








In the by-lanes of Delhi, amongst the besotted alleys that plague the locality, stands a rickety wooden structure. It almost passes off as an ancient ruin, save for the fact that instead of the customary djinns that guard all such warp-holes to the nether realm, it is in fact inhabited by a tormented soul, an old termagant, and a squeamish little girl
For some unfathomable reason, at random intervals, this mad woman chooses to introduce the little girl's frame to a nine-foot long whip that lashes out with ferocity, and tastes the little girl's blood with every kiss.
Whip. Welt. Wail.
Whip. Welt. Wail.
Whip. Welt. Wail.
This is the daily routine of the hag and the child. The tormented soul has a little more of the same ennui.
He wakes up to the wails of the girl, the hag's venomous hisses, and the crack of the whip.
Whip. Welt. Wail.
He then proceeds to have a quick shower, left over tea, and then, to his place of work.
Come six and he stumbles wearily to his home, and as he climbs the stairs, he can again hear the girl's screams.
Whip. Welt. Wail.
Over the few scraps of food, the girl's incessant cries, and these walls painted with fear that close around him, he tries to make some sense, and realizes that the cigarette is the only remedy.
A Cigarette- The patent soporific that takes a lot of time to work but puts you to sleep. Soft, deep sleep, a never ending slumber, stretching on through eternity.
He stretches out on the floor, and stares at the ceiling, trying to drift off into the darkness…
The wails start again. He checks his watch, and it's an ungodly hour.
He makes a list of the things he needs:
Cotton.
Tape.
Knife.
Cigarettes
Matches
And a can of petrol.
The door is ajar. The hag sleeps on the floor, exhausted from her labor. In a corner, lies the little girl, comatose.
He walks over to the hag.
Her moth is open, and drool oozes from between her teeth, making a small puddle at the side of her face…
The hag wakes up in agony, and tries to scream. She can make no sound…sticking out from the floor boards is a blade that passes through her throat, and pries open her teeth. She tries to move, but her hands and feet are bound by tape.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she spies the little girl, bound and gagged, and ties to a post.
The place reeks of petrol.
A movement catches her eye…in a dark corner, somebody lights a cigarette.
The match glides in an arc, and falls on the floor. The baptism by fire begins.
He stretches out on the floor, amidst the flames, the rot, and the hag and the child, and welcomes the rare visitor.
The long, much awaited Sleep.
Riots are no fun. Not for the people who are rioting, nor for the people who are stuck in them and definitely not for the people who are trying to control them.
Sadly, riots do happen.
Like the one that happened today. Oh yes, I saw it happen, from a rather unsafe place that happens to be my home.
It was not a pretty sight.
On the first look, you get this feeling that suddenly there's an urgency amongst the crowd that was assembled. Then suddenly, there's this rush…people running from here to there in such a hurry that they forget their footwear behind. There's a lot of screaming. Mostly women and children.
Then, if things get bad, like they did today, there are gunshots.
A gunshot has amazing potential to silence a crowd, if only for a few seconds.
Today, just one wasn't enough, there were many. Too bad them bullets got some one this time and hell broke loose.
The crowd just erupted, as if someone has set a match to a bee-hive.
People started throwing everything they could lay their hands off. Most of the time, they just hurt themselves.
It's hard to aim properly when you're scared of the guns, the noise and the screaming mob that you are now a part of.
The anger soon subsides, and an urge to get to safety takes over, and again there is a wild race with no body getting anywhere, especially the children.
The cops arrive, along with the news crew. The injured are taken to the hospital. Let us hope no one dies or they'll be a fresh riot again.
A curfew is imposed and the streets are empty.
It's just a confused mass of chappals lying abandoned on the street that remind you of what happened.
And the silence.
Thank god for small mercies…exams are here, and for once, in so many months, I'll probably have time for myself.
No studies, no submissions and no teachers- I feel like Alice Cooper, only that instead of singing, I'll probably be sitting at my comp and playing games…yes, my only vice amongst many that my father doesn't seem to mind so much.
Well, that's about it.
And yes, I'll probably start posting a bit more regularly, but then, that's another story altogether!
19th January.
He'll remember this day forever, etched as it is, deep inside his mind.
The hourie nuzzles close to him, her hazel eyes looking at him from immense depth. Her heaving bosom sends out periodic whiffs of her intoxicating perfume up his nostrils, sending him into a frenzy of emotions.
He holds her close, so close that he can hear her heart beating. He cups her face into his hands. The hourie lowers her gaze. The wind plays with her hair, sending them caressing the sides of his face.
He holds her tighter as the truth dawns upon him.
He has found a new emotion.
And a new life.
He's back home, the door beckons him, a blue decaying mass of wood held together by the lock, chewing gum and hope.
He fumbles with the keys, the hurry to just hit the bed and stare at the empty ceiling and the cob webs and the shadows… his companions when he's in a gloomy mood. Today passed in such a blur. He wonders that why is it that when you're down, everything just seems to happen either too slow or too fast for you to handle.
His thoughts race. His mind a whirlwind of emotions. The voices are getting to him now. Why does this happen?
Why this silence when its raining outside, the wind is cold and chilly, the traffic is blaring? Why is it all so quiet? And why did he not get that pack of cigarettes when there was still time to get one?
Why?