the cry of the dying ember

I lay crumpled, the innards of my soul ripped apart and strewn upon the dusty floor of memory lane. I wish I could curl up and become a child, an embryo and finally nothing. A nothingness that would be blissful.

I am like a yacht at sea, with its sails blown away. There is no drive but the shore is nowhere near and all I can do is let the ripples carry me on. The will to live is negligible but life will go on, uncaring and without stop. The sail might get patched with help from people around me, but until it does life will be a drag, weighed down by the cruelty that fate has chosen to shower.

I cringe at the hate that the world holds and the manipulation of fate. I have been singed by the fire of ignorance and burnt at the pyre of stubbornness. I have been murdered in the name of tradition, with the archaic dagger of division. My destiny has been taken away from me. Not because I didn't try. Not because I didn't crave it. It was taken away and crushed because the universe conspired against it.

It's not the world that is impure, it is not fate that's impure. It is the people that perceive the impurity and bring it into being. More's utopia is just a vision, an untouchable seductress who always shimmers tantalizingly ahead of us. What would happen to Utopia in the cradle of ignorance? Would Utopia be smothered into submission? Submission to the set view that we have made of the world.

I wish it were easier to walk away from everything. I wish it were easier to get up after the fall and limp back to normality.

What do I do when meanings dissolve into falsehood? What do I do when everything I thought life to be becomes an illusion? An illusion that has destroyed the fine mirrors of my past. An illusion that has erased what I am and what I have become. I am now undefined and unconsumed. I am left to redefine and to re-establish my spirit in this teeming world.

P.S: Ignore the relevance of the title

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they are here

It's that time of the year in B'Lore when those lilac-coloured flowers appear on the branches of those trees that bear them. Yeah, you guessed right. I have no clue as to what they are called, or their species or biological family or their gender. All I know is that they are some sort of avenue trees - the politically correct name for trees that have been left to tend for themselves on the sides of the road. These lilacish-coloured flowers carpet the roads in the morning and, though I have not actually seen this, I am sure they would present a very pretty sight early in the morning when the slanted rays at dawn filter through the leaves onto the ground. They are a pretty sight even when the world has awakened to chaos. The wonderful thing is that they seem to be everywhere. They are like the omnipresent song of spring and they manage to bring a smile to my yet-to-awaken face. Every single day.

There are so many such teeny-weeny little things about Bangalore. No wonder I'm so in love with this place.

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the teacher

It wasn't often that someone offered him a word. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him even a few sentences let alone half-hour's worth of them. His lips moved only to talk to the innate silence that was in him. He spoke to the earth, he spoke to the wind. He even spoke to the trees when they caught his fancy. He never wondered why he heard no replies. He never worried that no humans ever wished to talk to him. He liked to be his own companion in conversation. Naturally he had been caught off-guard when the man in the car addressed him out of the blue. He had looked around to be sure that it was indeed him that the man in the car had called out to. He had said, "Sir?", with the little question mark added at the end with an inflection. Sir, indeed!

The man had invited him to have coffee with him at the store across the road. He was dressed in a pair of old blue comfortable jeans and a black tee. Unlike him, the man looked perfectly in place within the coffee shop. In the last thirty minutes, the man had spoken to him and listened to the story of his life with an honest interest. The man had recognised him inspite of the shrivelled skin and the badly nicked bald head. He offered his teacher a place to live, or die when the time came, in peace. He claimed that his teacher had been the first step in his ladder. The first, sure, strong step that now defined his career, his success and his life. It was now time to ensure that this demi-god was at peace and he had come to claim his right to do that.

The teacher stared at the student he couldn't remember. His memories had long before been strangled out of existence. He wondered at the godliness of this man he had once taught. He felt proud of that. He stood up and thanked the man for his respect and his care. He took his cane and made his way out. This conversation would now enable him to sanely live with the silence for a long time to come. That was all he needed in life. That was all he wanted to be thankful for.

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my experiments with the vices - 1

I was out on a mission this saturday, to experience drunkenness. I don't mean to brag but I was hell bent on finding out what it felt like. As luck would have it, a friend's treat was on and nine of us headed to purple haze. I didn't like the ambience of the place, but the rock they played was good enough for my tastes. The scary thing was that inspite of this being my first time, I felt nothing even after 4 shots of scotch. Nothing, almost nothing. I guess I was an alcoholic even before I started to drink. All I felt had to do more with the music than the alcohol. With a dozen heads banging around, I just couldn't resist and got into the neck straining excercise. Now, I don't know about getting drunk but there is nothing that can beat a bit of head-banging to flush out any frustration that's coursing through you. Anyway, time was running out cos the others were already on their last few sips and gulps. I was not going to give up on my mission and as a last ditch effort, I downed a fifth whiskey in a single gulp. That did the trick and I arrived. Not piss drunk but drunk nonetheless. Strangely, except for a bit of haze, it didn't change my perception drastically. None of the lose-all-control things were happening to me. The closest thing I did was to repeat a few gems of unasked for advice a few times. I was either going about it the wrong way or I have way too much alcohol resistance for a beginner.

Footnote: "Why all this?", you ask. To spite myself and my self-righteousness. Until now, as a matter of principle, I stayed away from these vices inspite of there being ample opportunity not to. Now I realise that it is pointless to try and be self-righteous.

P.S: It is entirely my opinion that drinking is a vice and so are many other things.

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