Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Monday, September 30, 2013
Handpicked out of numerous specimens, experimented, being synchronised in every octave, molten self being poured into umpteen moulds, each as juvenile as melancholy, surreptitiously scripting the most jocular twists, my life, my relevance, is of a guinea pig, and they my Gods are satanic!!
1. rodent a little larger than a rat
He asked himself another time, just to make sure. And all he got was precisely the same response, the same cluster of thoughts echoing in his mind yet again, hurting his body like fetters, or so he felt. Without any further considerations, he fastened the knot. He had carefully selected the particular kind from a huge bunch of ropes, all sizes and colors. "Death", he had thought, "seems way more colourful than life", musing within himself about his sense of humor. He had always possessed the darkest of humors and more significantly, been proud of it too. Though his being in serious troubles many a times because of it was a different story altogether.
He was almost laughing, in his usual satirical tones, thinking about what people perceive the supposedly best institutions to be, and what they turn up to be like, for entities like him who become a part of them, when someone knocked. "Atleast let me die in peace", he blabbered, followed by the trademark curse or two. He hid the rope and the box of sweets his mother had sent, in quick succession, and thus pulled the creaky door open.
"You know I wasn't always like that", he remembered telling his friends the day before, after one commented about the dense air of pessimism that had been surrounding him lately. A week into the trauma, he was quite used to people asking it by then. Also, he himself couldn't agree less. "If it wasn't for that goddamn day", he thought once again. It was the 15th of November, he remembered precisely, "Another day in the life of another being, but for some, no less than decider of their fate, the destiny writer", he mused again. This poetic tinge was another possession which used to fill him with pride. He tried to visualize how many people would have had their life changed as dramatically as his did on that particular day, but hurriedly discarded the thought.
Over these days, another strikingly important thing he had been doing was reading, reading his own compositions, both in verse and prose. Writing was one thing that used to give him infinite pleasure, and he wasn't bad at all. Infact he was a delightful writer and quite a number admitted it. He realized it had been quite some time he had written anything. "There wasn't anything significant to write about as such", popped the afterthought. Next moment, he found himself with his diary, though he took quite some time to find a pen, he never had one you see. The last time he had bought one was when he had joined the campus, he remembered, quite happy about that fact. He wanted to write about his every 'goddamn' moment in the 'goddamn' institute, how his life had changed, or in his words, "turned upside down". The thought that "he was a part of a huge experiment, and everything in the universe was busy conspiring against him" had been haunting his mind for quite a while then. He visualized a cluster of men in white coats (quite funnily, one of the faces he clearly saw was the professor who had failed him), holding test-tubes with colourful chemicals in them, experimenting over lifeless rodents in a glass jar showing rare signs of life only when their artificial habitat was moved. He looked carefully and found himself in another of those neatly labeled jars, with his name and enrolment number printed over it. The enrolment number, his identity in the campus, reminded him he was just another one of the lot, everytime he saw it written. And so he scribbled:
"Handpicked out of numerous specimens, experimented, being synchronized in every octave, molten self being poured into many moulds, each as juvenile as melancholy, surreptitiously, scripting the most jocular twists, my life, my relevance, is of a guinea pig, and they, my Gods, it seems are satanic!"
He then read it over and over, adoring his beautiful handwriting (another asset he was proud of, wrongly this time), pondering endlessly over every word, wondering when he turned into such a pessimist, awestruck how he could be something he used to advise others not to be, doubting the times he used to be labeled as an 'over-optimist'. The video of his friend telling him "We're all mere guinea pigs my dear" played in front of his closed eyelids not any less than a thousand times, as if a scratched compact disc in an antique disc player had got stuck in a loop.
"I am not as brave as those five. In fact, they weren't brave at all. It was mere cowardice, and they were senseless in committing such an act", he told himself, recalling excerpts from his article. "Or maybe I am just running away", he wasn't sure what was right, what he wanted. But now there was one thing he did not have any doubts about, that he needed to give it another thought. He left it for 'some time' and started thinking about the more important question at hand, what to wear for the party. After all, it was her.
A week since, a rope hangs outside room no.G-71, bearing the weight of not more than a wet towel and a pair of undergarments, definitely not 60-kg.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Monday, October 15, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Friday, April 29, 2011
Sometimes I am dead hope,
A million dreams which lay supine.
A kindergarteners humor,
Drifting aimlessly in time.
Sometimes I am existance,
Carry life afar,
Make way through the toughest instance,
And bloom into another flower.
Figuration of budding life
or pale death-
I wander with strife,
Either for fresh green birth,
Or for an angelic end.