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  • aheshu 5w


    What sounds do silent lips
    That cry make?
    Where do tears end up through
    Closed eyes?
    What suffocates a heartbeat
    When the heart feels full inside?

    What masks do people wear
    When life falls apart?
    What insane puppetry
    Forces smiles on a broken heart?

    How long does one gaze in the horizon
    Till two souls become one?
    How close do we have to be
    To feel time slow its run?

    How close do I have to hold you
    So you would not go away?
    To whom do I offer obeisance
    To get you to stay?

    The night's long
    My questions abound.
    Something breaks inside
    And there's nary a sound...


  • aheshu 5w


    Through frozen ravines
    A jungle of pines
    My heels crunch through snow
    The night's dark and my baggage heavy
    Was I going above or below?
    Above the realms of consciousness
    Transcending my limits
    Or plunging through soft snow
    Sinking, soaking through my feet?
    A light I held onto my chest
    Now shines feeble and slow
    An orb of memories fades within
    Seeping poison through the throat
    A silken shroud falls over the eyes
    Was I awake then or now?
    What do I make of this paradise
    Is it a glorified hell or a beautiful home?
    Why, the fields here are full of sunshine
    Bees and flowers and everything merry
    The earth is ripe and warm within
    Beds of poppies and drinks of sherry!
    I glance around and spread my hands wide
    Soak in the sun, feast my eyes
    A welcome relief from the snow and gravel
    A streak of sunlight in a blithe little hovel.

    Was I awake then or am I awake now?
    If it is a dream, hush! I mustn't know.
    For when I open my eyes
    The tempest shall still be there
    The snow shall still be pouring
    But right now, though
    I feel at home and beside a fire roaring.
    Don't wake me now.


  • aheshu 22w

    A Desert In Bloom

    Champa awoke to the low growls of something that could only be described as the pitiful lament of a woman in labor even as the ground beneath her bosom spasmed, breaking the nightly spell cast by a hungry stomach and moonless skies.

    With groggy eyes, Champa tried to make sense of the dust that she could taste on her furrowed lips.
    "Kaun hai waha!", she muttered, still half-asleep.
    The swirling vacuum in her ears slowly cleared to give way to the wails of humans and ambulances alike. Abrupt realisation dawning upon her, confusion rapidly replaced by fear, Champa clutched the ends of her tattered pallu and ran out.

    But run out where? She was already an outsider, wedged between the walls of a railway compound and the gutter beside it in her little tarpaulin shed. Neglected by parents, abandoned by husbands, shunned by society.

    Beneath her the Earth ached painfully with hunger as it opened its jaws and lapped up the nearest buildings it could find.

    Champa watched with pained malevolence at the ruins of a society that had termed her an outcast. Familiar dead eyes stared at her through the rubble. Lips that hurled abuses at her stayed shut tonight. Silently she walked past those outstretched hands for help, prying off their golden bangles and chains. A haughty smile played on her lips tonight.
    "Perhaps she too would have neighbors now?"

    The earth chomped on mercilessly. It's mouths operating in tandem, it's hunger evident by the rumbles of its belly.

    "Ae bhikari! Ae bhikari!"
    Even amidst the reining chaos the arrows found Champa, piercing the fragile facade of an illusory justice she had so carefully constructed. The facade cracked with a shrillness that resonated in the hollows of Champa's chest, the fragments embedding themselves in her fiery heart. And with a red hot rage surmounting the surreal picture around her, Champa scrounged for the source of that accusation.

    There, on the ground, crushed between stones, lay a woman with a tiny baby in her outstretched hands.
    "Mere bacche ko bachao! Mere bacche ko bachao! Hey bhagwan!"

    Mother nature paid no heed to her endearing. The rumbling didn't stop. The crumbling building didn't steady itself. Time didn't stand still. Desperate and ready to die the unthinkable happened. The mother flung the child towards Champa, even as another Mother set out to engulf it in its entirety. The child landed on the rubble-strewn footpath, a few metres from Champa's feet. A piercing cry tore through the skies. The prayer of a soul about to depart the earth.
    Tonight, with the shift in tectonic plates, something shifted in Champa's heart.

    Champa rushed to save the child even as the ground beneath her every step heaved with its might to throw her off balance. A sordid picture indeed, pallu in hand, a beggar on the streets participating in this grim dance of death and fate with reckless abandon. Champa picked up the child even as the rocks pummeled the mother like a clam being broken open.

    In the midst of chaos, in searing pain and palpable agony, stood Champa. Child in hand. Content with her fate as wet dirt made way past her throat and coaxed a cough out of her.

    The air resonated with the surreal notes of life and death that night.


  • aheshu 23w

    How freeing is it to realise that you're not the sum of your fantasies?

  • aheshu 25w


    Everyday routine suffers from the rot of forced immobility.

    The clock chimes ten times. He's late today. The usually punctual man I'm accustomed to (our newspaper vendor) is missing.

    A sordid breeze blows through the garden, dry and sickly. I gaze up towards the sun reproachfully, only to find it immersed in a cauldron of clouds who are weaving their dark magic in the skies. It's gonna be a dull day. The sweet smell of wild flowers mingles with the arid air, forcing a gag.

    A gaze further down the road and a feeling of dread washes over me. Lockdowns were supposed to be cool. What I feel in this moment however can only be described as a page from some post-apocalyptic novel, cemented land inhabited by humans being slowly reclaimed by nature. Locked doors everywhere, impassionate faces gazing out of barred windows - we've been reduced to a zoo of humans indulgent in their basest desires - hunger, thirst, sleep, mating. Only this time, the animals are more than willing to lock themselves up in their cages at the behest of a microscopic whip-master.

    My stream of thoughts regains some semblance of clarity, drifting back to the original person in question - our newspaper vaallah. Has he contacted the flu? Perhaps he got run over by some emergency vehicles? Perhaps the military found him loitering around and and whacked the lights out of him? The sordid breeze and dull weather seemingly does its trick. A perfectly fine morning changes into one of despair and a deep longing for human contact.

    I wave out to my caged neighbors. Even in these times of seemingly no return and hopelessness, it's a wonder how quickly people adapt to changes.
    One of them is a doctor, he's immune to the military and the flu apparently. 4 years of med school have started paying off their dividends. The other one gazes about fearfully, with the expressions of a deer caught in headlights. The poor fellow has had his bottom whipped when he was caught outside his house on a walk. Non-essential pestilence.
    The pehelwan that once strutted the streets with his chests out like a puffin, now hides behind his window screens inside.
    The uncle who was told he's essential for the company's survival guffaws through the pages of a comic book he's reading out loud for his son.
    The students who were told their grades will shape their futures are complacent with their present habitus.
    Religion, that blinded Mrs. Molo everyday of her miserable 50 years of existence, holds no sway over her newfound respect for fear.
    The Gods have changed. The congregation is dissolved. The atheist boasts of the absence of God, the theist searches for a firmness of meaning to grasp under the silhouette of chaos.
    Under painfully evident suffering, the only thing that seems happy to me is the ever-flourishing vegetation in my backyard. Slowly yet surely it has reclaimed its lands. A silent crusade against my claim to its Earth. And it is winning.

    My coffee's turned cold by the time I get back to it. The weather is still balmy, sickly, pervasive. The only thing that lifts my spirits in this bleak landscape is the welcome clutter of the papervallah's cycle.
    Thud! The paper's here! And like a chained dog with a chewtoy, I proceed to attack it with abandoned ferocity.


  • aheshu 25w

    Individuals vs Individuality

    I've spent 25 years on the face of this planet so far.
    25 long years. Today, I feel that the very act of writing my thoughts down is a rebellion of sorts.

    All through these years I've had people tell me, do the right thing, do the good thing. Be the best human you can be. What they didn't say openly - there'll be moments when you'll have to sacrifice some idea/emotion that you hold dear to you, for the sake of others, by the will of others.

    But what exactly does it mean to be human? At what point do we lose our individual human identity and dive into the deep sea that is humanity? At what point me, becomes we? And why exactly should I, a human, mould myself, nay force myself, to act/talk/walk in a particular way, for the betterment of humanity?

    Does it mean that the individual identity we're taught to seek out for, the stupid little phase of teenage that we go through, the explosion of thoughts that rambles through our minds each living second, all account to naught? At what point do I say, no, I don't want to do this, I would rather do this that way, I don't want to do something, without facing consequences for the same, because I choose to exercise my human nature rather than my humanity? If I tease out this thought a bit more, it implicates that my humanity is dependent on my individuality and vice versa. Simply put, I'm free to think, but not think out loud. I'm free to enact or maybe even react, but not act.

    Is this the bottomline? Is our definition of humanity warped? Perhaps it is all a battle of actions and consequences. Perhaps pure random chance. Perhaps there's nothing like an individual identity, just a carefully crafted delusion that we each submit ourselves to each waking moment of our lives, till it becomes engrained deep into our subconscious. Perhaps individuality is a concept that we've built, as a social animal, to reassure ourselves of a certain level of control we would like to have on our surroundings. Sadly, the more I ponder over it, the more I feel like a puppet to a more complex, interweaving design.

    Can this mould be broken? Perhaps. But in a risk/reward world, the very act of exercising your individuality may be termed tantamount to rebellion. And rebellion doesn't stand in a society built upon the illusion of control. It would falter even with support of like-minded individuals, like a plant with strong roots that still wilts under intense scrutiny of sunlight.

    Perhaps I'm thinking too much. Eh. I've got 30 years more to refine my views on this!


  • aheshu 25w

    Longing and belonging

    I check my phone for the n'th time. No new notifications.

    Something shifts inside me - something palpable - is this what it feels like to be anxious? Or am I just afraid? Have I been disconnected from this world for so long that it fails to recognise me any more? Innumerable questions cloud the brain, each wave coating my thoughts with an impenetrable urgency.
    I don't remember being this fretful for a long time now. Or was I always this fretful? It's hard to tell. The desire to excel in something, atleast one thing, bores through me, and like lasers focused over paper, burns me in its wake.

    How do people live their entire lives without excelling at something? How am I supposed to live my life without it? One thing is certain - I cannot imagine myself in such a life. A slave to the world, a vassal of its whims, nothing to add to, and nothing to subtract from. An impotent wrath sears through my brain, it's embers descend on my heart at a steady pace. Drip
    Sizzle. Drip. Sizzle.

    Stop!! I can't take it anymore.

    Is the desire for appreciation so based? Is selfless work even a possibility? Perhaps I could try that - selfless work, though I doubt I could carry on for long without a sliver of recognition. Human beings need appreciation, a few words of praise, some recognition right? If I'm a human and I am a part of the whole, who dares refute my claim for this innate desire to feel appreciated? How else would I know I'm a meaningful part of your society? How else would I shove coals of my dreams into the engines of your ambitions? How else do I burn clean?

    No new views. No new comments. No words of encouragement. None of critique. The agony in my heart finds solace in the pages of my diary. For now.


  • aheshu 25w

    The legend of a certain Mr. Tom

    Once upon a time
    On a land far far away
    Nestled by the shore
    Among pages of lore
    Lived the legend Ol Mr. Tom
    (of yore).

    Now, you see
    Ol' Tom was a fella
    Sweet in his manners
    Who smelt of salty sea
    (Dumb as dumb can be)
    And sat he by his tavern
    Selling pickled bubblegum & curried candy.

    Proudly he sat watching the world go by
    "Hah! I've mastered time!"
    He goaded little children
    Even as the elders sighed.
    But you just knew, from the twinkle in his eye
    Right oh he was right!!
    For a flourish of his hat
    And in eight hours 'twas night!!

    Ask the children (go on!)
    "The old man's a riot", they will say!
    And they'll show you the tracks
    Of a one-legged beast
    One moment standing tall,
    The other leaning on his cane.
    "A mighty gait that'll make you quake
    He leaves puddles in his wake!"

    Time dawdles on and night draws near
    The town gets all slumbery
    Even as dear Ol' Tom shuts his shop
    And quietly waddles down the street.
    Friendly smiles to one and all
    An outstretched thumb for the stranger,
    A cane for the kids -
    Until one gives him a lift -
    And down Mr. Tom plops
    Right at the town's lone barkeep!
    And at the barkeep he shouts
    "Aye lady! Do ye recognise me?"
    To which the bar lady sighs and says
    "Of course! Welcome your majesty!"

    And thus Ol' Tom gets drunk
    on everything there is -
    A potent little mixture of alcohol
    and equal parts mischief!
    The bar's a riot and tom's the man
    Drinks flow freely and he pisses in a can!!
    But alas! All good things halt to a grind
    Dawdling time catches up to his behind.

    "By golly!" He shouts
    "I'm well past my hours!"
    "Goodbye Mr Tom", the bar stutters
    And sways Ol' Tom on his way home
    Puddles all the way,
    A gentle dear soul.

    It's a cold cold night
    Even as Mr. Scythe awaits patiently
    At the forgotten street corner tonight
    Quite aware of Ol' Tom's plight.
    "80 odd years, oh how time flies!
    I've been putting off this day for so long
    I'm all out of alibis.
    Not anymore.." Mr. Scythe sighs.

    Tonight, cozy dreams await Ol' Tom
    Of an imaginary fire under starlit skies.
    No more of hard harsh pavements
    No more of life's gentle malice.
    And when the cap's laid to rest,
    When the coat hangs on the daffodils
    Mr.Tom clambers up his paved bed
    One last time
    And with the world, makes his peace..


  • aheshu 25w

    A rebellion of sorts

    If chaos is a ladder
    Everyday, I descend further into clarity
    The world doesn't want me as I am
    It wants the person I pretend to be.

    The masks that I threw down
    Catch up with me ever so often.
    Each one sticks to my face
    Just a bit more longer than the last.

    The fall is slow but steady.
    Bewildered looks from all that pass;
    Each seeks a truth of their choosing
    Each dreams of an altered past.

    And sure, I could fling myself down
    Faster, faster, faster
    past you all
    Till I'm labelled insane
    This slow descent so far
    Has been a ruse anyway.
    Everyday a slightly more naked attempt.
    Everyday, a bit more stark.

    The light at the end of the tunnel
    Is that my truth waiting for me?
    Or is it my baffled senses
    A mirage illusory?
    Perhaps I would know soon.
    Perhaps I would never know.
    But if descent is all I have
    What's the point of going slow?


  • aheshu 25w


    Come to me as you would
    In naked infancy
    Tonight, my flesh yearns for you
    The heart is fast asleep.
    Soak me through, if you could
    In your tempest turbulent
    Just a whisper here, a touch there
    Over to the promised land,
    Deliver me from good.
    Carve words with me
    Over silken fabric of silences
    Words that can be mouthed
    By only you and me.
    Till scrambling hands can't pull us apart
    Let all modicum of decorum be lost.
    Let the sheets be painted
    In colors of rabid profanity.
    In a silence punctuated by moans
    In a night ripe with harlotry
    Tear down your walls with me.
    Let's make a mess for all to see.