An Ounce of Jealousy

Venessa knotted her raven flowing straight hair. Indifferent; somewhat reluctant she was. Her vague thoughts blurted out the lack of enthuse; characteristics of a glum summer afternoon. The day was like an afterthought. A day, which should have been banished; just like her myriad drab thoughts. What is the need of summer? Why can’t spring carry on? The ones who are better suited always resign. The wicked ones persevere. The heavy door clanked, much to her surprise. A sodden voice as if carrying the essence of some distant vivid brook chimed her ears. She sprang up to follow the odor of this voice. On the drawing room sofa, David’s loose body was lazily spread out.

The drowsy afternoon was now blessed with some vigor. The source wasn’t quite defined as the energy emancipated by the friction of some untamed and unnamed passions doesn’t have a proper noun attached to it. The tinged yellow air frolicked to strain out the unwanted proportions. What pastel shades remained was uncertain. The ears were left with a few sashes of the saxophone’s bellow. Certain companionships are not defined enough to fit in those gossip columns. Neither can they be put in the mouth of a character playing the extremely cocky housewife. The social networking sites came up with certain idiotic solutions but those aren’t apt. The lusty old psychologist would have never understood. The pungent prudent socialites tried their best to figure it out in some leisurely cocktail parties; notwithstanding, they suffered a defeat. I dislike the idea of naming relationships. Definitions are based on logic and should inherently carry a distinct structure. Frigid logic overlooks the depth and warmth shared between two souls. On top of that logic is too stiff to be palpable. Emotions are like the fleeing water colors on a dry canvas. They are all muddled if you observe closely. However, they are more than neat if you maintain proper distance. Sometimes their vivacity may even trip you to the House of Sleep.

David had a certain spark in his eyes and his languid state couldn’t camouflage the zeal involved in this visit. He was already engrossed in a conversation. They entered Venessa’s room. The thing that fascinated David most was a masquerade-mask that hung at a vantage point of the wall. Masquerades were always David’s favorite. David maintained a constant charade to hide his superfluous affection which would unquestionably lead to suspicion. He liked the way things were. The way he had paved. The words he never wanted to say. What were the words that had pervaded his subconscious, haunting him in his cozy nightmares? What were those nightmares like? I mean was it sooty, as it is believed to be. How did he dodge the words? I think it gamboled around him like Medusa’s hair. Staccatos of brisk thoughts flashed across his mind. Thoughts like “Is the chocolate sauce appropriately brown? Why is its color so insinuative? It reminds me of lust. Or is it dark rust? Infidelity is what I think I am gifting to my mistress. That’s the truth for certain. Truth is the bottom-line. It is totally unnecessary to consider a few of the above lines before coming to the bottom? For example, isn’t the wrapping important?

“You don’t seem to be in your elements! Mind elucidating?” snapped Brutus. The smog around him cleared a little. On the wings of these lustrous thoughts he has flown to Brutus’s company. Nevertheless, David likes him. He is aware of his goals. He can manipulate his demons. “Messed up”, David retorted. The black coffee oozed out a certain wild aroma. This café uses special wild forest beans. That’s the ultra-urban delight. Dusk’s futile endeavor at clearing David’s mind with its vibrancy was followed by Brutus’s blatant questions. Brutus asked too many questions. He was married. He held a highly acclaimed social position. His brusque questions petrified David. He wasn’t good at answering any question. He lived in reveries where he defeated his Satan; the process iterated; each time a new Satan. Veracity has a different opinion. David was incapable of confronting it. Too many questions; Brutus stop.

“Your mocha, Sir.” Repeated the waiter; Venessa’s quizzical eyes made David speak up. She smells of optimism. Mistress doesn’t have this odor. Is it an aroma or a stink? Perhaps, it’s something fit for fool’s utopia. What about paradise? The air is fresh there I hear. However, does it still bear the choking smell of optimism? “Human beings aren’t still equipped enough to read thoughts. Articulation is important”, sniggered Venessa. David was dumbfounded. “It’s going to rain, I surmise.” The persistent dog barking his heart out just outside the coffee-shop could have anticipated that. Shouldn’t I say something which would accentuate my existence? Make my presence felt. Is it necessary to exist in the eyes of your surroundings? Is complete independence a farce? Dance naked in the middle of Middleton Row. Books often tell about such vehemence. The likes of Venessa threaten me to make peace with my mistress. She cajoles me to depend and take the position of a simple cog in this social wheel; a cog whose absence won’t be felt. That’s the only thing we fight for. Isn’t it? From fools to sages: all want their voice to reverberate. Some use screams and screeches, some a grave composure and a few – silence.

The forsaken streets in this region allured David. He was returning; returning to his home; returning to his mistress. Why was he returning? To kiss those sardonic purplish lips? The gale has started as forecasted. The torment begins. David stops at a shed. He wants to taste the mirth of its dance. His smoggy mind has cleared. Pandemonium broke loose and the insignificant homo-sapiens starts to bustle into each other. No one quite bothered about the person next to him; a weird Brownian motion. David observed from a distance. The night of vagaries had no destination. The shackles of cold undertones and rugged ego were meager tonight. The people have been cleared off. Venessa; weren’t she there somewhere? Did David not treat her as one of those glistening crystals to pre-occupy himself? Where was he heading to? Humans are of two kinds – protagonists and escapists. This story deals in the latter type. David tried to run but little did he know that all roads lead to his mistress.

What about Venessa or Brutus? No one ponders over the fate of the supporting characters. Ever wondered how the story looks from the eyes of a supporting character? Venessa is just an example. Whether she wails under the Peruvian skies is of meager importance here; as I am not a liberal story-teller. I won’t do justice to all. Doesn’t the supporting cast ever get jealous? They are painted in dull colors. Their lackadaisical existence conform the monotony of those Russian factory workers. Or is it just a reference frame? The subjective vision of the story-teller? The superfluous hyping of the alpha character satiates the story-teller. In reality everyone needs the support of one or the other. Every character has the prerequisite to be a protagonist or an escapist. Singularly, they are as trivial as the gray hair of some retired bank employee, who is waiting for death. That’s how the social wick works. What about the mistress? She has a name but it’s David whom I chose. It’s my canvas but his palette.

“The storm is at its zenith. When will David return?” mumbled Catherine, contemplating the sickness of the weather. The ashtray was overfilled so was her heart. The ash of some charred hours and burnt emotions. She puffed out a circle of smoke which faded away eventually. What a peevish line! Smoke can never endure. Just like the words ejaculated out during some horrid late-night brawl. Yes. David must have forgotten the syllables. However, I won’t nudge. Let him stutter; a half stutter would do; a single unintelligible sound would do. Why isn’t the gale stopping? Is he with Venessa? He has changed. Sometimes, he facades his true color. He isn’t the placid pure soul which he used to be. The kid has transformed. The garland of gracious words rots like that garland on that coffin. What persists is an undefined sense of belonging. When will David understand? Catherine brushed her unkempt hair indifferently. Her thoughts - numb: perturbed by the caustic clangs of David’s darts. She wasn’t against Venessa but her husband’s indulgence formed a borderline on infidelity, she got petrified.

The door was slammed; locked. A fanatic lady leaves her premises. Torn apart by a whirlpool, they presumed. The Brownian motion of the masses continues. The lady made a cautious attempt at negating the magnanimity of the storm. The newspaper says – “ A middle aged woman named Catherine David Filth died in the storm last night along with fifty others. “

Gold

December entwined her semi-arid soul. Another futile year was staggering towards its end. Unwary of the countless seconds it has exhausted without bearing any fruit. The fireplace - exhilarated by transgressions. Opium induced some bliss. She was cold. She was at the focus of the Big city but her core was wandering through Sahara. She glanced at her watch. It was time to serve food. The Master would otherwise greet her with a bitter chide.

She glided through the stairs. Her grace flirted with her locks. She was impeccably clothed. Her essence was precarious. The Master has made this Golden cage for her with tads of solace, beads of tranquility. The cage consumed her quintessence. Inebriation persuaded her hands to tremble. Nevertheless, the dinner table was perfect. The Master doesn’t have ample time to indulge in a conversation. A stream of discreet emotions and sharpened idiosyncrasies were akin to honeydew. She was content. She was obliged. She followed the orders meticulously.

Dinner over. It was bound to get over at some point or the other. She knew she was content. She groped this feeling with all mirth. She was opinionated, they said. However, that didn’t mater to her. She was obstinate, they said. Reproach was all they got. They tried to de-façade. They were similar to some anathema that befell her. She maintained her composure in spite of the opium-overdose and their voices. The Master’s benevolence aggravated her belief. That was acknowledgement to her.

She went through the page Master has left behind. The next day’s task-list.
She slipped it into her pocket. Cleaned up the mess and went to her room. Was her cleaning adequate for the mess?

The bed was warm. The only extravagance, she could afford. Opium guaranteed her exquisite dreams. She waited eagerly. Slumber claimed her. She saw the pineapple garden. The pineapples were ripe and mellow. Her naïve attempt to touch them changed the scenario. She found herself in the middle of Sahara, squashing a prickly pear. She retreats with pain. She screams till her throat breaks and she scampers into the sand. She keeps on running, a red trail behind her. She keeps on running, an abrupt null in her eyes. She runs through Nero’s domain, flames endorse her gown. She reaches the cinnamon island, only to find the Master. The master wouldn’t yell, the passivity and indifference has faded out. The master would console.

The clouds camouflage the illumination. Pretty suffocating. The coldness influences a distinct numbness. She gets ready for the chores. The opium-tainted walls are drab. They have been neglected. The passion-vine on her rusted sill now spreads through her windows. A few dispersed pages, loiter on the floor. One casual glimpse on one such page.

“ How are you? While passing by your golden house, I anticipated a glance. However, you were nowhere to be found. The magnificence of the architecture did be spectacle me. Still, I have a grievance. Why have you stopped playing with us? “

The words fleeted like the moments, waiting for the master. He wouldn’t see her in daylight, however dim it may be. She was accepted in the realms of nocturne. She was spellbound by the master’s spirit. She knew her master’s mettle. Steam has accumulated in the kettle. She opened the lid and let it go. Opium was a charmer, she knew. She fell in its trap without much ado. Her conviction was strong; the letter was bleak.

Days of fallacy
Nights of lunacy
She wanted blue
But she craved for green

Dream

Last time I slept, I had a dream.
A vivid flower was stung.
Headless man encumbered the tree.
Fervor in her eyes was bleached

Last Time I slept, I had a dream
She was at the scullery
Then at the jade brothel
Shakti’s uninterrupted novel

Last time I slept, I had a dream
She was some sort of Gypsy Venus
She had that half-eaten aura
Eaten by the bugs of nepotism

I don’t sleep these days
Maybe I fear her
Maybe I lust for her
Maybe I love her

One Rainy Day

It was raining incredulously. The omnipresent gray instilled an unwanted melancholy in his ageing heart. He stood on his toes and tried to figure out what the outside world was like. The shade of green, the scent of damp earth. A single window was the only link between him and the globe. This was precisely the feeling shared amongst all prisoners. He was not in the mood to reminisce. The past was dead and wrenching out bygone-emotions would not make a difference.

He wanted to digress away from the point where all his thoughts converged. The sound of acrid rain was mirth to him once. He would spend much of his time staring out of his window, looking at the drenched earth. His room --reverberating with the noise of Muddy Waters. Rain played which cord in his inner mind was unknown to him. He would feel a twitch. He would weave another dream. Lost in his own solitude, he would conjure up the most profound human emotions. Bathe in them and ooze out satisfaction. Rain was his savior; it triggered his latent, unattended sentiments.

This caustic cell locked up his essential faculty to weave. He was here lying with all the scum his life has collected. The sound of the downpour was constricting. He knew this is transitory. He wanted to trap some of it for further consumption; but human science comes up with a preservation technique for those units, which are currency-dependent. Conservation of the monsoon sound was never necessary. Some filthy poets may have found it very amusing but poets are one pseudo group. The sound was no more heard. The deafening silence locked up the obscured lanes of innovation. He was one with the crowd.

This prison is specifically designed for this purpose. It makes you claustrophobic. Each day, you are cajoled to take a dive into the sea of animalism. Be one with the beasts. Demarcate passion from practicality. Then char the passion quotient. The null thus created is replenished with the right dose of superficiality.

Thus, he was captured. What captured him is inconsequential. What matters is his progress. His seed of desire to cherish certain impulses was ready to be destroyed. The plant, which the seed bore, is trivial; it may be an annoying weed. However, one can’t foresee his passion’s desperation. This weird seed may grow into something noteworthy in the reign of future. Therefore, its important to slay it. Another important aspect is the intellect. Intelligence is welcomed with arms wide open. Nevertheless, intellect is undesirable. The blithe intellect comes in the way of cliché practices. Normal minds would never want that. The contrast is a great peril. Thereby, they are locked.

The excessive materialism clubbed with a dash of swank is the ideal, which they are taught to follow. Vague sarcasm and vainglorious wit is distilled out of their existence. Winners are forged. The glitterati of socialites. Lust is made to trickle down from the top of their heads. Drenched in its holy flavour, men of the world are created. They know their survival strategies.

The certain fellow we are talking about was still serving his tenure. He was chained to the still numbness. He had a way out. A way that led to illumination. He wanted to challenge the system and knew to challenge the system you need to be in it. Regarding the bug of asymmetry and eccentricity, it is incurable. He was confident about that. He reinstated his lost vigour and ended the war. Apathy was his key. The key, which opened all the locked attics of realization. He was an evolved being, who rediscovered himself and escaped the clutches of lucid delirium.

When Love And Fart Collide

Compatriots, after thorough study of this paradoxical subject called Love; I concluded that the only thing that can near it is a fart. Fart, too, is a controversial object. Both of these can be classified into stark genres depending upon the impact they have on the surroundings.

The innards’ complementary work produces the low-pressure pocket of odoured air. The outside pressure being higher, the inner pocket of odoured natural gas whooshes into the atmosphere through a well cutout orifice. Thereby, increasing the temperature of the posterior. Proving the law of conversion energy. The mechanical energy of the gut is converted to heat energy of the fart.
Coming back to sound energy. The decibel level of the fart depends completely upon the pressure gradient. Now, the odour. It can be as mild as the serene smell of the vat nearby or as mighty as that of Kumbhakarna’s unclean loo (this assumption is made based on the amount of edible intake by this colossal hero). Based on the reaction time and nature of a “normal” homo-sapien, it can either cause a slight tremor or persuade someone to scamper out of the room.

Regarding Love, nothing new to be jotted down. Thereby we go straight into the analogies.

The acute low-pressure manifested in the utopian heart with the aid of some do-gooders is the primary definition of love. This low pressure tickles the vocal chords or hand muscles to explicitly proclaim its presence. The absence of orifice is the only noticeable difference. The visceral force during such a proclamation popularly termed as “proposal” is quite similar to that of a fart. Its intensity is relatively lower and the work vector travels in the opposite direction.

The vicinity of the Love-manufacturers result in the emancipation of heat. One fraction of the mechanical energy of the employees is converted to the heat energy and the remaining into sound. Love not only keeps you warm during winter, it also allows expressing the tenacity of your vocal chords. The more “heat”, the better is the quality of Love. We, thus infer that “heat” is a quality control factor of love. Cold Love-workers suffer from delusions. They are not actually in “love”.

Scent of love- What odour is to fart is scent to love. The efforts of two creatures of dissimilar chromosomal content have one huge task. The extent of their post-work scent. If the perfumes are smudged against each other overwhelmingly, then their love is pure. This is the purity control factor.

The more the pungency of fart, the better is the condition of the viscera. Similarly, when the male smells completely of the female, the quality of love is optimum. That’s what is hypothetical, in terms of science – ideal. Recent developments in this field may speak differently. Owing to the lack of substantial evidences, its still hypothetical.

P.S : This comparative study is purely based on “normal” facts. Any unintended exaggeration should be pardoned.

Untitled

All but her, sashayed through
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth

The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale

All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile

Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?

Asymmetric

Asymmetric dreams. Windowpanes smitten by the storm. Abani is stranded at the crossroad. There are four ways to reach home. He contemplates each of them. He may have done this the whole day, even without a drop of rain. Actually, his clerkship exams guaranteed him five thousand over the table. Black was never that fascinating to him.

His house is akin to the cave in which some Robert, who was heavily influenced by a spider, stayed. The only difference, the house lacked spiders. In their place, were lizards, who meticulously consumed vermin flesh. The calculated steps towards the heedless prey and then gobbling it up is all he missed during this period of stagnation. Though, its nothing new.

Abani’s tattered umbrella acted like a sieve. It resisted the attack of hails and their sharp edges. He ponders on the degree of serration his parasol saved him from. He overlooks the entry of water, which has already wetted his attire. Certain sequestered memoirs seem to revisit the conscience. Alas! Its like the wailing wave. The moment he expects it to speak, it froths.

Abani checks his watch. Its late. Too late. He heads towards the least traversed street. The monotony of the relentless day was already disturbed by the storm. He thus adds sauce to the dish. On his route, he encounters an abandoned park. A specter of a park to be more precise. He decides to digress a bit. He can afford to as the desk back at his place was devoid of the regular folders. He voluntarily attempts to disturb the symmetry of the place. He picks up a broken log, lying beside him, on the bench, inanimate. He keeps his umbrella on the bench and gapes at the wood. It should have been living before the storm, as per Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose. Now its dead. What difference does it make? He discovered the log is akin to him. Mirth paved its way. A desire to smile coaxed him, but he was obstinate. Now, back to the goal. He gets up and hits whatever he gets in his way. Repeated blows oozed out lunacy. What happened to this perfectly sane bloke?

A peal disturbs his action. He throws the log and picks up his umbrella. He scampers out of the park without even opening his parasol. He darts towards his den. His acceleration hurts his inflexible muscle. The agility he is used to is no where near to this new found speed. The gyration of some wheel in his think tank pulverizes the conventional sanity the world is used to. The world as always will perceive it with a negative filter, since its new, unaccustomed. That’s the law.

Newton’s first law of motion says the body tends to retain its static position. A genius was he. This is applicable in case of the society. The prejudiced lot will rot the fresh. The penetration of reason is inapplicable. They fear a change but are desirous of it. The outcome is the generation of corrosive force, which epitomizes the barbarism in them. They inoculate their peers too. Generations after generations of monotony. Same inclination. Same oppression. Same depression. The clerk is not the defaulter. His father has confided in him the easiest way to consume life. Pay heed to the basic amenities. Neglect the idiosyncrasies.

That doesn’t stop the great to purify the land. The clerk has returned. He freshened himself. Siesta won’t embed in him tonight. He became one with the monotonous desolation of his existence. The giant wheel still revolved in the realms of his conscience.
Dawn struck its quarter.

The palest blue was omnipresent. The weary faded brown in the eyes revolts. Gazing at the last visible sparkle, he contemplates. The diluted orange strata poke. His conscience provoked. He lifts up with a mighty jolt, searching for her soul. The halogen brushed green of a distant canopy, may be the missing abode. Or is she the hydronium ion of the yellow muriatic bottle. Or is she in the crumbs, left alone. Maybe she is encumbering the exhausted palette, exhausted by the toll of clerkship. Or maybe she is the colorless slumber in his arid throat.

She is the answer to Abani’s dying quench. She is the answer to the monotony. The answer to the beguiled existence of mankind, unyielding to the newness. The answer to the pathos leading to cannibalism percolated through generations. She is the answer to the never-ending regret of proletariats.