I can't believe things have come to a point where I want to look the world in the eye and say, Fuck you.

Another blank sheet of paper. Another night filled with black stars that refuse to twinkle. Refrigerated stars. Or maybe I’m the one who’s frozen.

Another pen that pours out its ink generously. But I’m not satisfied. I’m never satisfied.

Three hours to morning. Three hours of half sleep. Of pale fantasies and real nightmares. Only three more hours for the light that doesn’t shine. You know I’m scared of the sun. But I want the clock to tick. I want to feel my heart flutter more pathetically with each passing second. Stories can’t stop. At least, not mine.

Hopeful even in the wintry grasp of the dark forest, Princess Natasha guided her way through the thick foliage with the feeble glow of a taper. Unfortunately, her hope lasted only till the tallow burnt out. With swollen feet and a very, very bruised heart, she settled down under a tree, one lock of her ginger hair lightly brushing a single tear. He hadn’t come for her. The traitor…the beast! He had led her straight into a deathtrap.

But he wasn’t going to get away with it. She wasn’t going to die alone.

Her lips, now a stony hue of blue, stretched like a thin line and her eyes emptied out the affection in her heart. She fished out a neat piece of parchment from under the folds of her dress.

Now if only she could find her quill…

You know how much I love stories, don’t you? I’m never interested in people. I’m interested in their stories. Not about how they had picnics under the amber glow of the moon, or how they met their first love under a willow tree. They’re not real. They’re concoctions, obviously. Lives aren’t supposed to be that perfect. I want to know more. About what scares them, and who they’d die for, and how they got those horrible-looking scars…

But I was interested in you. So much that I wanted to write your story. Our story. You made me want to write a cheesy, fluffy fairytale! I could hardly believe myself.

I’m still laughing, you know.

Princess Natasha knew for a fact that she was beautiful, and that one glance from her was enough to reduce anyone to ashes. But now it looked like she had landed in some kind of alternate universe. Her eyelashes were fluttering by themselves, like the broken wings of a butterfly, and her hair was blazing like untamed fire- the same hue as her cheeks…

All because the cloaked stranger (was he a prince?) in front of her had smiled. He was asking her something. But she couldn’t hear, she couldn’t concentrate. The sound of the raindrops was deafening. She tried saying something.

For once, she found that she couldn’t.

Fairytales scald me now. They taunt me first, and then they strike, like long- tongued serpents. It’s all very thrilling, of course.

Princess Natasha was going to elope with the cloaked stranger. Of course, she would miss the luxuries of her palace, her velvet bedspread, her silk curtains, her diamond jewellery and her satin dresses. But she was running away with the cloaked stranger! He meant more to her than anything her ridiculously opulent home could possibly offer. Finally, her wildest dreams were going to come true. Princess Natasha’s heart sighed contentedly.

You know I followed you that day, don’t you? I made it pretty obvious. I didn’t lurk in any shadows, or hide behind corners. And I wasn’t quiet at all. But how would you have heard me? You were deafened by the shadows of disdain. After a while, chasing your empty footsteps got a little annoying. And when I finally saw you with her, I knew that our story had deviated very awkwardly. A good story never does that. (I’m a writer, I should know). So I had to get it back on the right track. Who decides which track is right, you ask? I’m the writer. I know.

The Princess was in great distress. She had walked and walked under the dying azure moonlight in her tattered dress, her face boiling with perspiration. The dark forest was known to be the home of many wild beasts. She had been fooled royally. She knew she didn’t have much time. She had to finish the letter somehow. Why did her quill have to break now?

So now we are in this dark room, just you and me. The protagonist and the writer. I can see the amber moon glowing from this broken window. Do you see it? I hear the wind whispering something to the willow tree. Do you hear it? Maybe it’s telling our story. I’m such a fanciful creature! Sigh. I know you want to nod and smile knowingly. I wish the candle was brighter. I want to see the face of my hero clearly, before they come and separate us forever. I made you glorious. I wish you would thank me. Your silence is irritating me now. But I can’t change the ending now, can I? My fairytales don’t have sequels, especially when the ending is as happy as this.

To Megh

glitter-graphics.com

Rise/Aurora

Ashes of the night
Thaw into immortal gold,
A phoenix reborn.

Transformers

Now absence of a solid storyline is something that’s universally accepted. You just throw in a few hot actors (regardless of whether they can act or not), some really good special effects (yay computers!), a bit of (I don’t know what adjective to use here) dialogue, and you have a movie!

The movie version of Transformers disappoints.

I used to love the cartoon. After Power Zone, it was the best thing that could have happened to Cartoon Network as far as the action scene was concerned. The movie, on the other hand, is a video game. It’s driven by mindless action sequences. And you’re not even participating.

The hero, a high school kid, is as awkward as you can get. The transformers do nothing much. Even though they are kind of, the focus. (The actual focus is Megan Fox). The machines lack the humanlike qualities that came naturally in the cartoon. Any appeal to emotion seems like a reluctant effort.

It’s okay to use the archetype of good vs. evil, again. If only the movie showed that in a more convincing light.

The best thing about it is the DVD cover. Trust me, it’s very cool.

Unpainted rainbows hang
From transparent skies
Waiting to be washed away
By the final cupful of salty tears

Disclosure

I think, I dream, I doodle, I make little paper sailboats and drown them. But most of all, I plan. And I plan extensively. It’s as easy as blowing bubbles- building those elaborate (and not so elaborate) castles in the air. I think sandcastles are flimsier than my air castles.

These days, I often think of walking out. Not in the middle of college, but after I’m confident that I can survive somewhere without help. (You see, it turns out that I’m not suicidal, after all). I think of severing each tie that I’ve made over the years with a fine pair of scissors and walking out. On all of them. Leaving behind all the relationships that I treasure and hate with equal intensity. And running till I’m out of breath. Running till I’m far, far away. Running till I cease to recognize anything. You see, I really want to run away from myself. But since that’s not possible, I want to run away from everything that knows me as Me. I don’t think of starting anew or afresh. Not because it sounds terribly clichéd, but because it’s impossible. I can’t be re-born. I am unfortunately, not a phoenix in scarlet-and-gold glory.

I think of changing my name. And with it, everything. I think of being assertive to the point of aggression. I think of possessing an iron will. I think of driving a car confidently. I think of finally being happy about dying an old maid.

I think of being a pillar of physical and mental strength, not a nervous wreck of a worm. I will wipe out every trace of the life I Had. Except for a few punctuations- occasional phone calls to my parents.

My parents. That always brings me back. They would be shattered.

I can’t change here. The mould that I’m in is so tight I can hardly breathe.

Each day, I get a little more uncomfortable in my skin. It seems that I spend most of my time reconciling. With the colour of my skin, with my deformed toe (right foot), with the white spots on my nails, with my tiny eyes and my big nose and my dry lips…

Small things. But they have big implications.

And then there are even bigger things.

My inability to talk, to hold a conversation, to dance, to socialize, to be smart…

Reconcile, reconcile.

With my inability to write.

With the mediocrity of what I do write.

With my lack of aptitude for anything.

Do I have a way with words? Even if I do, what can I do with it?

And would what I can do interest me? Am I capable of being interested?

Do I understand anything at all?

Questions kill me softly.

As do people. They hold up mirrors, when they pass me and I flinch at my reflection. I don’t know me. I only know my reflection, what they show me, what they think of me. And I don’t like what they think of me. I don’t like me.

Beautiful strangers shower me with compliments and I devour those words greedily, eager for anything that establishes me as more than a shadow. More than a sidekick. More than a pale, frail silhouette on the periphery of the world. More than a parasite.

Do those words really mean anything? I wonder later. I’m incapable of judgment.

I’m not underestimating myself. It’s completely the wrong word to use in this context. I’m revealing my soul- this tiny, scared thing, great in its ambition to become something else. Become Something.

Will you laugh when you read this? Think I’m a depressive personality who needs help? Will you brush this off as a mad, incoherent and melodramatic ramble of an attention-seeking maniac? Or will you not know what to say?

Your opinion, for once, does not matter.

discontent

chocolate clouds melt,
a hungry earth wants more from
an exhausted sky

History

"All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman. ... What else is woman but a foe to friendship, an unescapable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, domestic danger, a delectable detriment, an evil nature, painted with fair colours. ... Women are by nature instruments of Satan -- they are by nature carnal, a structural defect rooted in the original creation."

-Malleus maleficarum (The Hammer of Witches), published by Catholic inquisition authorities in 1485-86.

For more of such interesting insights, do check-
Witch-hunts

Change

Ideally, nothing about my college should surprise (a mild word to use in this context, by the way) me now. I've spent two very, very long years here. So all my expressions of disgust should have been expressed thoroughly by now. My marvelling at the various indiscretions of the blessed (I'm tempted to add a St. here) Management should have ceased by now. And that goes for the whining, scowling, sulking and other such mature forms of protest as well.

I'm incapable of getting used to anything I don't like. *shrugs*

It is a common belief that Christ College frowns upon change very heavily. The management is apparently very serious about providing 'a nurturing ground for the individual's holistic development to make effective contribution to the society in a dynamic environment'. (Let us take a moment here to appreciate the eloquence of the particular statement). And this can only be achieved if it rigidly clings on to the various rules and regulations (let's call them guidelines) that are essential for well...the individual's holistic development to make effective contribution to the society in a dynamic environment.

That's just what people believe, of course. In reality, the college welcomes change with open arms.
Only two months back, they used to permit the students to wear Jeans. Oh yes, shocking, isn't it? I can see you exchange scandalized glances. They actually allowed students to enter the temple of learning in such provocative clothes?
Yes, I'm afraid they did. *bows head*

But not to worry, the Management realized its mistake in due time, and made amends. They banned er...That Which Must Not Be Named from this year onwards.

But our Culture was still in danger from the Devious and Disgraceful Denim Brigade. The infamous gang found other ways to penetrate and damage the sanctity of our college.
Denim jackets! Worn cunningly over salwar suits (with dupatta).
But of course, our resourceful Management came to the rescue yet again.
Guards were appointed to stand well...guard, night and day outside the college gates. They have eyes as powerful as metal detectors and noses as nosey as whatever (qualifications necessary for sniffing out Denim).

Thus, our dignity was preserved! Our culture was saved! Yay!

No doubt, next week we'll find even the stray cat who likes to hang out at the campus food court meowing angrily at the sight of anything that threatens to scratch the sacredness of our Culture.

Even the cat will develop a sense of decency and morality.