I was buying books for my friends, when I saw something beautiful: it was thick and hardbound, a Khakhi green on the outside, brilliant beige marked with finger stains on the inside.
It initiated a conversation.
It initiated a conversation the way you had: abruptly, asking me if my blog was indeed mine, and then skipping to Star Wars references and morbid art.
And then it did what you did.
It made me like it. I liked it; I liked how green it was and I liked to feel its cover, I liked its smell-softly touching the tip of my nose to its bottom margins, trying not to get a paper cut; I liked the idea of reading it lying on my warm bed, under the fairy lights, straining my eyes only to feel like a movie star.
I liked it. I bought it.
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‘Fermat’s Last Theorem’ it read. It wasn’t hard bound , but it certainly was thick and covered in a color even more appealing than Khakhi Green: pale pink with the title in cursive- the kind Korean romantics read at midnight.
I was buying books for my friends when I awkwardly brushed against it, spilling over the rack and creating a scene as vivid as I usually do when I brush against your shenanigans post 12:oo am.
‘You must be one awkward motherfucker’
‘Sorry?’
‘How could you just trip over nothing? You’re more stupid than you look.’
‘Erm…just because you’re a Science book, please don’t act like you’re the smartest fucking thing in this fucking store…’
‘Wait.’
‘There’s always Sartre and Camus and …’
‘You’re deviating, you stupid cunt’
‘You remind me of this virtual frie uhhhh person you know… I have…this person that I..well’
‘Strangers; The kind who only talk to each other about things they can’t possibly share with their ‘real friends’ huh?!’
I liked it. I bought it.
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I carry them around each day, one tucked to my chest while I walk around, the other in my head. I carry them and I caress them when I feel lonely, gently running my fingers over the covers, possessing them as if they were my only memory of you. I carry them and I think of them whenever I miss talking to you; I carry them just the way a little orphan carries his pup. I carry them just the way a young adult carries his solitude. Just the way a middle aged women carries her menopause. Just the way I carry you.
Conveniently and lightly, as if we were meant for each other. As if it was all bound to happen. A delightful consequence of the alignment of the drugged stars. A creationist romance.
I carry them around, hoping, one day, you’d have the courage to receive a parcel from me; I carry them around, hoping, one day, I’d have the courage to give them away.
How does this work, I ask myself
I’m a type A
and I’m a type nothing
I’ve spent days overnalysing a rather worthless conversation I once had with someone unimportant
but I’ve gotten haircuts and thrown myself at speeding cars impulsively
I’ve inked an envelope on my wrist to show my eternal passion for letters
but I prefer talking over the phone
it makes me feel closer to my favourites- hearing their voice, knowing it’s in real time
I am a sucker for balloons and bubbles and cupcakes with sprinkles
crayons in solid colors and clothes from the toddlers section in a retail store
I hate being called ‘cute’ or ‘adorable’
it makes me feel like a stuffed toy which will never be loved enough
I want to be loved
ofcourse I want that
but I need my nights to myself
I want to hold my partners’ hands and roam around in dilapidated cottages,
charting out a future together
but I can’t let them tell me they love me, no they can’t they just shouldn’t
lies hurt me the most
Food, my thoughts are obsessed with food
cheese bacon
fries
thin crust pizza
cheese more
cheese
chocolate at nights
fried chicken
biryanis and kebabs with my best friend
banana milkshake after a good jog
cheese so much of it
all kinds of it
cheddar
mozzarella
blue something
all kinds of it god damn it
‘You’re Bulimic’ the report says
How does this work, I think to myself
underweight
malnourished
how does this work idiot!
Never watched a movie which doesn’t talk of compassion
never read a book that doesn’t involve people madly in love
never heard a non sappy song
a happy song
never written anything beyond romance
yet I forget to emote
people call me cold
‘brat’
‘asshole’
‘you’re so selfish!’
‘Do you ever think of anyone except for yourself?!’
how does this work
I ask myself
everytime
I’m tired of my company, searching for friends in dogs and birds and blades of grass
how does this work
why can’t I fucking emote?
Where do my feeling run off to, when I need them the most
where do they hide
Under my bed?
oh yeah
that’s right
all monsters hide there anyway
I’m an anarchist, maybe slightly leftist
yet I loathe violence
feminism- castrate the bastard!
don’t hang him though
each life matters and people can be changed
But I sit on social networking sites and gloat over morbid posts;
death
gore
horror
blood
they make me eccentric, wanting more
an addiction that can only be treated with the empathy inside of me
so who am I?
does it matter
I scribble on my notebook
but that’s all I can think about
this first world crisis I have
the cloth- if its anything but cotton- itches my skin when I don it
I dream of living in a village, defecating in the open, walking kilometers to fetch water
it’s rightist
ofcourse- this cultural patriotism
how does this work
then
There are months when I’m my productive most
I hold rallies and gigs
talk to strangers as if I own the world
then there are months
when I can’t even pull myself up to take a dump
I stare at my feet while walking to avoid eye contact with passersby
sleep under my bed along with the others
to feel more secure
how does this work
god damn it!
how does this work
and everytime I think this to myself, something crawls over to my ear and whispers
‘maybe it doesn’t…
it doesn’t work this way, but you do. You work like this, this is who you are.
Deal with it. Don’t think too much.’
And I sit down and stack my cupboard: freshly pressed on the left, all others on the right; content with my version of reality.
Red Fish: I’m a tiny child from a tiny village in Madhya Pradesh; my village is typically colorful and playful. My house, though, is blue. Because my dad likes blue.
He also likes corn. He’s taught me how to harvest corn.
You see all these corn cobs beneath my feet, well, I helped my dad with growing them, you know. They’re mine!
And yes, this swing here, this is where my five siblings and I sleep. This is our place.
Little days:
I’ve not known what ‘childhood’ is, and that’s okay.
I get to take care of my little sister here so I won’t crib.
But whenever I look at those kids in their chaddis playing in the sand outside, something in me slides way beneath its position. I feel a weird tingling sensation inside, as if I am being coaxed by the universe to abandon my responsibilities and take up that identity.
I, obviously, can’t.
Won’t.
I’m happy being with my sister, feeding her, changing her clothes, and standing here at the window- looking at the lovely world out there. I’m happy where I am.
Uptown Elegance:
These fairy lights, flickering as if lit by a fire as cold as my heart, are all I have to call my own.
They’re my rooftop, my blanket, my floor; they’re the only support system I have.
I look at them- sleepy eyed- most midnights, and wish upon them for a love so strong, it’ll flip this fire upside down.
Fill my lungs with the giddy passion I had as a teenager, empty my head of logic, overwhelm my thoughts, bleed me to death.
These fairly lights, with a name so comforting, remind me of my fairy godmother; my mom always told me while she was in the hospital, that she would turn into my fairy god mother and stay with me till my end.
Alas, I grew up.
But these fairy lights- with their elegance and sass- are the only reminder of any love I’ve ever had.
Stoney Billy:
Hey Ya’ll, I almost read this as Stoned Billy; hi my name is Billy. But I’m not as stoned right now as I usually am.
Oh the radio? well the radio is my heart you see. Everytime I fall in love, my heart skips a beat and the frequency changes. Yeah I know I’m a shitty artist but god, I have to emote!
I don’t know about you guys but I can’t live without a little drama.
Oh, and I’m old school too; so if you ever want to tell me anything important, just make a mixtape or a radio recording of it, and I’ll share my weed with you.
Folktale:
Once upon a time, there was a village near Kanhan- oh Kanhan is where that tiny boy is from!
This village was known for ghosts and oddly, for the purest air in India; they said that the oxygen content in that village was so high, people often described it as ‘paradise’.
Sadly, nobody lives there anymore.
The village’s residents have all died, lying unburied, turning into ghosts each day.
Except for a broken board near the narrow gauge track, nothing suggests of this village’s existence.
My maid tells me this is just a folktale, but for a person who loves scary movies, I wouldn’t want to agree with her.
Home made apple: Best friend: Look up look up! Isn’t this a wonderful feeling? I love looking up, at trees. At such a blue sky. It’s so soothing: just the head tilting, the blood rushing abnormally. I: yeah, I feel like I’m on a beach, even though this is a public garden. Best friend: Let’s go to a fucking beach then! I: Let’ go!
Best friend: so yeah, before that, which movie do you want to watch right now?! And what do you want to eat? I’m really hungry!
Znikomit: This is our hideout. Our getaway.
This is ours.
No, this is of no religious importance to us.
She’s a Hindu and I’m agnostic.
We’ve sat on its stairs, at 3:00 in the noon, and discussed the most dramatic life events.
We almost got raped the first time we visited this place, but obviously, she has a little too much faith in humanity; she just won’t agree on the intentions of the man who led us into the tiny room on top of the church.
Who leads you in and closes the door behind you huh?
We almost got raped, believe me.
The steps to the room were dwindling, circling the huge bell hanging at the centre.
The only other company we had, was of the pigeons and our hysterical breath.
This is out hideout. Our getaway. This is where most of it began.
Note: All the utilized typefaces have been downloaded from this brilliant site called ‘101 free fonts’. All pictures are (sadly) mine; Stories, mine. Each photo, typeface and story/anecdote has been integrated in a way that- together- they convey a sense of wholeness to you- developing each story into a character if its own.
This is just an experiment. More to be created soon.
His mannerisms-fuck, his mannerisms matched yours so impeccably, it was nothing short of tragic poetry.
The way he stared
my eyes could not keep off his face
You were there- throughout.
There- waiting desperately for me to treat you like a fading silver lining
Endings are never fun
but we never ended, you had reassured
we were beginning
beginning to understand each other’s presence
and you were there
There- pulling away the only index finger I had ever held onto
“Mom, when will dad come back?” I was made to ask
and you were there- throughout.
There- chalking out another demise.
I’ve never seen so many cats out on the streets, earlier. This city is quirky in almost every possible way.
He took his hand, lifted it gently to face the blasting sun, and smiled.
It’s because of all the pigeons up there.
The pigeons?
His brow squished. Interesting.
Everybody wants a piece of the other here; not that they’re competitive; they just seem to like to be made up of everybody around them. It’s like fixing a puzzle- but only with the missing pieces.
Okay, but how is it related to cats and pigeons?
Do the cats want to be made up of the pigeons?
Ofcourse.
We are what we eat, aren’t we?
He chuckled under his breath- which smelled of tobacco-and softly added a ‘Ryan’ immediately.
That’s not my name, he smiled.
I know.
The vintage Zoroastrian temple, the bougainvilleas, and the Best buses around only seemed to dramatize their romance.
He took Ryan’s hand into his and slowly kissed the back of it.
Ryan stood still, just as he had done last weekend. Last month.
The last time he had gone out with a man.
You know, your palms are too warm for me. I think I like them.
Ryan stood still, just as he had done last weekend. Last night.
The last time he had fallen in love with a stranger.
They don’t smell of nicotine, unlike my earlier lovers, and they don’t have paint stains either.
It’s like the universe is telling me to change my type.
He chuckled a little harder this time- now his breath stale with the smell, and Ryan collapsed.
He could no more simply stand an audience to this summer tragedy; he had to give in.
He had to accept his destiny. He had to accept.
But sadly, being the awkward little boy that he was- when do I see you next? – is all he managed to blurt out immediately.
He wasn’t supposed to come across this interested, his friends had taught him.
He wasn’t supposed to be pushy. Interested. In love.
But being the awkward little boy that Ryan- his Ryan- was, Ryan goofed up like shaggy in the park.
Next? You know I don’t deal with ‘nexts’, right?
Ryan’s face had fallen, any third party could make out, but he had to act casual. Ofcourse.
His hesitated ‘so um’ that followed melted midway and Ryan was left staring at Vignesh’s dirty non moisturized feet, which then had a sly cat snaking its way through.
You should clean your feet atleast once a year, I guess.
Why do external features bother you so much?
I’m sure your feet felt like sand-scrub to the cat.
I’m sure it doesn’t care as much about it as you- he looked at Ryan for a few seconds with mischief in his Kohl’d eyes- do.
They both shared a moment and the cat stood still, between the two of them, just like the cemented wall Vignesh had built around his heart long back.
The wall that never let Ryans inside, the wall that cracked at its edges each time a Ryan had tried to pass through, the wall that Ryan had help build.
That wall. That Ryan.
You don’t need to do this, you know.
I’m okay on my own and anyway, we won’t be seeing each other ever in the future, so there’s no politeness involved.
I like introducing my girlfriend to strangers.
Ryan-his Ryan- being the awkward little boy that he was, had his heart skip a few beats off its space at the sound of ‘girlfriend’. His pulse went up like firecrackers on acid and seconds passed in dark silence.
Bombay is my girlfriend, Vignesh continued. I love her like I’ve loved no one yet.
He smirked and added- I feel like a dominant partner when I’m with her. The reacher.
Ryan’s beats came back to normalcy, but not his thoughts; the jar heating up a bit.
The cat was now purring around Vignesh’s dirty non moisturized feet, trying to settle herself for a little nap some place cold.
Up there, two pigeons kissed and Ryan could see Vignesh giggle and wrinkle his nose like a baby tasting lime for the first time.
Look at those lovebirds.
He pointed to the pigeons
and look at her here. All alone, finding comfort in a stranger.
This is Bombay, kid. This is Bombay for you. Ryan stood still.
I want to be that pigeon.
Most people do, it’s not surprising.
What about you? I? Vignesh’s lips slid into a crooked smile.
I like strangers.
You try too hard, you know. Cut yourself some slack and deal with your emotions.
I am dealing with them, asshole.
Why else do you think I initiated our conversation? Why else do you think I asked you out, eh?
I don’t know. You’re the one who likes strangers.
I get it. You have never earlier met a runner, have you?
You think I’ve got issues and this is my getaway.
You’re my getaway; don’t you think that?
He paused for a short while, and complimented his dialogue with a nod of dejection.
Ryan, he continued.
I love you. I have loved a lot of people earlier, I fall easy, but it doesn’t mean that I love you any less.
I love you just as much as that pigeon loves his partner. You’re my pigeon.
So why can’t we meet again?
Because you’re going to be somebody else’s pigeon too someday, and I can’t handle all that.
You’ll find your love and you’ll fly away. You’ll be gone.
I’m okay with that, I have always been, but to actually find solace in that action, I need to be stronger than you.
I need to be able to purr my way through the crowd, starving to prey on a pigeon- the romantics.
And sadly, a pigeon can’t eat a pigeon.
So you can’t be with me just because we’re too alike and you’re scared that I might run away from you, is that what you’re saying?
Vignesh grabbed him by his elbows and sighed
Do you want to fuck a Lion later tonight, darling, because my stomach is growling!
It’s not funny.
You’re not funny.
The cat had long gone.
There was no trace of her left except for the stink on the ends of Vignesh’s rugged trousers: detachment.
Suddenly, to their disgust, and to Vignesh’s joy, a piece of half eaten bird- bloody, ofcourse, and the legs skinned – dropped down from the afternoon sky in the most unholy manner.
Bless you, Vignesh burst out laughing
Bless you
Bless you
Bless you Bless you Bless you
he kept repeating till his laughter eventually morphed into snorts and there was nothing but pure joy exuberating through the awkward little boy’s heart in the glass jar.
Bless you, Vignesh finally sobbed.
I love it when you laugh like that, like a maniac. It liberates me.
Nobody is liberated
Vignesh stated in the most nonchalant manner and looked at the eagle that had just passed over their heads.
I’d rather love an Eagle than a Pigeon
Do you know what ‘love’ means, Vignesh?
Do you?
The sun had gone down; the city was then being lit by traffic and hearts on fire.
Vignesh looked at Ryan- his Ryan- for one last time, as cheeky as it may sound, and smiled like the saddest person on earth: a little to the left, his eyes twinkling of regret, the hair on his forehead ruffled by the kiss.
See you
Vignesh sighed- the purest the most dense the most morbid kind- and walked away into the city lights. Just like that, instantly. Insensitively.
See you See you
See you see you see you
Meow
The cat was then back, with a polybag of broken pieces of glass.
I know you will not understand this, but I do. Don’t ask me why now.
uh-huh.
That day, when you were sitting in the corner and possibly sulking over life, I saw an aura around you.
It was a tragically magical purple.
It was a very strong aura, like you’ve always had it but hid it around commoners like me.
It was so magical; I couldn’t stop staring at it.
uh-huh.
And when you looked up and caught me staring, I know you thought I was staring at your face, but I wasn’t.
I was caught up in your aura. It kept calling out to mine. I didn’t know how to react, so I let go of myself.
I fell in love. I love you.
Okay.
You love my aura.
No!
No?
I love you because your aura showed me parts of you that you wouldn’t usually talk about.
It showed me how your heart got hurt the first time. It showed how you lost your dog to a freak accident. It showed that you pick your nose very often. It showed that you get aroused by the smell of alcohol. It showed that you were bullied as a child but you never let it get to you. It showed that you’ve never masturbated in your life till now.
It showed me parts of you that you had comfortably hidden under that quirky self of yours.
And I fell in love with you, instantly. I felt like I was a bystander of those moments. It felt like I was journeying with you but I wasn’t there, not besides you, not even as a third party, but I was with you. I couldn’t help it.
I can see everybody’s auras; go on trips through their minds. Souls. Hearts. Memories.
And I don’t fall in love with everyone who shares my sob story. Love is a choice, not a momentary act of defiance of logic.
Love has nothing to do with logic.
You’re a romantic.
There’s nothing wrong in that. But my point is, I love you.
Is there anything we can do about it?
Yes.
What?
Forget it.
I don’t get you! Why do you do this to yourself over and over again? Why can’t you stop being a dick for once in your life? Why do you have to be so stuck up?
My aura didn’t tell you shit, because if it had, you wouldn’t be standing here saying those things.
I know what happened.
What?
I know why you do this.
Your aura is helping me understand. It is showing me things. Right now.
I can see you standing. You’re in a spacious room. The room looks distorted. Your face. I can see your face. The room is spinning. I can see your face, again. It looks
Is there a way you can stop this?
You don’t want your aura to speak to me?
You bet.
I don’t know how to stop this. I am looking at you, and all I can see is your aura.
It’s engulfing me. I don’t know how to stop this. I am trying, I swear.
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I don’t understand this.
We’ve been taught too well to stereotype. Our stories come from the movies. The drama, the shit. We have been caged for too long to accept reality.
So you’re saying
Yes.
But I’ve never come across anyone like you.
Because we like to attribute. Make connections. Join the dots. Create symmetry. Life.
You’re very intense. It’s getting hard to communicate with you.
You bet.
You need to stop saying that.
I have so much love in my life, it’s making me crazy. Sad. Guilty. That’s about it.
Um
No, I was not molested as a child. I may have been bullied but that’s not the point. My heart broke for the first time when I was 16, yes, but it was over a stupid guy. That’s not even worth being the reason why I push people away.
Are you getting this?
I am trying.
See, we’ve been conditioned too strongly already. You will not accept anything I am saying until you can make sense of it and you can only make sense of it when you can relate it to pop culture and pop culture sucks balls. We think we can relate to so many people, their auras, but that’s not required.
You’re sad, you must be lonely. You’re happy, you must be well fed. You don’t believe in love, you must be coming from a broken family or have had a broken heart at a young age, or blah blah. You’re sunshine out of the ass, you must be struggling with life everyday but put up that smile just to make others happy.
This doesn’t make sense to me.
I am happy. I’m sad. I’m lost. I’m suicidal.
Stop reasoning this accordingly to the stories you’ve been force fed.
Do you want a hug? You’re running out of breath.
I want to get out. Fucking get out of here!
I can help you with that. Come with me.
I am not travelling through your aura just to feel better. WORSE. I don’t know. You’re not getting me.
You’re not making sense to me either. Just come with me, and I will leave you alone after that.
I will never remind you how much I love you. Trust me. Just give me this one chance.
You’ll regret.
I regretted the first time I went through your aura.
You bet.
You need to stop saying that I swear to god I’ll
Why are you laughing?
You look frustrated.
Come with me.
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It was so psychedelic.
You bet
hahaha, now you’re getting comfortable
I have always been comfortable with you. I don’t know why, but as a stranger too, you’ve always made me comfortable.
I am a stranger to you?
You bet.
Okay, you’re stopping this. I’m serious.
Yes. You’ve always been a stranger to me. Even when I kissed you for the first time, I knew I was kissing a stranger but it was very comforting. That thought. When you told me that you’ve never liked sappy movies, I knew I was talking to a stranger. I just knew it. But I went ahead and bought you some CDs anyway. And you watched. That’s what stranger do. Be nice to each other because they know it’s temporary and they’ll both go their ways soon enough.
When I told you about my girlfriend, I knew I was confessing to a stranger because I remember you getting pissed and shit and only strangers have the liberty to get angry at each other. And it was comforting.
Thanks.
For what?
For letting me into your aura, voluntarily. This is my first.
I am in love with you; this is the least I can do.
Don’t try to fix me. I’m not broken.
I know. That is exactly why I love you.
You don’t want someone who you can relate to? Someone who lost her parents at a young age, and still believes in love? You don’t want someone who loves you back?
No. I want you.
Why?
I will tell you that the day I’m out of the cage.
I love you.
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Contemporarycrap 
