… she turned blue

February 14, 2013, New Delhi

My eyelids hurt the moment my swollen eyes tried to look behind the bars. This was not the first time I had woken up in pain. I was wearing white stripped trunks which were now soiled red. I was tightly bound to a wooden chair with a white rope which was enough thick to pull an overloaded truck. I could not feel my lower body, my feet were no more trembling like before, acne scars on my skin could no longer be seen for the wounds were deeper now, even more deeper was the pain and louder was the scream inside, which befitted the pin drop silence of the 10×10 feet room. My spine hadn’t had the pleasure of even moving from last 13 days. That was the only body part which wasn’t numb, I appraise. I tried to look behind the bars with my hazy vision. ‘Three blurry colored strips with blue-ish pattern in the centre.’ “Ya Allah! Save me”, I murmured, looking at the ceiling above. I had not eaten in days, I hadn’t tasted anything other than my own blood and their urine. I did not feel starvation, I had nothing to vomit out now. I wished that I was dead, nonetheless I decided not to move because If they found I was awake, they would beat me until the unconsciousness hit me again.

I, thus, closed my eyes, but there was something which deranged me. The colors, maybe. ‘Dull saffron, white, green….. blue’

“I like blue, royal blue”, her voice echoed my eardrums. She was nowhere around, I couldn’t help but evoke the memories.

January 14, 2013. New Delhi.

Paint-slingers had just left, painting the walls blue. My house had taken a all new dimension over a course of two weeks. Curtains were now deep blue coloured. There were lavenders in the vase instead of roses now.  The modern art hanging in my room had been replaced by the the landscape of the blue sky. She often kept the curtains wide open so as to see the sky. I never bothered to ask her the reason for such a penchant for the colour, as long as that kept her smiling, the way she kept me. Blue was the only way out to let her come over whenever she turned blue. She painted almost everything. Worst still, she painted the red rose I had given her, blue.She used to make me wear blue shirts of different shades everyday. Not surprisingly, with the blue ties. Although, it never offended me. I loved her, I loved someone who had an abnormal obsession for a particular colour. I loved someone who feared of dying every moment when there wasn’t anything blue around.

Everyday, at 6, she used to sit in the balcony and gaze at the sky for almost an hour; not to see the sunset, but the sky with no sun and no other color.

 

“What are you thinking, honey?”

“Did you notice the pizza delivery guy? He had blue mesmerizing eyes.” It disturbed me a little, I went to the room without uttering a word and thought of giving it a break. “Www.makemytrip.com” I typed and browsed for holiday destinations.

January 19, 2013, Goa

Everything seemed perfect for a while. Aahana wore a floral skirt, blue colored, of course. “I’ll be with you forever”, she said, in the sweetest voice she could ever produce. “Insha-Allah! Allah is with us, love”

The next day, we walked on the beach, our intimacy had grown to an extent. “Aahana, I love you”, said I.

“What? Aahana, I love blue? What?”

“I SAID ‘YOU’, NOT ‘BLUE’.”

“Stop screaming”

“Stop provoking, then”

Silence hit and I chose to succumb her conniptions. I sat there for a while and closed my eyes to relief myself. She kept walking, I didn’t bother to look at her, we were on a holiday, after all.

She was walking towards the sea. She kept walking.

I kept my eyes closed until I heard the sound of the lock of the jail being unlocked. “I’m asking you for the last time, why did you kill her?  Tell me right now or this bullet will go straight through your head.”, constable screamed, slapping me.

“I didn’t. She loved blue. Sea was blue.”

She never came back.

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FRAGMENTS 2.0

1. Colors

He was forbidden by the school because he was blind.

He could see the world’s true “colors”.


2. Mask

He gropes and masks her with ‘gulaal’, on Holi.

Now, they both wear a “mask”.


3. Love

I inhaled the fragrance of what she gave me on Valentine’s Day.

The rose died, “Love” didn’t.


4. Affection

I see them in the rear view. He’s mad at her, yet holds her hand.

“Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear”


5. Hope

He kept sipping the coffee while typing on the MS word.

Such a loner, society said.

The girl in his book ‘plot’ was his only true love.

FRAGMENTS 1.0

1. Religion
A Muslim man sat beside her, days after the Mumbai train blasts.
She awfully maintained a gap.

10 years from then, there sat a human, their son.


2. Insomnia 

He re-read her texts ensconced on the chilly floor, bare chest, bare feet, in mid-January.
He felt cold…..inside.


3. Generosity

He took her to his posh house in his black Audi and gifted her a premium diamond ring.

I took her to my home.

She is now my wife.


4. Love

He knelt down and proposed her.
“You’ll be the second women for whom I’ll ever kneel down”
She stepped back amazingly.

“First would be our daughter.” 


5. Society
She received an increment in her salary.

She shared her joy with her father, who couldn’t help but frown.

Her match will ask him for more dowry now.


6.Shibboleth

He donated a sum of rupees 2 crores to the ISKON temple.
He landed up in jail because his car accidentally ran over 3 innocents who laid on the road, while returning.

Had he donated it to them,
He wouldn’t be there.

The Petrichor.

 

Ever wonder what we really miss when we are  busy in our lives? How about the warmth of sun striking our window pane during sunrise? How about he mild zephyr bringing the feeling of silk over the skin, entangling our hair?  How about the morning chirps breaking the utter silence in the morning? 

Now, how about not being oblivious to the aroma of nature which has been sloughing off the stench of our mental stress and the burdens?

It’s a Sunday morning; drip drop drip little April showers, over my glass window, bead up creating an effect that is like looking through a thin veil of thousands of tiny gems.  The scent of rain on the verdant grass and the dust is alluring. Better than anything Gucci could ever produce. I am mystified over the transfer of such tiny pearls, and how the mixture of dust and these pearls can create a smell. The sweet, green smell of wet grass is intermingled with the sharp scent of rain, steaming from the street, and I can’t decide which smell I love more.

It’s a magic. It’s the ‘petrichor’.

Two things in my hands- a cup of tea and….. my life.I think of a drop, a single drop, its journey from the sky above, to little green shoots that sprout from the ground. Its change of state, its immense fall, its tackle through the wind pressures, and finally vanishing, leaving behind the scent, the ‘petrichor’. 

I then, realize what life would it be which does not leave an essence, the aroma of us when our bodies turn into ashes?
How worthless would it be to step on earth, and leaving  unnoticed, totally neutral?   

I consider it. I consider the nature. I consider the petrichor.

I sip the tea, and wait for the natural phenomenon to fall upon me. I dream of tropic weather and re-inhale the ‘petrichor’. I silently tell the drops flashing over the window, “thank you”.
Mere moments later, before I could return back  to my real life from my own ‘philosophical voyage’, a voice interrupted me, no, not the pitter-patters of rain this time but my mom asking me to go study.

After all, life is all about cramming the compound’s name that drop is made of. Deh! 

CINDERS

Cinders, 
Dreams ever touched, 
Breath ever made, 
Song that lived, 
Ounce of love ever gave. 
Heart that blotted out the fire,
Heart that dried my tears, 
Heart that used to beat, 
Heart that took away my fears. 
Cinders, 
Everywhere. 
I realise, 
I hold on, 
Heart that got me through, 
The world, 
The life, 
The love, 
All I did was to woo you. 
Life is like a piece of art, they said. 
I grabbed the paint and brushes too. 
Cinders,
Everywhere. 
Tossed and turned, 
Dreamed of you, 
Smirked, 
Wondered if it was true. 
Tear rolled, 
Woed, 
Despaired, 
The enigma i unfold. 
Cinders, 
Everywhere.
The burnt soul, 
The smoked feelings, 
Ashes around, slags all over. 
Cinders,
Everywhere.
I lay, 
Day turns into night, 
You will arrive, 
Seems nowhere in sight.
Lights fade away, 
Darkness crawls, 
I’m afraid, everything sheds and falls.
Cinders, 
Everywhere. 

-Anip Mittal

LIFE IS A STORYBOOK. 



Life, I realise, is a storybook. As soon as you are born, you are given a particular name and a picture which portrays you in a unique way. 
As they say, the story is already being written by the author- the almighty, chapters have an end, a prosperous or preposterous end, the way destiny plans it. 
People, I realise, are the readers who come, gaze you for a while; judge you by the cover, the way you look and finally leave if they don’t find you much appealing, leaving you disappointed and depressed.
At this stage, you try to enhance the cover, you try to make it more appealing despite of knowing the fact that the words, the morals, the story, the inner you are still the same.
And then, few come, look at the fascinating cover you have been glamorizing to woo people around.
They begin with a chapter. They turn about the pages, entering the life of yours. You seem to be happy. But then eventually and gradually, they find out that that wasn’t a good thought. They start realising that this was not the kind of genre they were in search of. Infatuation. Just a mere infatuation. Thus, they leave. They leave in between, untouched, unnoticed, leaving the middle page folded.
But beyond the shadow of doubt, at one or the other point, we come across a reader who overlooks the cover and tries to grasp the depth of the words engraved within you. The one who achieves in doing so, is the loved one. Someone who rattles you out of your comfort-zone, knocks the air out of your lungs, and turns the pages of the book in a very delightful and pleasant way.
They initiate with the very first page, the beginning of your whole new journey.
Perhaps, they make you realise that every word conveys a different meaning. Every page is a new phase.
They make you realise that life has its own ups and downs but nonetheless the book is yet to be completed.
As they turn the pages of the book, they gradually form a special bonding, the bonding of affection, respect and love. Then you realise, it wasn’t about the cover but the words, the soul, the inner you which was worth captivating.
The chapters, the pages, I realise are the phases. Each chapter, therefore, has a start and an end.
But amazingly, if the book is already being written by the almighty; as they say, why bother about anything? Why work hard? what if you just stop at the verge and let the pages turn over on their own?
The enigma would rather be suspicious.
Considering,
The story, I realise, isn’t complete.
The almighty, I realise, is not the author but the creator.
The author, I realise, are you.
Life is a storybook, yet to be completed.