Congealed blood; welcome to necropolis

•March 27, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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He thought he would stand there and laugh at my misery and weakness. He would mock me, insult me, threaten me and hurl vicious accusations. I would tell myself that pacifists don’t abuse. I would justify my actions but how to argue with someone who fails to fathom the basics of civility. I bled, yes I confess, I bled profusely. I saw a blood-guzzling monster in him. The older wet blood is, the sweeter it smells and he would suck it and devour congealed blobs of my existence. The coppery and rusty taste didn’t put him off.

He waited for my exsanguination, but I somehow survived. He fed his ego on envy and wolfed down trust and harmony. He sucked out what little was left in me after being attacked by a deranged person on campus. Threats work, but the fear they induce can be termed temporary. People don’t sit and let others take control of their lives. Bad choices…. They move forward, make better choices and look back at their mistakes and laugh.

It is no coincidence that people most ravaged by mental disorders habitually abuse (physically and verbally) others. I was occupied in observing and monitoring my own demons that I completely forgot to keep a check on monsters hatching in my own nest. He was part of my brood and I had to feed him now. I would praise him and show keen interest in his tales that in turn fed his self worth. I was a canvas painted with animated colours and he would cover it with a layer of guilt and despair.

My heart was thumping like a horse galloping on a dirt road; it was nonstop. The abuse never stopped, I couldn’t take it anymore and I set myself free. I broke the shackles, but there was no sunshine, all I saw was darkness and motionless bodies lying everywhere. A massacre, a mass murder? I danced my way out to purify my flesh and bones or whatever I could salvage. I told myself that in order to cleanse the soul, ill need to send back death spirits to the land of the dead. I fell into a trance to emulate the souls of the dead. I left it all behind and promised myself never to return to that necropolis.

100 dogs, yes there were 100 dogs……

All it takes is a pack of dogs…..

Picture credits :http://news.moviefone.com/2010/09/17/spotting-the-difference-from-campbells-who-goes-there-to-ca/

“Let go of me!” She yelled back – Exchanging blood with smiles

•February 16, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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20 something Mr Shahie was shot in the chest alongside his best friend in a small town of England. Initial police investigation suggests that the shootings were a result of a personal dispute.

Dying can be a messy, bloody and an ugly affair. Mr Shahie didn’t want to die. He comes from a family where such deaths are not acceptable. he stood there, pale and silent with clenched hands in a painful distress

…………………………….

I always felt lighter around her, a contagious existence of positivity that was really stimulating in dull British weather. She laughed and she cried. She frustrated me, angered me and tested my patience. Her laugher was silent, she would shake and her face would turn red. Other times when she laughed, it was loud and intoxicating. Don’t cry, be strong,,, I would tell her all the time. But she would cry when she needed because there is nothing wrong in expressing deepest sadness for things that mattered to her. She is strong, she was given chances, but she decided to take the long treacherous path of understanding me.

There was hope in her eyes, a sparkle that never faded; she would always see the good in people. Never lost any hope in humanity and returned abuses with greetings and allegations with kindness.

But then she was attacked; accusations were hurled at her. She was dragged to the court, put on a show trial and sentenced. In a space of a few minutes, she was shot and covered in deep cuts by the vigilante and stoned to death. Judgemental brigade was quick to label her a deviant, disillusioned and a demented individual not worthy of human contact or life.

I thought I lost her that day, but she had the mystic power to rise again, and she did. I was surprised to see her standing in front of me, not in a shroud but a beautiful dress covered in exquisite embroidery. The frenzied attack was greeted with horror, but she forgave and decided not to mourn. I didn’t see a hint of anger in those eyes. All I saw was a huge crowd, expectations and confusion.

How can someone be so nice? I had my apprehensions but she assured me she would never leave me. I trusted her blindly and she didn’t betray me. World is not fair but she never complained. People hurt others but she found reasons to spread more love and joy.

Is she no more? Do I still know her? Why past tense?

Because I have preserved her in my memory and would never want any person or object to even influence me an inch to give up the space I’ve reserved for her in my mind.

………………………

Mr Shahie was married and also had a half English promiscuous mistress who entertained him with various amusing antics. Mr Shahie’s friend was shot twice, but she survived and decided to speak up. Mr shahie was rushed to the hospital where he was operated. It is expected that he will make a full recovery. The attackers have been caught and ……

Mr Shahie has shall rise again….

Photo credits : http://www.emirates247.com

Secrets, Sorrows and Scandals : laughing to survive…

•February 13, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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HAHAHAHAHA , Krazy with a K and VOV with a V…..and then she stopped being funny…..

Being funny helps us, as we both have built this perfectly impenetrable wall around us. A fortress that shuns people away and helps us to hide the fact that we are nothing but individuals stuck in a vortex of confusion and anxiety. What’s next? What if people stop finding us funny and what if we lose everything…

Her courage fascinates me; it scares me. We all have skeletons in the closet but she kept everything bare in front of me, without any hint of fear or intimidation. She stood there, with eyes fixed at me, a thousand questions in her mind but she said nothing. Those sultry lips didn’t move. The hijab inflated her purity and sanctity. Can I touch her? Should I hold her hands to show that I care? Can I comfort her? I lowered my gaze and sat there obediently, waiting for her to scream and howl in pain…..

But she made people laugh, gave them a reason to smile, should I let my sorrows engulf her beauty and charm? No, she is gorgeous but the tumours growing on her soul cause all that craziness and laughter. She seems happy and yes she is happy, is she content? Yes she is….

Am I content?

Why this comparison?

Because the more you hate yourself, the more solid the walls of the fortress get and more strongly you push people away and more funny you become. How convenient…..

She sits on the prayer mat and cries for hours, chants hymns, fasts and prays. She confuses me. Why does she cry when God is kind and merciful? She is an enigma as she answers with a smile and talks with her eyes. She is stunning and can easily work her charm on vulnerable souls. I was discussing my demise with her but forgot to tell her that I want her claw marks on the lid of the coffin; a final mark of admiration, cant ask for a better farewell gift.

We both get positive reactions for being funny, but is that love? Would she be invisible if it wasn’t for all that smiling and laughing and looking amazingly bewitching? People crave for her attention, but I crave for her laughter, I am a vile creature and she is this captivating goddess of eternal beauty. I wonder why I end up drawing comparisons,, I wonder why!!

She suffers alone, digs the laughter out of her gut. Its painful and takes away all her strength but she is a survivor and loved by me and countless other people. She is happy, outwardly and to find her, you need to shake the very foundation of her existence. She is still standing there, watching us. Her lips are silent and eyes do all the talking.

There are times when she veils her face and leaves. I chase her, but she is swift and I lose track of her footsteps. I sit and wait. She comes back, stronger and more radiant only to disappear again. I need her for her laughter, I want her for her devilry.

I didn’t spot any, may be I am blind…. Or may be she has none………..

The lustre of a woman

•February 6, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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She sat there, a queen on her heavenly throne, radiating beauty that I had never witnessed before. She seemed flawless, perfect, an embodiment of purity yet powerful enough to evoke awe and wonder.

Her hair, a rich shade of black, short but swaying because of the light breeze coming into the room through a slightly ajar window. Those luscious locks complimented her beaming skin. A straight-edged nose made her look regal, as if any moment she’d place a tiara on her head and walk around with authority. She commands respect; there is an aura of sensuality about her. I can smell her; I can feel her and I can breathe her

Her eyes, a shade of mahogany, enclosed by long lashes seemed to brighten the world. Spaced evenly apart and sitting below trimmed eyebrows, they are intense and fierce. They can see the unseen and are hypnotic. Those artistically plucked eyebrows formed a perfect arch above her passionate eyes. Her smile would melt a million hearts and the world would sigh with contentment. Her laugher fills the room (a bit mischievous) and gives a reason to cherish every moment that I spend with her. Had she wept, the whole world would want to console her.

I watched, following the movements of her hands and trying not to get distracted by the softness of her curves and body. I touched her, to see if her skin was as smooth as it looked. She sat on her throne with legs crossed, giving me an opportunity to appreciate those thighs underneath that robe. I aspired to be that robe whose only purpose was to cover her exquisite form. She seemed a painting of goddess brought to life; she smiled at me and seemed confused, she couldn’t understand why her form fascinated me so much…….

Her plump lips was the colour or a red rose. I wanted to race my fingers along the edge where her skin met them, but when she frowned, they became slim and silent. Her honey sweet voice asked me what’s fascinating me so much… she doesn’t know that her untainted soul is crystal clear and I can see oceans through it… she is a woman, beautiful and lithe, with every step she took, she convinced me that she means reverence.

Her hips swayed as she got up to change into a gorgeous black dress. It jolted me like an electric current; that body hugging dress made her look divine. I wanted to fall to my knees and hold her hands, wanted her to notice me. I would have gone to great lengths, I would have worked my charm on her by telling her how much I have suffered to get her, how much I want her, how much pain I am willing to go through just for her,,,, but,,, but I had to leave.

I said her goodbye and left………..

No Wait, You are Charlie Hebdo….

•January 11, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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You got nothing better to do, sitting in a holiday home near a beachy town…..yeah someone from a privileged background….are you fucking high?

These are some of the comments one gets when discussing the recent Paris attacks with people who condemn Chalie Hebdo for insulting and offending Muslims. I call these comments fillers; when any argument lacks sound logic, intellect and reasoning, people use these phrases and sentences to fill the gaps. Do I stop them from hurling personal attacks at me? No because I wouldn’t stoop down to that level. (Yes freedom of speech)

I find no distinction between Charlie hebdo and such people. They have the audacity to accuse others of being offensive and racist when essentially they are propagating the same thing.

When they have the right to accuse someone of being high and having nothing better to do, (based on facts or not); why others should be deprived of the same right? (They might have facts to back up their arguments as well). Lets say my parents love me and cannot stand any criticism about my conduct because that essentially makes them question their parenting skills. Why should people be allowed to say things that might offend and upset them?

I condemn the cartoons, they are downright crude and disgusting, but apologists are describing these murders as a reaction to the marginalization of Muslims in the west. It’s really hard to value intangible things such as feelings and emotions. We as humans are supposed to give sound justifications for something that upsets us. For me the best way is to frame my reasoning with points that I think back my argument. My religion has equipped me with enough wisdom and understanding to defeat such people and Charlie hebdo without even a hint of violence. Islam is based on facts and we can respond to such obtuse publications intelligently, without the usual mudslinging.

People swear it out when they lack proper reasoning because they know that’s the only way they can save themselves from the embarrassment of losing an argument. When this doesn’t work, they resort to physical violence; essentially telling the world that they are incapable of a civilized discussion. They are the same group of people who blame Charlie hebdo; I call them Charlie Hebdo. (Freedom of speech) because both are impotent when it comes to expressing themselves without offending others.

Hurling abuses, accusations and allegations, how are we as a group any different from Charlie hebdo? People aren’t prepared to dig deep into their religion and argue their case without using these fillers. They think the other person would react and they will get some time until a new argument is thrown at them

I have set a materiality threshold to offense. You ought to stick to it. If you don’t, I will attack you because that’s insulting…..

Image Credits : http://godevidence.com/2012/03/the-ultimate-cart-before-the-horse-why-atheism-is-illogical-and-faith-based/

Macabre mischief….

•January 1, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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How beautiful you are and how sublime

I worship and adore you. I would love to spend eternity like this, content and knowing the dark secrets of those around me. Everyone holds you in great reverence as you furnish most of the stuff out of which mortals were assembled.

You are so intoxicating and give me these lustful looks that your glaring companionship mesmerizes me. There are times when you are vindictive, treacherous and jealous, you hurt me and make me so unstable and dependent. I hate you but love you. You confuse me, as your existence is such a mystery. You trample on my growing seeds of incitement. Confronting you shouldn’t be a sacrilegious attack.

It all started years ago, when I was nothing and my existence didn’t matter. I would reach out to you, would hold your hands and you would tempt me. You were vibrant and rich. I was attracted to your sheer brazenness and arrogance. There was an aura of ambiguity about you that frustrated me. The more I tried, the harder it became. Do you even know what humanity can do to you? Do you even care?

I was giving up on you and walking back to my roots when you dragged me back with a spectacular display of fireworks. Shattering into a thousand sparks, they were loud and bright, lighting up the sky and buildings. I wasn’t alone; a million souls watched the display, what a communal experience I must confess. The visual atmosphere can’t be described in words. Some people only saw them going up and spiralling down like a blooming shower. The dazzling display of your grandeur and majesty fascinated many and they wanted to take you home. But you naughty thing…. You work your charm on these deprived and trusting souls. What a shame!!!! What a shame!!!

They were content on what they experienced, a new year, a new day, a fresh beginning; hoping and wishing for bigger and better things. Trapped in your vortex, they found their hands tied and feet shackled to the massive pillars of bygone times. Blaming their impaired judgement, they started cursing you in the hopes that you would set them free. But you had held them hostage to your egoistic desires. Do you even know how many perished? No, because such macabre affairs symbolize your existence. Cemetery walls are full of flashy art depicting you indulging into all sorts of excesses. These sombre and tragic events have exhausted the underprivileged yet you pick your victims from the most downtrodden and powerless of the society.

How beautiful you are  LIFE  and how sublime……..

Disclaimer


Dear Reader/Visitor

This piece is meant to be consumed as fiction and entertainment.

Picture Credits: http://halloweencostumesus.com/dante.html

Play with the fire, it transforms

•December 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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I sat there, laughing at her misery and suffering. She was sprinting back and forth to ease her discomfort but I refused to help her. She looked at me helplessly but I decline to acknowledge her presence. My haughty and disdainful attitude failed to bring any succour to her impotent and bewildered existence.

She was hanging on by a thread, trying hard to seek some kind of assistance and help. She repented and tried to slough off her vile alter ego but it was futile…. Too late I must say. She had sinned, she had tempted fate by indulging into sacrilegious destruction of her holy carcass. She was fragile and would always descend from her citadel, slowly in a whirling mist of slush that hypnotized the human eye. But today she regrets and mourns the death of her prestige and oddity; after all she was special and distinctive.

She commemorated the sacred festival by embarking on a holy journey, thinking it might wash off her sins, but the journey would be her last and she would be immortalized as someone who tried. She did dhikr, a devotional act of showing loyalty to her supreme being. It was surreal; people were fascinated by her devotion and zeal. Nobody knew that she would never be seen again. Her prime aim in life was to chase any thing that remotely hinted of divinity. She left behind this mortal world and the schism that divided the divine world from the physical one. People saw her crying, herd her chanting hymns but she was inconsolable.

She walked for days, hoping to make in time for the big day when everyone will rise and stand together, hand in hand. She was wrong… such sacred journeys take years and great deal of commitment. She had grossly romanticized her devotion. She was nothing compared to other people standing with her. I felt sorry for her but I had promised myself that I would sit and watch her demise. I felt horrible but I had to stay committed. It was all about loyalty and allegiance.

I never saw her again as her wrongdoing consumed her reality. A traveller saw her body wrapped in a shroud being whisked away from the gathering. There were speculations that she died without a veil. Nobody could confirm it as her end came in solitary confinement. She was put there because her wailing and shrieking frightened the masses. I regret not being there to witness her demise. What a captivating sight it would have been.

I was told that a few days before her passing, she would move in repetitive circles. That was her way of reaching the state of excellence. She would cry and whirl, hoping to ascend to the celestial bodies like a ship sunken ages ago is brought up to the surface and to a state of wakefulness. Did she really rise…did she really ascend?

Her absence haunts me. Did I court danger by not helping her; did I venture out into a territory where savages and sadistic creatures rummage though abandoned premises looking for their next victim? But I am content, as I didn’t see her in her last days. My absence ensured I had nothing to do with her demise.

I can now go and sleep…

Disclaimer
 Dear Reader/Visitor

This piece is meant to be consumed as fiction and entertainment.

Image credits : http://dujysakowa.opx.pl/rumi-cry-out-in-your-weakness.php