Out at Sea

The waters are still, eerie and salty black.

I remember a poem from long ago,

One of stranded sailors and a lone survivor.

Of many nights at sea,

And albatrosses around necks.

I sit on my wreck

No compass, no map, nothing to guide me.

It’s dark.

The sky has no stars

As if telling me there can be no hope left.

There is no way back.

I look up, at a cloudy sky.

I can only hope there is no storm.

But what is hope anymore?

For despite so many clouds

There is not a silver lining.

It begins to pour.

I’m soaked to the skin.

There is nothing, I realise

That I can light to make a fire

Save the raft.

Afloat, with nothing but my mind to keep me company,

And the darkness all around,

I stay up for hours playing games with myself.

‘I Spy’ in the clouds, ‘Tic-Tac-Toe’ on the raft,

Until the delusions of life fade away.

I fall into a silent stare.

One that reaches far beyond

Into the vast nothingness.

And I’m lost once more,

In real dreams

With dying embers of hope.

The stars have taught me well

As they have any sailor.

Without them I would truly be nothing.

I am nothing.

A wave pulls me out of the murky depths.

The raft and I

Drift along

Complying with its gentleness.

We are anchorless.

We have lost our bearings.

We have nothing to keep us grounded,

Nothing to hold us.

There are more now, waves pulling us with them.

Lulling us into a sense of safety,

And comfortingly sleepy warmth.

In this old unfamiliar land,

There is happiness,

There is hope.

I can always find my way back.

But the stars are hiding today.

Falsehood grows

Becoming a storm,

Crashing through my reverie

Wreaking havoc upon the raft

As I wake to find it my reality.

The stars are right.

There can be no hope left.

Piece by piece,

The raft and I disintegrate.

We are laid bare to the storm.

Yet we hang on for dear life,

But for what?

What is a sailor without the North Star?

What purpose does life have if you have been lost?

Questions that will never be answered.

Questions that are silent screams.

The raft creaks in pain.

The storm only hears itself.

I laugh hysterically,

But no one hears me.

I have nothing to lose anymore.

I have nothing.

It has been lost,

I have been lost.

I am nothing.

Not Good

The day was bright and warm. After a lavish lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a young girl with eyes that twinkled like the glinting drops of rain, running in our huge field. She was a faerie in her pale, floaty dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked cheerful and it made me feel like a paedophile.



Made with two of my friends for an assignment in class. The original paragraph, which we had to rewrite:
It was a very good day. After a good lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a beautiful girl running in our big field. She was wearing a nice dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked very happy and it made me feel good.

Walking in the Woods

Two roads diverged into the woods.

But the right path was the one I was on.

So I ignored the two diversions on the side

And walking ahead, I went along.

Based on the poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.

3-Step-Pepper-Pasta

To all my friends, who have learned to enjoy the small things of P.G. life... Because that is what dreams are made of.


Living in a Paying Guest Accommodation has it's perks.
For one you don't really have a fixed curfew. I mean we are given one, but it's not like we follow it (OK we kind of do).
Another is that you learn to cook just by tasting the food provided. You can guess all the ingredients correctly (no joke), and figure out the recipe.

I present to you, one of our findings:

3-Step-Pepper-Pasta

 

Serves: Less than the number of students accommodated

Prep Time: Half a day (maybe more)

Ingredients:

Pasta (we have macaroni here)

Ground Pepper/ Pepper Corns (we found ground pepper)

Tomato Ketchup (store bought)

Water

Preparation:

1. Pour water into a pan till about 3/4th full. Add a tablespoon of pepper. Bring to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until it is al dente, which should take roughly 10-12 minutes.
2. Strain the water into a saucepan. Add a few handfuls of ground pepper and cook till it thickens into a tomato sauce like consistency. Add the pasta. Let it soak for a few hours.
3. Strain the pasta again. Put it into a bowl and add one teaspoon of tomato ketchup. Mix well. Empty an entire bottle of ground pepper and mix well again. Serve cold in a big canister.

Bon Appetit!

Of Sisters and Sins

She's twirling her hair, not once but thrice, like in all those Hindi soap operas where they have to repeat a 'dramatic' scene thrice for effect (and exaggeration). I know she's daydreaming only because I used to do that in the 7th grade, when I had a crush on one of my classmates. The glazed eyes (because of staring into space), the hair-twirling, the readjusting her hair every second, the constant smiling when you think no one's looking.
Because no one is. Not directly anyway. I was looking from the corner of my eyes.

Yes, I was spying. But it's quite funny to see the sort of expression on her face. Of course it's embarrassing once I realise I probably made the same faces too, way back when. She, I hope, never remembers me having made those faces in the first place. She was too young to care, anyway. Even if she did notice, she would look at me weird, wondering why I was making faces at no one in particular. She specially hated the times I was staring at her, but wasn't. It was no fault of mine. My mind was just preoccupied. As is her's these days.

Unfortunately, my curiosity only increases every time I see her smiling into space.
I can't even ask her who or what (assuming it's one of those times she isn't daydreaming) she's thinking about. That would only give away the fact that I'd been staring at her, spying, in the first place. Then she'd be too conscious of the fact and never make faces again. Or trust me the little bit she does. That would be a disaster.

This piques my interest even more and I end up committing sins no sibling (younger or older) should ever commit. So horrifying they are, they cannot be named. There is also the reason that I'd be murdered in my sleep by my sister (in her dreams) if she ever found out. I know this because when I told my friend my little secret, she stared at me like a principal would stare at an 'A-student'-turned-delinquent.
With Disappointment.
(I forget to mention: My friend is the younger sibling in her family.)

Of course I feel guilty. So I just ask my sister directly instead. Which gives me no answer whatsoever. I will tell her ultimately. About the terrible sin. But maybe after she's married and lives on the other side of the world.  Besides, she's probably done the same thing while I've been away.

Home is Home No More

It's been a year.

I look around.

I see that nothing has changed.

Except that it has.

Everything has.

People who were once called friends,

They are now strangers.

It's like meeting them for the first time.

But they're still the same.

Playing HALO 3 on the Xbox.

Giggling amongst themselves at their lame jokes.

Making fun of each other.

Yes, it's all the same.

Not just my friends,

But my family too has changed.

My sister, she has

Broken out of her tomboyish shell.

A young woman of 16,

Her actions seem obviously

More mature than mine.

My parents seem distant, stressed and cold.

What happened to the warmth, the love?

The warm hugs that used to make me feel safe

Cease to do so.

It seems robotic,

Forced onto me by societal norms.

Everything seems so dry and shrivelled up.

Home isn't home anymore.

I look at the walls.

They are clothed now

With posters of movies and TV shows.

Large and small,

They advertise, propagate.

They lure customers in.

Success will be theirs forever.

The once blank wall

Leaves no room for creative wonder.

It is quite stifling in this room.

It feels more boxier,

Defined.

Except for that one rectangle of comfort

That shall always be mine.

My bed.

The one thing that hasn't changed.

Still comfortable,

With pleasant dreams and

Moon rays falling in through the window.

And then it hits me.

What if it isn't the room that's changed?

Or my parents, sister or friends?

What if it's me?

Home isn't home anymore.

Ember of Light

I walk the lonely stairs.
Right to the top.

I look around.

No one.

Not a soul.

Empty darkness...

Just like me.

I sit on the concrete ledge,

Smoothened by paint and P.O.P.

The stark white

Blinds me.

I like the dark.

It’s been home

For 3 years,

While my parents

Busy with their lives

Told me the whats and hows

Of life. My life.

I was a slave.

Their slave.

I lived not for me

But them.

Them, Oblivion’s children.

My sister,

The sheep

Amidst all the bitterness

Was my only hope.

The only ember of light

In my darkness.

I lived only to see her smile,

Her sleeping face

Every morning, angelic,

Lying amidst

Soft thick blankets

Which smelled of strawberry jam

Or chocolate cake,

Whichever she’d eaten,

With hints of hair oil.

Until two months ago

When Death’s arms embraced her.

Today I stand

Surrounded by white

Disturbed by the brown of a ladder.

And a rope,

Rough and knotted,

Thick as my arm.

Its braids within a braid

Remind me of my sister’s life

Within mine.

How we were intertwined,

Until the fatal day.

I look below.

Happy people, moving on

With their lives.

Is the jump worth it?

I step onto the flat edge

Of the low wall.

Nothing above.

Nothing below.

It feels rough on my feet

The edge,

Like my parents have been

On me.

I stare out

Waiting for Death

A friend from the dark.

A double tap on my shoulder

Turns me around.

No one, but wait...

My sister’s face in the wall.

White, pale, sad.

A hallucination

Or a sign?

I step down,

Off the ledge

Back on solid ground.

A salty tear

Escapes my eye

And into my mouth.

There’s too much to live for.

Today, …today I live.