Creative juices seasoned with Terror

I opened the window for a dose of the cool evening draft. Strains of soft music filled my ears. I smiled contentedly. Perfect setting for the perfect little poem! I concentrated on the white paper and the black lines that crossed it evenly. They always seem to have a mild intoxicating effect. The creative juices were flowing.

Bang! Before I could emerge from my state of physical inactivity and regain my active agility, it happened again. Another bang! I ran to the balcony fearfully expecting to catch glimpse of a couple of coolly clad lads clutching onto some intimidating machines and threatening a crouching mass of innocent and fear-wrought victims. The bangs repeated irregularly but incessantly.

A proper scrutiny revealed a carpenter’s shop at the end of the road with the poor old carpenter hammering away joyfully at his fabrication. I retraced my footsteps in a quick desperate attempt to recapture the moment of creativity and penned down a couple of words in red… words that had been forced to make quick exits by the ‘poor old carpenter’, a few minutes back.

As a part of some universal conspiracy, my traitor pen refused to form alphabets, or for that matter refused to leave any mark on the ‘white paper and the black lines that crossed it evenly’. Unwilling to succumb to such plots, I jerked the conspiring red pen in a violent sweeping movement. The white paper turned nearly-red with big blots of red ink all over. The sight had done its mischief. I made a futile effort to wipe away the blots but all it did was to paint my hands red.

A sense of nausea made me rush to the basin and here I faced myself in the mirror. I saw someone I didn’t quite know. Was this the face of Terror? But, again, did Terror know tears of remorse that I saw in the eyes of the person in the mirror?

The last two weeks post 26/11 had left an indelible mark on my mind. Terror had diseased my mental faculties and was taking a toll on my sensibilities. Terror had struck at a geographical location more than two thousand kilometers away and here I was sitting in my room, feeling guilty for being safe, feeling responsible for innocent deaths, sensing the lurking presence of death somewhere near.

I have not lighted a candle nor have I mourned in black. I have, however, uttered a silent prayer for the ones who lost their lives, for the ones who survived and for all of us so that we never know what it is to die a terrorized death. Now, as I sit scribbling this feverishly, I realize what it is to be served a chalice of creative juices seasoned with Terror.

N.B.: This was written in December 2008. It is being posted now as a homage to all those who lost something on 26/11, a date that changed more than just history.

Thinking in black and white

Sitting at my workstation, with the earphones securely plugged into my ears and my feet precariously resting atop the edges of a very green dustbin, I feel like writing something worthwhile but I seem to be suffering from a writer’s block. The melody filling my ears travel fast to someplace deep within and I suddenly think, “Vow! I have quite a collection!” Soothes my nerves – something I’ve desperately needed to do recently. Life has been having sudden migraine attacks these days and has been telling me irately to take a hike. Well…she surely seems to know how to put me into one of those nasty moods, the brunt of which is patiently borne by one poor soul.

Track change…one of the few fast numbers that grace my collection. A slight change of weather, though not really a welcome one at the moment. Fortunately, the track abruptly stops midway and makes place for another soothing one.

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time wondering which way my life is steering and whether there is another route I would like to steer it towards. The inference? It has been smartly eluding me but I still hope to be able to catch up soon.

Forgive me if I sound morose…not something I intended. True to the track playing right now, I realize how I asked my heart to bring back strains of bliss but in a moment of naivety it brought back a generous helping of heartaches. Without looking a gift horse in the mouth, I accepted them gracefully. They say 'The longest journey a man must take is the eighteen inches from his head to his heart'. Perhaps for a woman, the journey is really short for she takes it so fast, and faces the consequence.

Time to take a break folks!!

I just realized the ‘very green’ dustbin is not green at all. It’s been replaced by a light peach one. And yes, I’m back after a pretty long break. It would certainly sound too melodramatic if I say that I miss my old green dustbin but I do miss it. Well, that’s the problem with me…can’t accept change, however small it may be.

If you have been anticipating the revelation of the ‘one poor soul’ who tolerates all those mood swings, I’m sorry to dishearten you dear reader. I am not about to divulge any secret pertaining to the ‘poor soul’, except perhaps the fact that when I was sure that the sky was overcast, he assured me that I was standing under a small dark cloud and all I needed to do, to see the blue sky once again, was to step back and look up.

I am quite lost in the thoughts of that ‘poor soul’ and do not wish to allow Skribblet announce my innermost thoughts. So here I lay my pen down…

I apologize if my scribbling appears to be a patchwork of disjointed thoughts…that is what it was meant to be. My thought has been prancing about like a frenzied little colt and I’ve tried to pull it into a warm embrace. So, here’s presenting my irregular mental designs in black and white…

Today is all I live for…

As I clasp onto a fistful of sand
I see grains slip away
And I know, tomorrow, when I open my grip
All I’ll have are the fate lines on my empty palm staring back at me
But for today I’m happy
For now, I still have a fistful of hope

Closing my eyes, I surrender to the arms of fantasy
I hear distant whisperings that soothe my anguished soul
I feel the embrace that absorbs my saline downpour
Through a misty vision I see the approaching silhouette of the familiar stranger
I shall not let my eyelids part
For all I have is today, to be happy…just once

They say ‘The Future beacons’
Perhaps it does for all
Yet I wish today lingers forever
Yet I cling onto today
Tomorrow may hold its promises for the world
But not me…

Today is all I live for!

Over…before it could even start

I pause a while, I turn around
And standing still, I realize…
‘Before it could even get started,
It’s over!

I was alone, I am alone
But somewhere in between something went right
And for a brief moment
I thought it was real

But I woke up soon, and tried to smile
I have always known the truth…
I know what I was and what I am
Is what I always, always will be.

I turn back again and look ahead
And try in vain to stop thinking…
‘Before it could even get started,
It’s over!’

Nativity

A warm intoxicating fragrance arose from the roads below, as the first few drops of rain fell onto my outstretched palm, seeped between my fingers, and kissed the thirsty ground.

I had been traversing the fiery tar roads, through the mercilessly scorching and sweltering summer days, with a sweaty, dirt-laden soul, knowing all too well that all I needed was the first summer shower to make me feel purged and alive. The time had arrived.

The violent storm ravaging the tall trees promised to give wings to my imagination and transport me to the world of fantasy while the water that trickled from my fingertips, connected me to the soil below, onto which it gently splashed, and attempted to keep me grounded to the world of reality.

Suspended between the two worlds I knew that today was the day. The summer witnessed its first rain today, and 'Skribblet' will be born today.

'Skribblet' shall be my messenger, and all you my dear readers will know which world I am in each time 'Skribblet' speaks.