Walk Away

The story of a boy there was

He laughed and danced and played

But if you went too close to him

My God! His life was frayed

The wolves and dogs

Had shred some threads

Long back when he was young

But now when he is old and strong

The tatters are still strung

Holding on to them

In hungry, desperate snatches

In glorious myths

Of a victim’s strength

He forever latches

Be strong and walk away

Sooner than you can

Like a rabid cur chasing cars

He would chase you and bark

For what else could he do?

If you have any sense, run

And listen to his hark

You cannot float a sinking ship

Nor hold a broken man

A boy who holds his fragmented soul

Like daggers out to kill

Will never become whole again

Unless it is his will

So leave the boy alone

For your own good and his

It’s only his cross to bear

Always remember this

It is not your pain to share

So if you truly care,

Let him be:

For a mirror made of shattered glass

Can only show you in bits and shards

Some Words, A Prayer

It’s been a while, and many a miles

No words written, of lost and found

Of tears shed, of ties cut

Of healing wounds and fading scars

And so it happens, so I’ve thought

Words are not the frivolous kind

They are borne not of a happy mind

Or rightly so, they aren’t just the leftovers

Of merriment and gaiety

Of contentedness and peace

They are rain to quench the desert,

The battered, arid heart

When every last drop of you

Is squeezed and spent

That is when they fill the void;

That is when they are truly meant:

I talk of mortals, mere, like me

Who are but at their mercy

And pay the price of tears,

Of pain and of fears

To feel their power surge

Through my heart, my veins

And not of Gods, who command

These words, and at their will

Unleash them from their reins

I humbly thank you, for your kindness

For your healing touch

Today when I am smiling

I can only thank you very much

Lou

Today when I go

I want you to know

I wish I could

Take you with me

We’ll talk on the phone

And not be alone

Yeah, Yeah; I know I know

But I want you with me

Today and tomorrow

Like till now it’s been:

In tears and in joy

In times thick and thin

You held me when

Shattered

You were with me when it

Mattered

Like sisters and more

Like soulmates so pure

I know this is mushy

But it’s chocolate and wine

So we’ll blame it on all that

And not call me drunk

But babe, it’s so true

You’re the loves of my life

And like crazy

Will I miss  you

Confession

“Hello Father, good afternoon.”

“Hello Lisa, a very good afternoon to you too. Have you come for a confession?”

“Yes, Father. Mom says I should speak to God if I am feeling bad about something I did, but doesn’t God already know everything?”

“Your mommy is right, sweetheart. God knows everything, but he wants to know how you feel about it. He wants to know if something is troubling you. If you think you did something wrong and sometimes even if you don’t think you did anything wrong at all, but the story just the same. Do you want to tell me what is bothering you?”

“I want to tell God, I tried to today, but I wasn’t sure if he was listening. Jackie was asking for a toy at the same time in his room. Maybe our voices got muddled? Then mom was calling me, she was making a lot of noise too, with the mixer and the ‘Lizzyyyyyyy… finish your milk!’ Maybe God couldn't hear me. So I thought I should come here. Does God ask you what people confess to you or does He sit with you in there somewhere?”

“You’re a bright little spark, aren't you? God listens to everything, but He also wants you to know that you are being heard. He trusts that I will not reveal your secret or be angry with you, so He lets me listen to confessions. Tell me Lisa, what is troubling you?”

“It is my friend Sahiba. She is also in my class. Class 3 section B. She sits with me since we were in KG section A. Our class teacher, Miss Ann, she calls us some twins, Assamese twins I think; but neither of us is from Assam, I don’t know why she calls us that. Sahiba is my best friend, but I don’t like her as much as she likes me. I like her more than the others, but I don’t like her too much because Miss Ann likes her more than me. I also don’t like her hair; it’s straight and long, not curly and short like mine. She isn't as plump as me either.  Mom says Sahiba is very smart because she got an A in the math test, I got a C. I hate her because she is better than me at everything, but I like to play with her and sit with her. I like the parathas her mom gives her for tiffin break and she likes my peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Maybe we have the wrong moms. OK God, don’t listen to that. I love my mom, don’t change her, just the way she cooks maybe. More like Mrs Grover, Sahiba’s mom.

Last week, I stuck a chewing gum in Sahiba’s hair when she wasn't looking. She saw it during the last period, and started crying because it wouldn't come off. I was telling her it will be okay, and she held my hand and kept crying even after Miss Ann tried to console her. I was feeling a little bad because of the way she kept sobbing and saying that she didn't eat the gum. Who would do that to her? I kept telling her that maybe she picked it from some wall or cupboard. When we were packing our bags for the day, she saw the chewing gum wrapper in my desk, near my pencil box. She looked at me and ran away. I felt bad, but I felt angry at her. Why did she think I did it? Doesn't she trust me?

She came the next day; her hair was chopped off till her shoulders. She wore a pretty, pink hair band. It had a cream bow on one side. Her hair looked pretty, but not as much as when she had it long. I felt a little guilty, but it would grow back again, right? Also, I was angry at her because she thought I did it. I thought she would sit with Ananya in the first bench; they both seemed to get all the ‘A’s anyway. They might as well sit together but she came to our bench and smiled at me. She asked how her hair looked. She told me that her mom had taken her to the parlour for the haircut and for ice cream afterwards. She even got a new Barbie and asked me if I would go play with it that evening. I hate her. She’s being nice to me so that I feel bad. I know it. She has been the same every day, just like she was before. I hate her God, she is making me feel like a horrible girl. Why won’t she just fight with me once? Why won’t she tell Miss Ann, my mom or her mom everything? Maybe she told Mrs. Grover, but I didn't notice anything when I went to play with her Barbie. Mrs. Grover made these tasty pakodas for us and green chutney. God, why can’t Sahiba hit me or steal my new pencil, the blue one that she liked? If she does that we’ll be even and I can try not to hate her. I think I am a bad person God, and it is all her fault.

That is all Father. I don’t know what else to say. I am sorry I did that to her hair, but I hate her even more now because I also love her and I know that I hurt my best friend. I don’t know what to do.”

“Lisa, stop crying child. It is OK. You were brave to come and speak here, and God knows that you are braver. You should talk to your friend, you should apologize and you will not hate her or yourself anymore. You are a big girl and a good one at that. You did something wrong and you want punishment for it. You are repenting in your own way. You know what repentance is, dear? It is this feeling that you have, that you did something wrong, that you wish to be punished for it and that you wish for it to be known. Talk to your friend, your punishment will be over then. You will be honest to her, you will say sorry to her and you both will remain good friends. Will you do that child?”

“Yes Father. I hope she still likes me after that. I hope God likes me too. I promise I will not do this again. I promise to be a good friend.”

“Good girl. Now run off to your mom. God needs to listen to many more secrets today.”

Snatches

A moment, a dime

A quick slice of time

A chance or a bet

Skip paying a debt

Sometimes, it’s the thrill

Of a lie or a kill

The power, the strings

A pull or a dip

A stitch there, a snip

I stole that from you

I had some, got new

It’s not that I am bad

But that moment I had

All that I could

More than I should

The thrill of the guilt

Maybe it’s how I am built

But the deed is now done

And damn was it fun

I know it was wrong

But the urge was too strong

And look now I know

Next time I’ll say no

But that mark that I made

Is the price I have paid

For those hidden scratches

I take payments in snatches

Of future hits

In pieces and bits

This is what I’ve become

Ever since I begun

This is now what I am

And what I shall be

Just lock up this secret

Let the door on it slam

And chain it and lock it

And hide what I am

Part by Part

Moments, when little joys sneak in on you and you are hesitant to cradle and love them; when they seem so innocent, making you even more cautious, having lost them in the past. You don’t feel whole enough anymore to hold them, not complete enough to cherish them. Yet it is they that heal you, it is they that make you whole again. The little joys coerce you to smile, to laugh and they bring the twinkle back, making you forget how dry your eyes had become.

Maybe, they are stronger than you, little as they may look in front of the gaping holes in your heart. Tiny needles that sow back the threads to hold your life together again. So, maybe you shouldn’t be afraid to let them in. Despite what you feel, they wouldn’t be helpless against your despair, but probably give you the strength needed to fight your demons. Instead of the splinters of your broken existence hurting them, it is they who will pick up and join the pieces.

Let them in; a momentary smile often heals a broken heart:

A reminder, that you could be happy again, one day: part by part.

I am.

08:00 am

I am dead. Dead as per the definition we seem to accept. My body is hanging from the rope I tied to the fan. The chair I had used to stand on while orchestrating my death had wobbled unsteadily on my unmade bed, now it lies astray on it. I had tossed and turned on that bed the entire night, convincing myself to continue existing. I had stopped living the day I thought of ending it. Life had never excited me, I used to go through each day without any hopes or wishes. Mom, Dad, Tessa everybody tried their best to make me look forward to the future. They alternated between encouraging my dreams to cursing my state of nothingness. I didn't react to either. Tessa, is, was my girlfriend. At least she thought so, she was one of those people who liked to fix things, especially people. She wouldn't care for a stray dog unless it was injured, she wouldn't smile at a baby unless it was crying. She wanted to fix me and that is why she was with me. As for Mom and Dad, I was all they had, except for each other, their jobs, their hobbies. Somehow, just my existence had made itself the reason for theirs. I had never wanted that. I had never wanted anything in my sixteen years of being. I was about to turn seventeen in about sixteen hours. Somehow the thought of ending this farce at the age of sixteen, sixteen hours before the number changed had seemed sweet. Sweet sixteen.

08:43 am

“Wake up Kevin! It’s almost 9, you will be late for class again!” Mom is yelling, as the door opens. She stops yelling. She falls to the floor, looking up at my body. It must be a terrible sight, for it looks as if her eyes have stopped seeing. Grey-brown wisps of hair flutter over her unseeing eyes as she holds on to the floor for support. “Walter! Walter…Walter… my son... Kevin… Walter… our son!” The cries reverberate in the empty room, they bounce off my body, down the stairs, down to Dad who is munching on his buttered toast. It drops as he runs up to my room. “Janet what happ…?”

He clutches at the door frame as he sees. Too shocked to react, too shocked to comfort Mom.

“Trrriiinnnggg… Trrriiiinnnng…” My alarm for 8:45 goes off, setting off the tears that were still in shock, or denial? I should have remembered to remove the alarm. Somehow, these gadgets, social networking accounts, these remnants of the dead are crueler than their memories. Howling, mom grabs at my feet, her tears warm against my cold, placid feet. I would have felt bad perhaps, when I was alive, Mom and Dad were the only reason why I had been a bit hesitant to die. They are kind, loving parents and fate has played a cruel joke on them by giving them a child that was born to die.

Dad can’t look at the two people he loves the most in this state, dead and dying. He turns his head and his eyes fall on my study table, on my photograph in the black wooden frame, on my perpetually unsmiling face, listless gray eyes and messy black hair, on the neatly arranged stack of books next to it, on the note propped against them. He knows what it is. It seems as if he can’t bear to look at it, but he has to know right? I knew they deserved an answer, even though they wouldn't understand it, which is why I wrote that letter. His feet carry him to the desk, as his hand reaches out for the note. He begins reading it out loud, in a tired, old voice. My dad seems older now, older than the fifty-three year old man he had been ten minutes back.

“Sorry. I had never been able to tell you this, but I had always wanted to kill myself. I knew if I would have, you would have tried to make me visit a shrink. You would have always kept an eye on me. You would have not let me had my own room. You would have suffocated me further. You would have killed me. I did not want you to be the killers, I wanted to take my own life. I know you will not understand. How can you? I could never understand why we were living. I could never understand why you wanted me to study, to learn the piano, to read, to laugh, to eat, to exist. I never understood life, I never understood death. Yet Life bored me while Death lured me. I know you have always been worried for me. Why I didn't smile or play with other children. Why I always stood first in class but never displayed any interest in my past, present or future. It is not your fault. This is how I am. Ever since I was three. Ever since I saw Sasha lying dead in mom’s arms. A day old. I wanted to be that way too. Remember the time I was not waking up, when I was nine? I had eaten mom’s sleeping pills? It hadn't been a mistake. I kept saying that in the hospital, when I woke up. You both kept trying to calm me. Over the years I kept imagining how it would be and now, I am finally doing it. Sorry Mom and Dad, it is just me. There is nothing that could have been fixed, there is nothing that anyone could do differently. This would have happened, sooner or later and exactly this way. Take care of yourselves. Goodbye.”

9:29 am

Dad has stopped reading, I am not sure when he did. I had stopped listening to him some time back. I am trying to now figure out how long before I stop existing. This is what I had wanted to feel. I try to look at my fingers, I can’t. I am unable to move my body. I am not even in it anymore. Without the act of turning my head I can see my mom sobbing, half-spent, my father down on his knees behind her, my grotesque remains still hanging from the fan, my exam time table pinned on my almirah behind me. I can see it all, yet I am unable to move my head, to lift my hand. I think I don’t have either anymore. I can still feel the urge there, just not the response. I look at the mirror, I don’t see me. I feel panic gripping what was earlier my heart. This can’t be futile. I have no voice, no flesh, yet I feel the urge to scream. It is like one of those states I read about. Sleep paralysis. Is this it? But, I am not asleep. I am dead. This is not a dream. The silent sobs, the deafening silence, they both are real.

11:11 am

I am not moving. I am not going anywhere. How can I when I am not anywhere? Yet, the sobs have become distant. The wails are but an echo, an empty call from far away. I can see the frantic calls by Mom and Dad somewhere far away, still in my room, yet very far away. They seem blurred, as if they are fading away. Or maybe I am. Yet it is they who are blurred, the ache in my unresponsive muscles is still piercingly clear. Muscles? Where? I see no skin, no bones and no muscles. I can feel something else, a gnawing emptiness. As if my innards are shrinking, this is a familiar feeling. I have felt this before. Hunger? This is wrong. I am not there anymore. A dead body cannot feel the need to scream, the urge to move, the pangs of hunger? But, I am not a dead body, am I? The blurring has stopped, so has the sight. It is not that I do not see, there is nothing around me. It isn't black, it isn't white. It is simply nothing. I cannot say what it is, simply because none of the languages I know have a word for it, none that I can think of. Think? I am thinking. I am thinking what went wrong. I am thinking if this will end. I wanted an end. That is all I had ever wanted. That is all I had existed for. Now, I exist without reason. Now, I exist beyond reason. The gnawing grows, the urges pain, I cannot bear it anymore. I cannot scream, I cannot eat, I cannot run, I cannot stop being. Dead, but more alive than I ever have been. I can only feel. This must be a nightmare. This must be one. I need to wake up. I need this to end. This cannot be. I cannot be. I cannot be… I cannot… I can… I…

I. I still am. I don’t know the time. I don’t know where I am. I don’t see. I don’t move. I don’t. Is this how it is? Is this what happens when Death does not take you after you leave Life. Is it because my time hadn't come? Will this stop when it does? Is this some sort of limbo, before rebirth? Is this some wait, for Death to accept me? Is this Hell?  Will this stop when I am buried? Will my funeral end it? Will it end? Will I know?

I can feel the claws of realization grip my being, I can sense the silence scream the answer at me. I can feel the nothingness take over the emptiness around me, inside me. “I know now, hence I am. When I will not be, I will not know.”