Guilty Ghost

Guilty Ghost

Do you still feel the thrill on quiet nights?

Do you still feel like stalking those empty passages?

Do you still want to be the ghost that you once were?

Because I know I don't.

The thrills that we used to get 

are now waves of guilt,

crashing against me.

The shrill screams of that little girl still echo in my head. 

Her eyes were like stars, burning with purity. 

Do you remember how her skin slowly turned white?

Do you remember how we sucked the life out of her,

extinguishing that purity?

Because I know I do.

I can still feel the amount of fear that penetrated the house that night;

and how I slowly turned that fear into my own guilt.

Those innocent faces flash in my head like blinding lights, 

being forced on my eyes, burning them.

You know, when it all ended, 

it was quiet again.

Like nothing ever happened. 

Like those shrill screams were just music.

Like we were just normal beings,

not guilty of that night.

But here we are.

Eagerly waiting on the porch

on a quiet evening;

For more innocents to feed on

and finally take the life out of this house;

Which has stood so strong, 

being fed by the fear. 

Look, its asking for more.   

The Beast

Painting by me. 22 Oct 2016

I used to think that he was always asleep, not caring what was going on outside.
I used to listen to him snore loudly as I made my peace with the world.
But lately I have come to realize that his sleep is coming to an end.
That he is going to wake up, and when he does,
I know it will be bad.
It will be bad;
since all this while the angel within was working and working.
And now she is tired and old.
Now she has given up.

Then one day he did wake up.
He woke up, and he second he did, I felt a pang in my chest.
He wanted to get out.
He started to slowly destroy my insides.
He shook the floor on which my heart stood strong and shattered it.
He blew up what was left of the angel.
Then he came for me.
I had made a promise to myself not to let him get me.
Not to let him manipulate me and shape me as
But he finally succeeded.
He now holds me tightly in his huge fists.
He squished me so hard that I have spit out all my organs.
Which makes me  wonder how I let him find warmth on that same floor on which my heart stood.
How I have myself let him in.
He holds me in front of his face and there is a look of satisfaction on his face
and a sly smile.
That smile....it feels familiar.
Then it struck me. It was one that I once had on my face when I let him wake up.
When I let him overpower me completely.

He has now converted me  into another being.
Although, it feels good. Deadly.
And now there is a sly smile on my face.
A look of satisfaction.

The Gramophone

He has been sitting on that old teakwood table even before i was born.
He has an intricately carved beautiful golden mouth that opens wide.
Yet he hasn't grown old and never will.
The countless songs played on him are a proof of my family's legacy and what we stand for.
The music, the records, the voices. All these make me feel just as happy as I had felt the first time I heard them.
He is indeed really old now but hasn't broken apart yet and never will.
His voice has this kind of a base that cannot be created today.
The symphonies that come out of his huge golden mouth fill the whole house with notes of the memories that are attached to each of those songs.
Every person in the house- be it my little brother or my great grandmother- has some or the other memory attached to the old guy.
He has never let go of these memories and never will.
That little needle on him that has run endless races on the record disk, is still as sharp as it was before.
The record disks spin on it just as fast as they used to before.
But the old guy hasn't been used in a long time now.
The needle misses his races with himself, each time to go a little further than the last time.
The old guy's voice has now got a kind of harshness that cannot be created today.
The intricate golden design is now showing signs of fading away.
The old guy wants to scream and tell the whole world that his voice is still the same.
All those songs and memories are still in him and he wants to relive them.
He wants us to listen to all those symphonies and dance again, filling the house with the legacy that my family stands for.
He wants to just keep playing now.
Just play and play and play until his voice starts breaking down and so does he.
But he had never given up earlier and he never will.

The Beach

The Beach

I walked just on the edge of the shore
Where the waves came and receeded back into the mighty sea.
The sun was setting now
And  the sky was now a melange of purple and orange
Odd, the combination of these colours.
It was like the sunrays were trying to
Find their way through, just before going away
One last time, they wanted to open up in the sky
But the clouds wouldn't let them.
The purple now overpowered the orange
Telling it that its time was over.
Each wave  came with a different force, covering my feet.
Each wave left its own mark in the sand.
Each wave left a unique stone or shell.
It was in all peaceful.
And then i woke up.

Woke up to the raging war outside.
To the gunshots and bombings.
To the cries of helpless women and faithful soldiers.
Because it was he-who ruled the world-
Now ruled our little town.
They came in last night like a swamp of bees and invaded us , made us their slaves.
All that we once called ours did not belong to us anymore.
And the beach..
It is now a wasteland
Where bodies now came and receeded into the mighty sea.
Where each wave now came in search of deadly things to take back.
The blood had made the beach red.
And the sky. The sky was now a melange of hatred and savagery.
The beach was now a slaughterhouse.
The beach was not mine anymore.

Hope - A short story

Amin. She knew that hope was a good feeling. She had all the hopes. She had all the dreams…

Painting by Chaitanya Mategaonkar

The society won’t let her do what she wanted. She had fought with her loved one for her love towards art. She had been ‘given permission’ to continue her art only after a lot of convincing to Abbu. Hence, every day she used to go by the dargah that was by the beautiful Indus. She used to sit there with her canvas. She used to just get lost in her art, for hours together. Sometimes for so long that she completely forgot about the fact that all that she was doing was probably going to go down the drain. The reason: her Abbu had planned her nikkah. She felt awful and miserable about the fact she knew that she was good at it but she had to let go. It had been her lifelong dream to get into the University of Kabul, now that she had completed her graduation with flying colours. But she knew she just couldn’t. The one person that supported her through all this was her bhaijaan- Aamir. He always believed in her abilities and he was the one who got her all her paints and other material. He had fought Abbu too and had helped her achieve what she had today. 

Unfortunately, because of the constant firing on Kabul, Aamir had to go and defend his country in the fight. So that was the last time Amin saw her bhaijaan.

Soon the house was decorated in veils and flowers. The day of the nikkah had fallen upon Amin like a boulder. She hadn’t even met her future husband until the day before. Abbu had called her to the door and there he was - not looking much older than her - whom she was a complete stranger to. Abbu was talking about him doing something in Urdu, but her mind was racing at such a speed that she didn’t pay attention to it. All she caught was that his name was Aadil. She somehow managed to stretch a smile on her face. That time on she knew that, all her dreams-all her hopes - were just dreams after all. They had gone down the Indus into the great Arabian sea. But as we say, things always have a way of coming back to us at the end. 

Soon, Amin forced her hands and her body to wear the wedding dress that her Khala had got her. Ammi came into the room with a sad kind of a smile on her face. She knew about the sacrifices that Amin had to make for this marriage. She knew what she had been through. She forcefully had to accept that Amin’s future husband, Aadil, was the son of her husband’s boss. Only to get in good relations with the boss for the ‘greater good’, her Abbu’jaan’ was getting Amin married to an unknown man. She went to her daughter to take her down for the nikkah. But she couldn’t control all the tears that were rolling down her face as she saw the sadness in Amin’s eyes. Having already lost hope for her Aamir to come back from war, she was now losing her Amin also. The thought troubled her a lot.  She hugged her daughter and told her to be strong no matter what, even though she herself was shattered from within. 

They went down and saw the fakir, Aadil and Abbu waiting down. The fakir started performing the rituals and soon the question was asked. It hit Amin like a bullet. A bullet that she had no option but to get hit by. A bullet that couldn’t be dodged. “Manzoor hai”, she said in a trembling voice. Two more times. Two more bullets. She felt as if her voice had gone sore just by those two words. 

Soon Aadil and Amin, were on their way to Kabul - her new home. 

On the way Aadil kept on asking her questions about herself. She answered them with no extra words. It’s really funny, she thought, that she had been told not to talk to strangers since her childhood, but was married to one now! 

Almost a week or so had passed since the nikkah, and surprisingly Aadil had been very good to her. They started talking on a daily basis now. While talking to him, Amin came to know that Aadil was only three years older to her. He was doing a degree in Urdu now. She now came to know what Abbu was talking about him, the first time she met him. 

One such day, as they were sipping a cup of chai, Aadil said, “I have seen your paintings and sketches Amin and I love them. You are really good at it!”  she thought that if Aadil really appreciated her work, why not let her follow her dreams?

***

Aadil had been gone for almost five days now. He was going to an army relief camp to offer help to the injured soldiers of the Kabul war. A picture of Aamir bhaijaan just went past her mind. Taking good advantage of the opportunity, she quickly snuck her art material and canvas, and started painting. She felt happy after a long time now. She just drowned into her work. A small smile had slowly crept up her face. But she knew that this happiness, this joy was not going to last for much longer. 

Sketch by Chaitanya Mategaonkar

Just then, she suddenly heard a car come into the driveway. And then footsteps. It was Aadil. But Aadil was going to arrive the day after… She started panicking and thinking about what Aadil would say about her painting behind his back. He came into the door with nothing but an envelope in his hand. His face portrayed an expression of some kind of satisfaction, and that he was hiding something. Amin even caught a bit of guilt on his face. He saw the painting that Amin was trying to hide, and took it from her. He let out a big grin and a tear found its way into his eyes. All he said was, “Mahshallah! May Allah forgive me for what I did, until now.” He handed Amin the envelope and she hastily opened it. 

Inside was something that she couldn’t believe. It was the acceptance letter to the University of Kabul! She was jumping as high as the sky from inside. With that was a letter too. 

Aadil told her that he had met Aamir in the relief camp. There he told him how Amin had sacrificed all her dreams and aspirations for this marriage. He wanted to come and meet his little sister, Abbu and Ammi, but he couldn’t make it. He requested Aadil to fulfil his Amin’s dream, it was his last wish. Aadil then went to Amin’s parents to break the news to them. Saying that they were devastated is an understatement. But, they got ready to do anything for Amin’s happiness now. Even Abbu. So Aadil had mailed the University her resume and had received the acceptance letter the day before. Amin knew now, how wrong she had been about Aadil. She knew that a boat had just come sailing back from the Arabian Sea to the Indus and to Kabul. Although she felt like something inside her went missing, now knowing that Aamir bhaijaan was no more, the other part of her was thankful to Allah. She knew who the letter was from.

As for Aadil, the tear that just came rolling down his cheek and the smile on his face said it all!

***

'What if..."

You wake up one day and realise that things aren’t meant to be this way. You are eagerly waiting for something to change. You wake up one day and realise that you no more want to be the brick in the wall. You want to get out of this ‘loop’. You want to go places. You want to BE someone. So you start thinking. What if I could be a new person? What if I could be the one to do things out of the blue? What if I could actually make a difference? What if I was the superhero for the country? What if I NEVER wake up feeling like a normal person and wake up feeling like a new person every day? What if….

We all feel like this most of the time.  Don’t we!  But why is it that most of us are unable to convert that ‘what if I was’ into ‘I am’?  It really makes me curious that even though we have the ability, we have the knowledge, we have the resources, yet nothing seems to happen. All I want to say that if we put in a little efforts and go that extra mile, I think that our ‘what ifs’ will actually turn to reality. Even if one person gives it a thought, I think it would make a great difference.

It’s just a thought that popped into my head that I should be working on. Hoping that somebody, somewhere might be giving it that extra thought, no?