Letting Go

How do you deal with pain, misery, being unsatisfied, not being able to get what you want?
One is acceptance. The worse has happened, accept it, let it go. Then there are those who find it better to repress it. Repress the anger, repress the pain, the guilt, whatever load there is that's weighing you down. But repression is always temporary, it can never be a permanent solution. The skeletons are going to tumble out of the closet some day.
Acceptance may be permanent, if you are strong enough. The point is, the mind is such an untamable object. Thoughts just run haywire. But at the same time, it is very mouldable. You can hold on to whatever you think is important, without questioning your decision. But a point comes when it starts to choke you. That is the time to re-evaluate your choice. Do you really need to hold on to things that you know will bring you pain? The rational answer is obviously no. But, still you do it. That self-destructive, self-pitying streak in you, it is unrelenting. Bittersweet.
But when you do overcome that, you wonder what made you hold on to something so meaningless in the first place. Because the thing about life is, whether you like it or not, it goes on. And you will have to move with the current. Stagnation is impossible: it is against the very fabric of the elements the universe has been moulded in. It is against our nature. Holding on will only cause misery. 
The present will always be the thing that matters the most. 


Here comes another piece of fiction writing for the Indifiction workshop organized by Suresh Chandrasekaran and The Fool. The current edition (fifth) is being judged by Deepa Duraisamy, Arvind Passey and Jayashree Srivatsan. The plot provided by Arvind Passey was exciting and challenging. It can be accessed here: http://indifictionworkshop.blogspot.in/2013/02/exercise-for-edition-5.html

I gave up a lot of times while writing this piece and had to ask people to push me to get it done. I loved the plot, but, being used to be fed details, it was difficult working on it.

Here's a snippet of the story:

06:05, 01/02/13

Samir shivered in the early morning chill. It was barely five minutes past six and it had taken him a humunguos effort to relinquish the warmth of his bed for a jog. Not that he needed the exercise. Or wanted it. The neighbour's teen-aged daughter had started getting insecure about her figure and he was more than ready to lend a helping hand.
'Late again', he muttered as he fixed his hair using a parked car's side mirror. 'Sexy eyes', he crooned, looking into his reflection. 'Hmmm. Handsome face', he smiled, moving back a few paces. 'Strong should...what the hell!!', something in the reflection had sent shivers down his spine. He spun around to spot the source of the horror and gasped. There, behind the car, in the narrow lane between the buildings of the compound, hung, tangled in a mesh of wires, the body of a young girl, covered in blood.
Samir stood transfixed, unable to comprehend the scene before him. Who could've done this? It was one of the most peaceful, residential areas of the town. What should he do? Calling the cops meant dealing with questions and possible accusations. But why should he be scared? He looked at the face of the young girl. The eyes, still open, looked startled, as if she too was surprised to find herself in a position like this. Dangling from a set of wires at six in the morning. On a Sunday.

Samir snapped out of his daze. He decided he shouldn't be seen in the company of a dead body so early in the morning. He was just a regular jogger, trying to score the neighbour's daughter. Satisfied with his decision, he turned on his heel and jogged away. Had he waited a few minutes he would have earned himself some interesting company.

The door of the balcony of one of the flats on the seventh floor swung open and a middle-aged man stepped out, looking bewildered. He cut a handsome figure of masculinity except for the red ladies' gown that he was wearing. He stood puzzled for a few minutes, trying to remember why he was so dressed. But a trail of blood on the floor caught his attention. He followed it to the edge of the railing, grabbed the handrail firmly, peeped down gingerly and felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The earth trembled, the sky erupted with bolts of lightning and the Sun spewed fire as Mr.Sibal let out a horrified, ear-splitting scream.

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Love for the walls

We're moving out from the house we've lived in for fifteen years. It shouldn't bother me much because I have been practically living out the last six years. But, bonds of memories unite you with the concrete of pillars and the bricks in the walls...

This room. So quiet, still. This is where I grew up. Read and wrote. Dreamed and waited. These walls stand witness to all that I felt. All the gods I worshiped, lost faith in and renounced- their edifices once adorned these walls. Till I took them down and out, out of my life. These walls have seen all those that mattered. Heard the conversations- the clever scheming, the giggling fits, the starry eyed dreams, the lore of loss...

It is in this room where the stray rays of the moon filter in through the window that I have slept, safe from the outside, secure in my thoughts. This is where I imagined myself being magical, being famous, being someone, being anyone... Till it was time to pack my bags and leave, see the world for what it was. Yet, I cannot hide from this room, all the things I have learnt and un-learnt with every trip and journey. It is here that I must return, to remember or to lose the burden of memory. For this room holds the knowledge accumulated all through these years. It holds answers. It is a mirror reflecting the past. It is a mirror reflecting what's inside. It is a pensive. It is a safe-keeper. It is a caregiver. It has me, in every scratch and speck.