Magic – Part Two

‘What makes you like this place so much?’ he asked, pulling a chair for her.

‘Thank you’ she sat, ‘see how dimly lit the place is, just the tiny reds and yellows, and look at all the movie posters, have you ever heard the name of the film whose poster features over there?’ she out-stretched her finger to the right and his eyes followed, ‘and just listen to the buzz at this place, no distinct voice, everyone’s talking and laughing’ her eyes ran around, ‘so retro this place is; so alive!’

He looked at her for a long time, smiling, ‘and what makes you like Veronika Decides to Die?’

‘You really are after Paulo Coelho, aren’t you?’ her chin rested on her palm.

‘Not really’ he shrugged, ‘all these are simple attempts to know the story better – the story that is you.’

‘Okay’ her fingers ran around the glass of water, ‘you’re a writer and I’m a sucker for flattery – you win’ and had a sip, ‘there’s this part at the quarter of the book’ her fingers ran back to run through the hair, ‘it’s about this woman, Zedka, in a mental hospital, being injected and put into induced coma for hours in order to cure her depression.

Others when subjected to this treatment, only experience horror while in the state of Bitterness; she, on the other hand, begins to fly – ‘astral travel’ – she describes it.

The book tells you how her body has been strapped to the hospital bed, her gaze all dull, and yet how her spirit is in the air, being wherever it wishes to, anytime, trespassing through tunnels at the pace of light, flying from one corner of the world to the another

Nothing controls her in her madness.’

 

She lit a cigarette, as he repeated the ritual of looking at her, long and deep, smiling all the time, ‘what’s your story?’

Her lips curled as the eyes looked around, ‘I was seventeen’ she raised a hand to catch the attention of the waiter, ‘beer?’

‘I hate beer’ his brows rose, ‘rum.’

‘Going hard pretty quick’ she grinned, ‘on my way back from school’ and looked into his eyes, ‘groped – pulled in somewhere – clothes torn – roughness on my body – sweat – stinking breath – pounding – change of breaths – once – twice – five times – screams – blood – I lay on the roadside, naked, bleeding, seventeen.

Back home – a well to-do family – educated people – screeching eyes – the clothes put back on – a veil. Nobody spoke for me. I was never allowed to speak for myself.

So I picked up a couple of bags’ she rubbed her hands together, ‘and have since been living all sorts of lives that come to my mind. I turned into a high-profile prostitute some months back; money issues alright, have to support my education, but it’s more about the experience.’

‘Catharsis’ he said.

‘Hey you know about that!’ she smiled, ‘in a way yes – enacting the troubled past again, to bring it to a closure – emotional vomiting.’

‘Now I know where all the melodrama comes from’ he smiled, ‘emotional vomiting.’

Her face tilted and hand reached up to the head, ‘what to do, dev babu’ she laughed, ‘jeena yahaan, marna yahaan; iske siwa, janaa kahaan.’

 

***

 

‘I like this place better’ he said, resting his back on the brick-wall.

‘And why is that?’ she settled on the stairs of the lane.

‘What place is this?’ he looked around, ‘a couple of stairs within an unfamiliar narrow lane, in a random city of a huge country that is a part of a world with an undefined shape, amidst millions and millions of galaxies’ he eyed the sky, ‘look, a shooting star – how tiny is our existence when you zoom out completely, yet how important it is to fill the void of our lives.’

She smiled looking at him, ‘I’ve been thinking about this’ she rested her back alongside him, looking at the sky, ‘how convenient are your stories – someone who lacks something, meets the other who offers him that something and in return, takes up what he had been lacking in the first place’ and came back to looking at him, her hand in the unruly hair ‘so simple, yet so magical, each time.’

‘That’s life’ he looked at her, ‘didn’t we manage to meet?’ and nodded, ‘I’ve always believed that there are some forces in the universe that lead us to someone we had never been looking for – it sure is magic.’

‘And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it’ her finger pointed at the sky, another shooting star, ‘Roald Dahl.’

‘Stop doing that’ he shook his head, ‘playing with your hair as you talk to me’ and looked at her, ‘or perhaps you can – I’ve this little traveller breathing inside me who wanders around admiring the most stunning creations in the world – you doing that seems to be helping my cause.’

‘Why is it that every time you speak, the only thing I wish is to kiss you?’ she got up and leaned against the wall, ‘like every fucking time-‘

He pulled her arm and closed her eyes…

 

Shhh. Gimmie your hand. Now close your eyes, go on.

 

‘What are you doing?’ she laughed.

‘Melodramatic since ages, right?’ he said, ‘guess the movie and play along.’

 

Now step up, he continued, now hold the railing. Keep your eyes closed. Don’t peek.

I’m not, she said.

Step up on the railing. Hold on, hold on. Keep your eyes closed. Do you trust me?

I trust you.

 

He opened her arms and whispered in her ears, ‘Visions of Paradise had always been waiting for you – this is your moment.’

 

All right. Open your eyes.

I’m flying, her voice cracked, the sky full of stars, I’m flying.

 

‘Does this make you feel as free as Zedka’ he murmured.

She nodded, crying, ‘thank you.’

‘Shhh’ he kissed her cheek, ‘this is the ‘astral travel’ you’d been longing to take, all this while’ and held her arms wide open, ‘embrace your freedom – you were always meant to fly.’

She closed her eyes, laughing, crying, ‘who are you?’

‘Doesn’t matter’ he kissed her cheek, again, ‘all that matters is that there’s magic.’

She nodded and turned her head. They kissed.

 

***

 

She got up in the morning and finished reading the rest of his stories, as he lay on the bed, sleeping. She then tucked her up inside his blanket, her back sensing his diary…

 

Why can’t I stop reading her body?

She’s asleep with my stories in hand, breathing into a page, a particular word.
Why do I lust for that word?

All I wish is to part the shirt and kiss her collar-bone,
or snug up in bed, close to her, kiss the creases of her neck while sniffing through her hair.

Why do I lust for that word?
Why can’t I stop reading her body?

           

She gasped and flipped a page…

 

 Is she the light?
Her lips aglow from the thousand stories she’s yet to read.

The lights of her soul play with her body,
rising past her breasts and dipping on the ladder of her ribs.

But it’s the navel that draws me to her,
as if it houses all her secrets – the tickles and the moans.
A fine touch and it trembles – the revelations of the light.

 

 

‘Bad manners’ he bit her ear, ‘you’re not allowed to read somebody else’s diary.’

‘And what if that diary talks about my body?’ she got on top of him.

‘How did reading about your body make you feel?’ he kissed her neck, going down and settling on her collar-bone.

‘Awkward’ she breathed heavy, ‘how would I feel if two years down the line, the rest of the world would be reading about my body?’

He turned her down and buried his head deep within her neck, his hand reaching down her thighs.

‘As much as I would love to be worked upon by you’ she pulled him close, ‘in this moment, I wish to make love to your stories.’

Magic – Part One

‘Are you here for a blowjob?’ she asked, ‘you should’ve mentioned it to my pimp’ and looked at him, then at the door, and back at him, ‘don’t worry, I’ll set you up with the best lips.’

He smiled as she sighed. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, offering her his pack.

‘No’ she got up and picked up her phone, ‘cigarette kills you; weed is good.’

‘Do you have weed then?’ he looked at her.

‘They will charge you extra for that’ she shrugged, ‘and you won’t be getting a blowjob here.’

‘I’m not here for that’ he said, ‘your make-up is really turning me off.’

‘Is it?’ she smiled, putting her phone down, ‘secretaries and personal assistants is what they love – thanks to porn’ and unhooked her bra, ‘but these are irritating’ and flashed it in front of him, ‘having your boobs right up your chin.’

‘You can dress up the way you wish’ he laughed, ‘also keep the make-up if you like it; make yourself home.’

‘Umhmm’ she voiced, putting her tongue to the paper, ‘what are you here for?’

‘To smoke-up with you’ he smiled, ‘and talk.’

‘Are you a journo or something?’ she lit the joint and walked towards him.

‘I’m not here with a camera’ he took a puff, ‘this tastes awful.’

‘Yeah cigarettes are really tasty’ she grinned, ‘too much money you have then; paying a prostitute and using just the tongue, not the rubber’ and smoked, ‘you could have easily reached me through the day, it would have cost you nothing.’

‘I wouldn’t have had a chance to walk through the labyrinth walls of this building then, the mannequin just near the couch has such good hair; or smile at the two beautiful women of foreign origin sitting outside this room, or, for that matter, witness this glossy room; there’s so much colour in here’ he lit his cigarette, ‘not to forget your pimp, I just loved his glasses, I mean who wears tones of yellow when it’s already so bright here’ and looked at her, ‘and perhaps you wouldn’t have been the same in daylight.’

‘I’ve only had clients either high on lust or alcohol’ he smiled, ‘you’re the first observer.’

‘Do you light up this room like this daily; and yourself too?’ he asked, ‘the colours are all blurring into and hurting my eyes.’

‘What to do sa’ab’ she closed her eyes and made a face, ‘it’s just an attempt to beautify my berang zindagi’ she laughed, ‘I’m a big fan of movies; melodramatic since ages’ and looked at him, ‘are you a Devdas or something? Your heart is with Paro, and so, you won’t lay a finger on me.’

‘Chandramukhi always fascinated me more’ he smiled, ‘Veronika seems to be doing just that’ and looked at her, ‘Veronika – what made you pick this name?’

She got up to reach a drawer near the mirror, pulled it out and her hand fetched a book to him, ‘I’m a student of literature through the day’ she said, ‘have gone around reading the best writings around the world, but no character touched me the way she did.’

‘Veronika Decides to Die’ he read the title, ‘Paulo Coelho’ he said, flipping through the pages, ‘never put a hand on him post The Alchemist; found it really overrated.’

‘Keep this one with you’ she smoked, ‘we’ll talk once you’re done reading.’

‘Oh you’re okay sharing your books?’ he looked at her, ‘I never do that – hate the idea.’

‘I love sharing my books’ she shrugged, ‘even if they come back with all sorts of underlines or scribbling, folded-edges or covers spoiled by tea-stains’ and sat beside him, ‘how about this logic – someone borrows a story from you – a story that you’ve already read – and when it returns, this story has been a witness to a thousand other stories, that it tries to reveal to you’ she said, handing him the joint, ‘that is how the stories travel, not the books.’

‘And each of those thousand stories change from person to person – all being musings to your imagination’ he smoked, ‘I already like the idea.’ He unzipped his bag and pulled out some pages, ‘some of the stories that I tried writing.’

‘Are you a writer?’ she beamed with the pages in her hand, ‘so that’s the reason you’re here – looking for a story.’

 

 

***

 

She was asleep in her bed; him looking at her, smiling. Her hands clutched the curled pages, she’d gone to bed reading his stories; he picked out a pen and the diary from his bag. Her theory of stories seemed to be working…

 

How well do you enjoy the nothingness?

The unkempt bed or the wrinkled bed-sheet,
the shiny dust particles over the pillow or the wind that kisses the window.

Do you wish a presence to make love,
or do you allow the lights to make love to you?

How open are you to yourself?
How well do you enjoy the nothingness?

 

***

 

‘Weed really works’ he got up from bed, it was morning, ‘how long have you been looking at me like that?’

‘Not you’ she shook her head, ‘the lower part of your face – the wide jaw-line and the stubble – you can’t imagine how have I resisted kissing you all this while’ she said, ‘I’m sorry if that’s too much to hear right at the start of the day, but that’s what these pages have done to me: it was as if you were speaking to me, the lower part of your face reciting these tales to me’ and ran a hand through her hair, ‘I need more stories’ resting her hair on one shoulder, she continued, ‘zeher ho tum, dev babu.’

‘You’re my kind’ he smiled, ‘stories turn you on.’

‘Why no names?’ she asked, ‘neither the stories, nor the characters.’

‘I’m not good with names’ he got up, ‘and perhaps names are only a pretence, something that a story never requires; they carry a baggage along, of races and castes, boundaries and religion’ he paused for a moment, ‘also, in a way, they turn you passive and control your imagination – if I can relate this character to someone living around me, why limit it to an unfamiliar name – stories don’t deserve such shallow treatment, they’re meant to be spiritual’ and smiled, ‘but yeah, names don’t come naturally to me.’

‘I need more stories.’

He examined the walls for long, ‘are you the artist?’

 

The walls of her room were all painted with characters – those from comic-books, or from the movies; to the left was The Joker, his hair bleached in green, next to him, were The Powerpuff Girls, blue, red and green; a cartoon of Gabbar Singh found his way, wide-eyed, at the top of Charlie Chaplin, who stood smiling, colourless.

‘The girl who used to stay here, before me’ she walked up next to him, ‘I’ve been filling colours to her sketches.’

‘Rangmanch to yahaan hai’ he said, running his hand over the textured wall, ‘I simply love these’ and turned to look at her, his face filled with pride, ‘Badshah ke navratna mein tum shamil ki jaogi.’

‘Hayeee!’ she exclaimed, ‘I already am a courtesan of his land.’

‘So you want more stories?’ he looked at her.

‘So, you’re coming back tonight’ she smiled.

‘You’re taking me to your favourite place in the city tonight.’

 

***

Friday Musings

How do you like your tea?
I like it as my chai, high on masala, so much that it hurts my throat; never the one that feels like water, or its complement that has so much of milk that it makes me feel that the tea-maker loves me more than my grandmother.
I like my chai on the roadside, close to this plump woman in a luxurious car who sips it right from the stained saucer; or this old man who smokes a bidi, his head tilted; the screeching tyres of the speeding four wheeler, or the lifted hands of the over-cautious man who felt the car would ram right into him; the man on the machine, trying to mend the ill-fitted dress of this lady, who ignores the demands of a poor girl.

I have never liked my chai as much as I’ve liked the people sipping it.

Tell me, how do you like your tea?

 

***

She smokes, holding my stories in hand, breathing into the paper, a particular word.

Why do I lust for that word?
Why can’t I stop reading her body?

***

Come to think about it, you’re always travelling – in a random boring lecture at college, while the professor explains which metal takes up what kind of cutting fluid, you sit and wonder how would the snow feel at your feet if you decide to breakout and trek the mountains;
or the sounds of the melodious accordion that an unfamiliar face plays at the corner of a random street of a city that you’re now reading about;
or how would it be like, to step into the shoes of this passionate character in a movie that you watched the other day;
or even when your grandmother asks you to separate the pair of footwear that is now enjoying its private time, one upon the other, you know the myth says that their arrangement will take you to a far off place.

It’s fascinating that at how many places one can actually be while on a couch, eyes wide open, yet dreaming.

Stories from the Streets

Stories from my last trip – join in @yashluv23 on instagram as I dwell through nothingness! Trekking the Malana village – starting from Kasol, a curling and curving stretch through …

Humanity – The Message

I and my brother had had tummy full of a cuisine completely Indianized in taste and were now standing at a soda shop to complete the treat that was completely uncalled for. I was teasing my brother that he was like an atom bomb who had stuffed himself with explosives and would soon blast in the toilet of his house and as we laughed, I witnessed this-

It’s cold isn’t it?, A small girl dragged a dog by its fore-legs, c’mon we’ll get a cover for you. She unfurled a cloth resting on her body and tried taking the dog in the shelter formed, but in vain. She then lifted the dog and embraced it, sharing the cloth.

The girl was dressed in old, dust clad clothes and the dog had limited fur on its body; both belonged to the street.

I went back to the parking and got my camera to click this picture because here was a possible photo and a story with a message; a much required message. I did click some pictures.

On my way back, suddenly my mind drifted to particular video I had seen half a year back on youtube wherein a boy shared food and happy moments with a man on the street. The guy was white; the man, black.

Yes this is a possible message, I hit the accelerator, but this brings no change; I drive back in my hoodie and people see the picture tucked inside their blankets; but the girl would still sleep sharing that thin cloth with the dog in this cold, I was talking to myself and my brother kept shouting to slow down, this would simply belong to the category of those stories that show you an ugly picture and ask for change, but never work to bring any change.

I ran back home and asked my mother and grand-mother to give me a shawl or a blanket or anything warm and drove past my home in a moment. On the way, I kept hoping and wishing that the girl isn’t gone for if I did not find her, she would leave me not eyeing the mirror for days to come.

Fortunately, I did find her; this time sleeping inside a cement bag with the dog by her side. We both exchanged smiles.

The Human

The reason I share this account with you isn’t because I want to show off something good that I did but because inside, lies a message –

A message that isn’t about going out in desperate searches of humanity but embracing it as and when you spot it; for there are people who would sell this blanket for a square meal but there are those who would share it with a street dog.

A message that tells you that there would be those innocent people who would believe in any message that circulates hatred in the name of religion but there would be those who would still preach humanity. (Yes there was a message that read, we are idiots that we pray for the kids who died in a country that spreads terrorism, when their own people ask that the killings should have taken place in our country. Agreed there would be a number of people actually wanting this and a hundred multiplied by that number who would spread this believing in the sources that never existed; but the message is to believe in humanity, for no mother would want someone else’s child being snatched away by a bullet when he was in school, studying for a possible better future.)

A message that tells you that there would be instances when you would be divided in the name of religions and countries; your teacher would be burnt in front of your eyes and your friends would be shot for saving his/her life, all in the name of religion.

That hotels would be bombed in my country on a 26/11 and hostages would be held in a cafe down under in Australia and 141 would be shot at a place just 800km from the capital of my country; but all these horrific moments would have just two things in common – lives of humans would be lost; humans sharing the same colour of blood and all divided in the name of religion.

But, the message would beg you to close your eyes and keep the faith in humanity going, for the night is darkest just before the dawn.

I know the message just changed ways drastically but honestly, there are some visuals that never leave your system; the picture of eyes, that never stop crying.