Heroes.

It felt like the clouds were passing through her. In fact, that was exactly what was happening. She tugged her jacket and pulled the red woollen skull cap down to cover her ears. This walk alone may not have been such a good idea. But then again, like Mohit said, "Convenience is for the weak."

They had all left about two hours earlier on the rented bikes. Khushboo simply decided to stay back with Lara since she was sick. It was warmer now, but Lara's health wasn't getting any better and her Mum finally had to pick her up and take her back to their hotel. No matter how much fun they made of her, she was lucky that her parents decided to accompany them "from afar"! Mohit would definitely have something to say about this, she thought.

Four kilometers was taking her more effort to walk than she had estimated. Tired and out of breath, she sat down. She took out her phone to see if they had tried to contact her. Only their message from when they reached flashed on her screen. It was from Varun's phone but she knew it was Mohit.
"We've reached. I know you losers are going to ditch. Can't even travel a little bit outside the city without breaking a nail! We'll see you tomorrow, weaklings. A big get well soon from the real men over here haha!"

She hated when he got like this, when he behaved like a hero over something so pointless. He did it so often now. She also hated that it affected her, and that she gave in and kept trying to prove herself without saying anything about it. Anyway, he never cared even if she did manage to accomplish the task. His usual response was "Of course she can do it. Whose girlfriend do you think she is? My girlfriend is no weakling, okay!"

She had to get moving again. Sitting was only making her colder. She was scared though, not because of the cold but the mist had settled and she couldn't see beyond three feet in front of her. This walk alone was definitely a bad idea...

She took three more steps before stopping. She was exhausted, drained, and sick of being on a damned mountain alone. She took a deep breath. At least she tried to. She saw some sheep through the fog coming towards her, with a shepherd right behind. She tried to breathe again, which is when she realised she couldn't.
She looked at the sheep again, wishing she had that kind of energy... and wool.
And then, they all just started fading away.

The last thing she saw before passing out was the shepherd running through the flock towards her. She had already put her hand out, and then crumpled to the floor.

* * *

"I can't fucking get through to her phone! If she's gone back with Lara, I'm going to be so pissed. What chickens."
Mohit had been trying to contact Khushboo for an hour. "Stupid mountain with stupid network issues!" was his favourite line that day. And to make it worse, they finally got the news.

The young shepherd had run in, sweating (yes, sweating even in the inglorious cold, out of fear and panic). Hurriedly, he told the manager that a girl had collapsed nearby. He found a picture of her and Mohit in her wallet and remembered seeing him and the group come into the shacks earlier that day. The manager immediately took him to the group who had just come to the main cabin for lunch.
"She resting in my friend house nearby. I know the family many years. I take you." he said and motioned for them to get up.
They all abandoned everything, leaving their keys with the clerk/waiter/housekeeping servant/only other person working there. Varun slapped Mohit on his head "How could you let her stay back alone? Asshole."

Mohit didn't think she'd "be stupid enough to come on her own", and he only sent her the message from Varun's phone so that she wouldn't take it seriously. He held her hand, saying sorry to her over and over again, in his head. That was the most he could do to make himself feel better till they got there.

It wasn't working.

* * *

The fever and fatigue finally wore off three hours later, but Khushboo didn't know that.
She had suddenly gone from seeing sheep, to staring at an old Nepali woman dabbing her head with a wet cloth. She couldn't even tell if it was hot or cold. She was just thankful that she woke up somewhere that looked safe.
"Khushboo? Fuck, I'm so sorry! Please, don't wake up, don't worry, you're fine! We're all here now. Hey guys, she's awake! Get the food ready! Khush, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry!"
Mohit hadn't hugged her like that in a while. His warmth was welcome, and suddenly made everything worth it.
"Why did you come alone? Why didn't you go with Lara? We were just joking, Khush." Mohit kept asking her, guiltily, till Varun came in. "YOU were just joking, Mo. Don't bring us into this! You should have stayed back man! I'm so sorry Khush, we'll all stay next time." Varun sat by her. "I'm so sorry sis'. I'll slap this guy next time he leaves you like that! Actually, I already did. If it makes you feel better, should I slap him again right now?"

Till that point, it was too much for Khushboo, till she heard her brother's voice.
She smiled a bit and finally said "No, Varun, I'm fine now. Just give me a minute okay?"
He nodded and left the little room.

She hugged Mohit.
He couldn't help but feel even worse than he already did.
"I'll never do that to you again. I promise, I'm never leaving your side. Why did you decide to be such a hero? Why did you even bother? I was just being stupid, you know me! Next time, please tell me if you're going to attempt something like this! God, Khush... I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. I'm so glad you're okay." he whispered to her.

In that moment she realised what her anger wouldn't let her.
Without him, she wouldn't even have the courage to do half of what she had done in the last few years, she wouldn't be as strong as she had become. Without him, she wouldn't have ever seen something as beautiful as sunrise in the Himalayas.
"Without you, I wouldn't even be halfway to okay. I'm sorry too. And there won't be a next time. I won't ever leave your side either." she said.

* * *

Sometimes, it takes a fragile moment to fix something that's broken.
And sometimes, just maybe, we could use a little extra care to prevent fragile moments and broken hearts from being there in the first place.

"The clouds, they cleared. The sun, it shone once again."

* * * 

Credit:

Thanks to Malathi for the beautiful tweet that inspired this story 

- about clouds in Sikkim that pass through you.

Thanks to Mihir for this breathtaking photograph to compliment these moments 

and complete my piece.
 

And finally, thank you Arjun, for being the one to open my eyes to the best of me 
without ever leaving my side or putting me in a shitty situation.
 I'm more than thankful to have you in my life. 
I feel so loved.

Spaces, Places, Faces.

As he moved past her, he noticed that her hair, in fact, wasn't touching her cheek.

There was a small gap between the fallen lock and her smooth, lightly bronzed skin.

All he wanted was to be in that space.

***

As she moved past him, she tried not to notice that he had intentionally left the top button of his shirt open.

It was such a normal, casual, average look that, for some reason, made his rough skin sparkle.

All she wanted was to be in that space.

***

They crossed each other's path. They had done it before, so many years ago, but that didn't go so well. There was hope, but that's all there was. Even in a time when they thought they would always be together.

They both knew what they were thinking. They didn't have to look at each other.

All they wanted was to be in that space.

You Damned Fool.

He stuck his thumb out again, hoping the next car wouldn't whiz past, and stop to give an old man a lift.
But it whizzed past.
Marty clutched his chest.
This wasn't going so well.

Every week, he'd take the money his wife left for the fruit-seller. She hated it. She'd scream her lungs out when he came back and they wouldn't talk for days, not even at dinner, not even when he hugged her to sleep. Every single time. Same old story. Marty didn't want that for her anymore.
And somehow, he chose this day to change his way.
Penniless, he couldn't even take a cab back.
He wiped the sweat of his brow, squeezed the fist holding on to his little paper bag, and resumed clutching his chest and trying to catch his breath.
Not even a cab would stop for him, and what was the point? He couldn't pay for the damned thing anyway.

He sat down on a green rusty looking bench, breathing heavily.
Marty, you fool. You penniless fool.
He took out a piece of paper and a pen he often carried from his pant pocket.
He scribbled something hurriedly, tucked it into his pocket and closed his eyes.
The wheezing had begun, and along with it came the real heartburn.
He didn't want to scare off the people sitting at the nearby bus-stop, so he took out an apple from the lunch bag and bit a sizeable bite.
That should keep you quiet, Marty.
Marty, you stupid man, why didn't you take your cell phone?
Marty, why did you leave that money there?
Why did you do it today, Marty, why?
No cabs, no cars, no bus in sight, Marty.
Marty, what are you going to do?

Marty never made it off that bench that morning.
But there was a note tucked away into his pocket that did.
It reached his wife.
She never had to scream at anyone ever again.

Marty Was Here.

The Solitary, Inconvenient Dustbin.

Yes, another story about something someone sees every morning.
Unfortunately, mine's rather dull and nothing unusual happens in this one. Just a bunch of observations, little inferences and the daily do.

There's this dustbin that sits outside this old woman's house. When I mean outside, it's actually quite far away from "outside". It's pretty much off the pavement and a foot onto the road. And when I say house, I mean bungalow-that's-almost-the-size-of-a-mansion kind of house. Oddly, no one moves this solitary, inconvenient dustbin, except the garbagemen, but it always ends up right back where it was by the time I leave for work.

So this dustbin sits halfway onto the road, making sure that not more than one car passes this house at a time. If two cars pass, which is very hard unless they're hatchbacks or they're not cars, it's a really tight squeeze and sends one onto the opposite pavement and the other scrapes the dustbin. You might be patient enough to get out of the car and move it yourself, but no one really has the time anymore. I think she really enjoys this, the old woman.

I try not to look at the house when I pass by, but it's not easy to avoid it because she's always peeking out of one window or the other.
Yes that's another thing - it's never the same window.

I always wonder why she won't move it closer to her house. I've seen her painfully hobbling out of her ridiculously unused driveway, dumping one tiny little bag into that massive dustbin (I have no idea how she opens the lid, her hands make matchsticks look big) and then hobbling right back in. Would be good for her if it were closer too, right? I don't think you need exercise at that age, do you?

But all I can do is wonder, and tell you the stories I've heard.
Here's a bunch:
- she talks to the dustbin
- she put it there to watch us struggle with our cars, for entertainment
- she moves it on sundays when we don't work
- she doesn't have a family, leave her alone
- someone LIVES in that house?!
- I want to buy that house
And my favourite one that a little boy told me,
- my daddy told me her husband lives in the dustbin and she feeds him
at night from a small bag because he didn't listen to her and forgot
to buy the groceries

So yes, there this massive, abandoned, lonely, outcast dustbin sits, one foot away from its spot, one foot to close to the middle of the road. And there this little, fragile, nosey, bored, old woman sits in the house watching me as I wait for the five cars on the other side to clear the dustbin. Once I pass it, she goes back into the house.

Probably to change the window she's looking out of.

I think next, I'm going to find out what she's got on the other side
of the house.

Any thoughts?

Pretty Pictures in June

Yes, another bunch of pictures taken, another very interesting experience!
This time with friend and photographer Mihir Suvanam.
The pictures are up, and you can see the rest of his beautiful work here.
He's done a fantastic shoot with Arjun as well, and I will be shooting with him again as a Part II of these pictures.

If I'm not mistaken, his services are available upon request.
Thank you, Mihir! And thank you, Arjun, for your house... again!

Arjun Kanungo feat. Niyati Bharucha - A.D.H.R.

"We try to make you different. But then you make no sense at all."

Those are lyrics to one of Arjun's tracks that he asked me to sing for.
The track, in my opinion, parallels how one would feel during teleportation and time-travel.
And then the lyrics make this slow-motion, exothermic implosion (yes, the Hydrogen bomb type), in my head.
Thank you for this, Arjun!

Composition and Programming - Arjun Kanungo

Vocals - Niyati Bharucha

Guitars - Kevin George

Mix and master - Vipal Patel

You can find Arjun's other compositions/tracks here:

Arjun Kanungo on Soundcloud

Insecurities and Reasons.

There's a wire
Somewhere
Loose somewhere in my head
Can someone fix it?
Can someone find it?
There's a wire loose
Somewhere
There's a wire in my head.

Something tugged
Somewhere
On a nerve in my head
It pulled out the wire
It sparked some other fire
There's a nerve
Somewhere
Tugged a nerve in my head.

I said I'd be fine
I said I'd be perfectly fine
I knew I'd make it right
I thought I'd make it

Something
Somewhere
A wire's loose
A nerve's out of use
Tugged
Bugged
Loose.

One Lovely Blog Award Nomination

Strangers, complete strangers, write in to tell me that they enjoyed reading what I wrote.
Today, someone nominated me for an award: One Lovely Blog Award

Here's the pizazz:

Rules
1. Thank the person who has nominated you and shout out loud.
2. Pass on the award to 5-10 bloggers.
3. State 7 random facts about yourself.
4. Post the award pic on your wall.

RULE #1 - Thank the person who has nominated you and shout out loud:

Dear Aashirwad Nunihar,
I've never known you outside your blog, or outside my facebook page, but you've been wonderful enough to nominate me and acknowledge my work as worthy of an award. It means a lot to me as a reader and writer, since it's coming from a reader and writer like myself.
I really appreciate it. THANK YOU SO MUCH!

RULE #2 - Pass on the award to 5-10 bloggers

Aashirwad Nunihar: http://aashirwadn.blogspot.com/
Vaishakhi Bharucha: http://tectonicshifts.blogspot.com/
Vinay Venkatesh: http://wankatesh.posterous.com/
Viji Venkatesh: http://vijiv.blogspot.com/
Anuya Jakatdar: http://fireyourstylist.wordpress.com/
Scherezade Shroff: http://scherezadeshroff.blogspot.com/
One Hippie Boy: http://freudslipped.wordpress.com/


RULE #3 - State seven random facts about yourself

1. I love cats. I have a cat.
2. I pretty much love all animals, but I'm not one of those "SAVE EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS" fanatic. I believe I do what I can, when I can.
3. Another strong belief I have is that artists don't need to be continuously grieving or sleep deprived to be creative (it's a different issue if they ACTUALLY ARE and not forcing themselves to be).
4. Eventually, I want to write a book or story that gets turned into a film, for which I will also (hopefully) write the script. I want my lyrics turned into songs too.
5. I sing. Occasionally. And in the shower. I thank my mother for tolerating it at 9am.
6. I love to paint and make random digital art pictures. Most are here: http://www.facebook.com/niyatiwrites/
7. I like to share what I learn/know. Writing fictional stuff tends to limits me sometimes, so I also have another blog that expresses my life-event-and-memory-writing side. http://rulesoftheuniverse.blogspot.com/ I try not to get preachy, and I try to bring clarity to the ideas and lessons I learn and share.  

RULE #4 - Post the award pic on your wall


DONE.

The Birth of a Phoenix

The fire was horrifying. So were the screams of the family that managed to escape it.
The fire was uncontrollable, just like Monica.

It all started when she was four. It began with her finger.
Her Mummy told her not to touch the pot, but she wanted to know why.
It stung for days, the blister on the tip of her right index finger. She wanted everything to burn for how it burned her. So first she got a lighter from her father's cigarette box, and went to the bathroom. He didn't notice because he was drunk and asleep. He would never know, because he'd wake up and think he misplaced the lighter, like he usually does when he's drunk enough to fall asleep.
She burnt the whole roll of toilet paper, bit by little bit.

After that she burnt everything she could, even her mother's clothes once, and blamed her father and his smoking for the destruction. It was so easy to just pin it on him. He'd drink and forget about it all anyway.
The most fun Monica had with fire, though, was setting off the alarms in school.
She snuck into the bathroom near the chemistry lab last year, lighter clutched tightly in her hand that was buried deep inside her hoodie pocket. By the time she reached the end of the first toilet paper, the exhaust fans had stopped doing their work.

But the neighbour's house... the neighbour's house was an accident.
She only meant to burn the plant under the window, she had plucked out all the flowers and turned them to ashes already.

It started with one leaf, one dry leaf, that almost went out but touched the wood of the house before it could.
She lit one leaf that almost went out, and she thought it went out, so she tried to light it again.
The plant almost caught fire, and the house certainly did.
Her hoodie wasn't enough to put it out. She knew that, so she didn't even try.
Or maybe Monica didn't want to try.

She watched the house, engulfed in flames, slowly crumbling.
She did THAT.
I did that, she said to herself.
There was a moment of fear, a moment of sheer panic.

And then just an essence of power.
She looked across the road, and at all the other houses.
They have some pretty plants with some pretty flowers, she thought to herself.
She looked back at the fire, put the hood over her head and went home.

Lies, Silence, Violence and Other Such Realities.

I saw, I saw
The swift, sharp movements of the swordsman against
The one he swore to protect.
I heard, I heard
The sweet words of the estranged lady for
The man she couldn't get.

I saw, I saw
The smile upon his face when he was done
As he got up to leave for home.
I heard, I heard
The cry of the quiet woman in the shadows
Who chose to be left alone.

I know, I know
Nobody may really say words that
Can be completely true
I grow, I grow
To realise I can't rely on words which
Don't even come from you.

The Heroine.

Something made the whole point of the spectacle escape her comprehension. It was a language so foreign, so abstract, yet so ethereal to her. She didn't understand it at all, no matter how long she stared, no matter how long she stood trying to get the best shots of it, but she felt like she was part of it. She hadn't even imagined something like it, not even when she was under and hallucinating.

The first thing she did after getting home was plug her camera into her computer.
She flipped through the one thousand ninety eight photos she had taken that day. She had almost forgotten that other people were with her till she saw the pictures. There were some they took of her too.

She finally reached the pictures she took of the sky. She was disappointed. There was a connection between her eyes and the strokes of nature during that sunset that had been severed by the one thing that usually strengthened her bond with the world - her lens.

She closed the picture preview. She closed the windows on her screen. She plugged her mp3 player into the speakers, and played the Ólafur Arnalds album "...And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness".
With the pianist on repeat, she fell asleep curled up in the warmth of her blanket and prayed that she saw that sunset again in her dream, for tomorrow she'd have to go back to being just another actress, just another movie star.

Photos courtesy Chandni Sareen.

*Special thanks to Chandni for letting me use her pictures for this short story, and Nuzha Embrahim for being an unsuspecting participant and having nice frames!*

L'Artiste.

He pushed the button.
Silence.
He waited.
Not a sound, only the echo of his own nervous breathing.
He'd try again later.

In his head, she had the aura of a dream with the demeanour of a vixen. Something like an angel who had transcended goodness, what with all the piercings on her face and ears contradicted by her bright eyes.
But that was just the artist in him being romantic. In reality, she was just another muse.

His easel stared back at him, blank and lonely, reflecting his mental state without her.
He picked up his phone and flipped through her pictures. Has he ever "missed" a muse?
Was she just another muse?
It seemed insulting for him to think so.

He walked back to his kitchen, to the phone and hit redial again.
Still, no answer. Not even a dial tone.
It obviously wasn't okay to just go over there yet. It had been just a month since they met, and he had dropped her home just once, but never went upstairs or even close to the door. In fact, he even remembered her talking about some man or the other.
He was still dying to go. She was definitely more than a muse.

He tried her cellphone. It rang, and rang, and rang, and went to her voicemail.
*BEEP* and he hung up. How needy it would be to actually leave a voice message. He went back into his room. She hadn't contacted him for days. He wanted her around all the time, and she didn't even seem to care.

*KNOCK KNOCK*
Ah! There she is! Must've just lost her phone, or maybe she had been travelling and left it at home...
He hurried excitedly to the door, and then suddenly slowed down. From window, he saw postman.
At 4 p.m.? How odd. With a puzzled look he opened the door, "And how can I help you, sir?"
"You are l'artiste American? Parlez-vous français?"
"Oui. Je suis un Parisien."
"Ah, bonsoir. Cette lettre... est pour toi."

The address was scribbled in her writing, and he opened it gently, barely noticing the postman leave.
He stared blankly at it for what felt like 20 minutes right there at his door.
He looked up at the empty, blank, lonely street. Another reflection, another paralleled travesty of his life.
Finally, tears began to fill into his eyes. Of rage, of futility, of helplessness, and of reality.

He looked at his easel, blank and lonely, reflecting what was permanent at the time.
The paint on his palette had all but dried, and there was never any paint on his brush to begin with.
She had run away with some man, and either way, she was never his to begin with.

Words of a Muse.

She Didn't Have To Try.

"Colourful Thoughts."
Model: Namaah Kumar

*She adjusted her T shirt to make sure she wasn't sweaty.

She looked down at her shoes and bit her pierced lip. 

He was late, but it was okay.

She had all day.

*He stared at her for ten whole minutes.

He saw her shuffle around and try to look really pretty.

She didn't have to try at all.

He knew he was late, but the sunlight fell so perfectly on her hair.

He had to stop and stare.

The Sound Of.

I saw him laugh heartily, at his own joke of course. He cracks a lot of jokes, I can tell. He's such a funny guy.
He picked up his guitar right after, stepped to the mic, made an announcement and then started singing what seemed to be the best song in the world. The room began to vibrate from the sounds and the equally strong response from the crowd. As my smile grew wider, my heart began to race with the thumping of the bass drum. I blushed, and clapped.
The next morning was just perfect. Like heaven - waking up to his smiling face in some distant beach-y place. He took me out for coffee, beer and breakfast. I had the coffee, and watched his many changing expressions, the only response of his that I can so clearly understand and empathise with at every moment.
However ridiculous it is, I can't imagine being with someone else. I know what you're thinking and honestly, I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind. I wonder, sometimes, what he says when people ask him, "So you're a brilliant and successful musician in love with a deaf girl. Wow, man, what's that like?"

Don't Say A Word.

She quickly picked up her daughter and put her in the closet. She reached to the top shelf, pulled down her double-barrel as silently as she could and re-checked the cupboard door to make sure it was fully closed. They were still in the living room, she could tell.

"Wait here. Don't move an inch."

She loaded the gun, took a few extra rounds and crept out of the closet.

She came back to her daughter, squatted on the floor and said "There's just two of them, okay."

She looked over her shoulder, they were coming up the stairs now, she could hear their footsteps.

"Honey, I love you." She took her daughter's hand and placed it on her mouth. 

"Don't say a word."

Three seconds passed.

BANG. BANG.

ObSCuRe

Who would’ve thought that, in a state like mine, I would actually see her. I hadn’t seen her in years, not even when I was at my worst, and now when I’m finally done with nothing left to look forward to, she comes back and changes everything.

It’s weird, you know. Like watching someone eat a combination of food that you would never think of eating in your many years of being awake. You might have had a dream about it, but you’ll never know because it was completely wiped out once you woke up. That’s how it is with us now. Like pasta and jam, or ice cream and pencil shavings. Yes, something like that.

We never really knew each other inside out. Every time she was around, I’d zone out completely. Life would be thriving inside my head and she’d be doing some other such. People often say we’re the same, but I never thought so.

Pasta and jam. They’re both really tasty individually, but they just must not be served in the same plate, you know. Sometimes the sauce in the pasta’s too spicy so jam just might help because it’s sweet. Or it’s just not the right time in the day for jam (although some believe it can be eaten at any time) so you opt for the pasta.

Ice cream and pencil shavings? Haha, I don’t know why myself. It’s just something she’d say…

Ah, that brings out the other truth. We may not know each other too well, but we know what each other would say, or would think about a particular subject. Sometimes, I even feel like I’ve experienced something she has, but in reality it’s never happened to me before.

The pulchritude of this whole melodramatic episode lies in the fact that she has actually decided to emerge when I’ve needed her. During a particularly horrible phase, atleast at twice the magnitude of this, she refused to turn up. She knows I have no family, and that she has none either. But her absence puzzled me and, because of who I am, I didn’t ask her anything the next time I did talk to her. It would’ve just been another firestarter if I had.

Frankly, her presence now was making me feel uneasy. I don’t know why. I felt like I could feel myself slipping away again, zoning out. I faced the mirror. She smiled and waved, then winked. Horror. I knew what would happen now. My time had come.

I lost control of my hands, my back and soon my legs. I did not lose balance though; she had already taken over. I could feel her push me into that box at the back of my mind. Her mind.

I lost all control of the body we shared.

I fought for my right to be able to observe. To watch. To see what she was doing and what was going on in the world.

Her merciless heart wished to block that too, but she knew it was wrong to do so.

Tears began to stream from her eyes. No. From my eyes.

She wiped them away, and I was left to weep in that minuscule room somewhere in between.

All I could feel was my own sorrow and her darkened thoughts, both playing with my mind and killing me as well.

Ice cream and pencil shavings. Pasta and jam.

They should never be served on the same plate.

Interlude.

Spiralling outward from my spine

These waves that tell me

We will shine

As I break from these chains of mine

My limbs help me

To combine

What otherwise would be

An interlude with no harmony.

Pretty Pictures

Portrait Shoot of Me by Tanvi Madkaiker

Did a fabulous shoot with Tanvi Madkaiker a little while ago, and the pictures are finally up. She's a brilliant photographer, a perfect mix of classic and modern when it comes to her vision.

She has this supercool foldable reflector disc, silver on one side and gold on the other. It was definitely the "highlight" of the shoot for me.

Her facebook page and website have all you need to see and contact her.
I strongly recommend it.

Thanks and cheers!

*Big thanks to Tanvi for the shoot, and Arjun for the location.*