves to and fro in the brain, concocting fresh researches, and like a double-edged dagger severing every frail branch of my happiness.

Should the commotion which exults necessarily have a name? I would not disgrace my feelings by conferring common nouns verbs or adjectives, repeatedly misused by the wobbly beings. Can anyone feel what I feel? Such an entity did not prevail before; so there can not be a name for my despair or doom.

When the whole shebang tumbles before me and behind me; when the prosaic past stretches at the drab horizon like towny of the dead; when the future extends into a zilch; when I see my whole being enclosed within the cramped circuit of present, who could blame me if I’d tried in vain to hold thrifty present in my arms like an inflamed lover I’d embrace for the final time? Oh, if only I’d cherished the present and loved it as such ..

Given a chance, we flurry about, and would not refrain even from knocking down the next person in our way, pining to steal driblets from the fountain of lust, but aren’t we all identically fated to depart thirsting? I was soaked in this fleeting victory coz I’d tasted the forbidden love while you’d lurked in the periphery to rejoice my dissolution. Show me your ‘one’ virtue’ and I’d cease to be a sinner.

Most of us have perceived ‘self’ in the amplified reflection of passions, contemplated the drapery which shields posterity and then turned away shuddering from their own doppelgangers. Poets and seers have painted their fancies on this drapery in vibrant or somber hues as per their whims. Some of us sinners have succumbed to this ecumenical curiosity, and through well crafted duplicity have been led astray by their very own animated imagination.

From my passion I portent more despair. In present circumstances it may have been the most potent course of withdrawing from reality into a metaphysical dream. It was bound to reach a crisis and like a virus injected through artificial means it has expunged the inborn affliction. I am only a face of yesterday which would soon turn unreal, almost phantasmal and the print on the soiled page no more significant than a newspaper you read once and throw away. This search ends here. You were kind. Peace.

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verbal orgasm..

>> Thursday, October 14, 2010

I’d resolved; that beyond this treble of passion,
from warm security of infidelity,
you could also strain the rhythmic rumbling of
this terrific heart, and feel its faint tremors

after the stupor of a suppressed avalanche
can you ignore my presence?

thrust me yonder the lambent circle of
your sentiments, into the outer darkness
I’d haunt you with a troublesome persistence

the mere carnal instinct to sin
is a compelling force within
Oh, am young and fragile,
aching with appetite for life in its fullest sense

for it doesn’t make me suffer severely
as I’d ever suffer on bed, due to
the indifference of callous lovers,

or squirm in the muddle of the front lines
of ether-pungent whore stations

the sharp-toothed pain akin to stabs of pleasure
these invisible bayonets and visible bruises
there is morphine for tormented bodies,
no opiate for smitten spirits,

don’t stop me, let me convey in whispers,
with ostentatious tremblings, and daunted looks,

take me as I am from distance, and
mutilate my brain-power
drug it with your aroused depravity

turn me into a facile instrument of pleasure
and entrust yourself to me as such.

of what avail are these twinkling eyes
if they aren’t stricken between ecstasy and terror
honey laden limbs and its delicate curves
cups of fragrance we know as lips
and this round wonder of form called stature

yield to this penetrating tide that beats,
letting the intellect to go down beneath

thus we, with invisible marks, without affiliations
of any sort or illustration, would be tossed upon the world
to sink or swim, just as, the Pilate should decree.

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played out ...

>> Thursday, October 7, 2010

so you authored those sounds
pouring all fascination into tone,
to engross the theme that strove -
to soar upward

an inimitable combat,
in which beauty was distinguished,
by its semblance to another beauty,
insidious and phantasmal,
yet all too similar.

surging towards the author,
possibly by an idea
that I must mingle this life
with the life of a stranger --

who could so render my soul,
crystallize my secrets,
and give at least momentarily,
a coherent glimpse of love --

I perceived in that refrain
the hushed sky bending
speckled with lucent worlds;
the balmy swash of murmuring
fused with dulcet chords

down by the bulwark;
but my soul was, as it is,
benumbed-- my mind
always on the wire, was for once
utterly tired, and now

my very limbs ache, on my bed
played out, crimson with
alchemy of rejection, I’d at last
dispose myself, and I promise
there would be; no salty tears.


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Autumn..

>> Saturday, October 2, 2010

doleful music of autumn
how it stings my heart
like the refrain of

a familiar song
treasured in spring --

for an instant
my keys are stuck
as wrath and lament
chokes my utterance

prickled in veins
by tingling desires
I’d constrain myself

till the monsoon sinks
below glassy waters—

till the splash and splendor
consorting its departure
wanes –

into the clouds of
ethereal hues

which appear like
gossamer draperies
of vaporizing angels

till the tawny fringe of
apathetic moon
rises indolently
on horizon’s edge

and then
pacing forward
I’d claim --
the ascending road
to the Villa of Death..

--



pS - have scribbled a poem after a pretty long time -
perhaps I've written this just for the heck of it -
to move on from the previous sordid post ..

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Hushed Up!

>> Sunday, July 25, 2010

Past few months were aberrantly torrid at many levels, relationships, health and my writings- an inseparable part of me which suffered the most. ..
Most blunders are my own doing.. I make wrong decisions, trust perverts and by the end of it all I blame my own self for no real fault of mine..

Last month when I thought I had reached the cul-de-sac.. a dead-end wherein remained nothing to live for, the doctor had said I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and shan’t continue in the same vein. In the nights that followed I tried squeezing away loneliness on the floor and again on bed or standing by the window in the darkness crying bitterly for hours with the night sky spreading away to the south and east.

Then the safest place in cosmos seemed beside my dad. I used to hug him and sleep. In one of those nights my dad woke up around 2 am all in sweat.. breathing heavily. The horror I felt then can not be described. .. all I could do was scream .. and then he hugged me tight and whispered - nothing could happen to him coz he can not leave me alone in this world..
I knew it was ‘coz of me. ..

In the morning I braced myself, I had no right to make my aging parents suffer beyond this.. I have no one beside them, they have no one beside me, how could I take such step ..

I told myself thousand times; I’m lucky, I’m blessed, I’ve the most amazing parents in the world who love and support me despite all my follies.. but what have I done for them?
If I could give them one moment of pride.. only one moment of happiness.. for having and raising a daughter like me, a constant source of trouble, a gullible fool, an eternal loser.. and yet they never utter single complain ..

Yes, whatever has happened to me is worse than what can happen to most individuals. No dignified person could treat a fellow human in the manner I was trampled over. The details of agony shall never be conveyed to another living soul. It shall die with me. I know that in this world of mortals there is no justice but if there is a realm beyond death .. I shall have my justice..

I am happy. I can hold my head high and forgive all those who can never look into my eyes again .. God bless them .. even they know that life and death eventually gets us all .. I can forgive I can never forget..
The kind of experiences I’ve had, if my sanity is intact its ‘coz a grander or bleaker destiny awaits me and I am prepared for both.


I am digressing, I am posting this on ‘parent’s day’ coz if you are someone like me, if you too are disillusioned with life, if you also have nowhere to go, if you shrink from life and mistrust it then look at your parents - their love is an assured phenomenon which shall solve all questions. In their embrace is the logical Mecca of your long pilgrimage, the end of all this hunger for love and understanding and the pleasure that comes from simply living and existing in harmony.

Coming back to Terminal Moraine..
I am not exactly quitting. I can post something tomorrow or I can post something after a year. I do not know. All I know is; that I shall certainly post again. However, presently I feel I shall be away for an indefinite period.
There is too much happening in my personal life which leaves little time for poetry. Also, I’ll be traveling for some time and then I wish to concentrate on my book.. it’s the only dream which keeps me going ..

If you aren’t in my friend’s list on facebook and wish to stay in touch please search me as ‘Aria Sharma’. I am using this name as it would be easier to search or just leave your contact as comment I will make sure I do not publish anything that shall remain private or if you are on twitter you can find me on..

http://twitter.com/adagio_aria

I have nothing much to write so twitter seems an apt platform. Perhaps I am too happy these days and I’ll start blogging again when I have a new pain as my muse.. :D

In short, I’ll read the blogs I love in bunch whenever I get time coz I can not stay away permanently from the lovely writings of exceptional bloggers, a great source of inspiration and learning..

Please do not forget me. We shall meet here again ..thanks.
Love and Regards to all …

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the aftermath ..

>> Monday, May 10, 2010

words as conventionally detrimental as these
ought to have moved you, as I set them down
the irony of their falseness do not touch me

I saw, I felt, plain virtues in a man, whose
miniature vices could no longer harm, you are
a daylight ravager, the robber of predictabilities

I remember our brief togetherness, undead child;
a nameless experience, amongst largeness usually
a void, an odor, dark and languid, the scent of

a passionate body, most of all, I reminisce over
your lies, which took aim, had no point, theatrical,
enacted on tiny stage, for a tiddly audience; you & I

living with you was never safe, I sat enclosed
in a mist of uncertainty, or else recoiled from
theories of conjugal bliss, which were like shrine,

smoldering with phantasmagoria, an alien faith,
its liturgy and rites abhorrent, incorrigible perversity,
whatever was declared to be truth; a shameful fakery

And now I know ..I am only bored ..

pS -

I really am bored with the way I write.

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palimpsest

>> Monday, May 3, 2010

for me there is
no lust of allegiance,
the frenzy of pursuit,
or dust of defeat
in my reverie, I see you,
in Shangri-La, far away
dusk lay on it, solemn coast
gold lined; freckled with
tints of enchantment --

you and I rapt in oblivion
an embrace of racking struggle
vanishing into unknown
your face gleamed over
woods congregated, heights serrated
liquid harmonies dripping from lips
their piercing sweetness
the juice of divine vintage

and I see around --
the grotesque wraith of love,
the most pretentious of all pretensions
the silliness and malice
the pathos and pettiness
sex and disgust, cobweb and gossamer;
and one thing about you
constant and dependable --
your selfishness.

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Two lines..

>> Sunday, April 4, 2010

“My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, 'Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!' "

I read these lovely lines yesterday and I wanted to write something after a long time but writing would require remembering.. and remembering isn’t safe. You could lose your mind remembering. Memory is a siren, a fetching song on a distant shore, all claws and clutches in person. You court her on your own risk. That risk isn’t worth taking .. at least for the time being .. when I can’t write beyond a line or two...

Writing two lines in a blog post isn't a sin.. or is it?

If I could write two lines like Ghalib .. I wouldn’t have wasted so much space here..

“Mat pooch ke kya haal hai mera tere peeche? Tu dekh ke kya rang tera mere aage.. "


Ask not what separation has done to me. You see your poise (composure) when I come before you...


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