The Victim

David took a step back, as broken pieces of the glass vase bulleted across the kitchen door, and fell on the floor of the hall. He was not sure if he was quiet enough, but hoped his abrupt steps had been boycotted behind his mother’s scream, and his father’s roar. There was nothing unusual about the shouts and the beating anymore. It had become the story of every night lately. But never had his father been this monstrous before, never this cruel. Had he not given a second thought before dragging the glass vase across her face? Sharper than those dripping edges, were the wounds engraved on David’s heart that night.

The family had seen better times. His father had not been like this before. He had been a respected man before the war, had a small store where he sold hand-made sculptures, by carving wood. In fact, he had been the benchmark among sculptors in the village. Everyone admired his work, and he too had pride in it. However, no one was hurt more than he was, when the first bomb in the village fell on his shop, and the fire destroyed all his work and money. That had not been all. David’s father was also a freedom fighter in the war. He stood with many other brave souls to defend his village, and his family. He paid for their victory with an arm. He could still move it, but it became impossible to do heavy work with his left arm. Thus, he had no other option, but to give up his passion. He gave up carving, and that punched a hole in his heart. He had to carry this consequence of war as a burden, for the rest of his life. He was a victim of war, and at the end, he had nothing. That was when he picked p the habit of drinking. He started taking out the grudges against the war on his family, his wife and David.

David hid under the staircase, as his father went out the main gate. He waited till he heard the footsteps fade, then he walked to the kitchen. His mother’s face was covered with blood. Her tears made the vibrant red blood look pale. Like every other night, without any reason, she was victimised to his rage. David treated her wounds, washing away the blood with tears in his eyes. But she refused to rest till she cleaned up the mess on the floor. She never blamed David’s father.

David’s father returned after midnight. The roaring and screaming started again. This time it was more intense. David heard crockeries break, and slams on doors and walls. Finally, there was a gun shot. It seemed like the world mourned at her loss. Everything turned quiet. When David went downstairs, the whole village had already gathered up in their house. He saw his father tied to the pillar of the staircase. And on the once-spotless floor and carpet, lay his mother. Dead. His right of having a mother, a simple family, was ceased. The completeness of the family was torn and burned down, and he remained the successor of all the pain passed down.broken_glass_s


Tiny Breezes

Tiny breezes which
Spread the waves,
Are not that calm,
During Summer days.

It growls at the windows,
For they’re in the way,
Hissing much silently,
You’ll know it’s May.

The breezes grew up.
They were tiny once.
From paper to boats, Now
They make the ships dance.

As the queue proceeds,
The breeze washes away.
Summer walks out the door,
The tiny breezes sway.

Looking for my Heart

Over that hill, under the trees,
I go to see day jeden.
To look for the heart you drew me;
I remember and I redden.

It was my Autumn, and your’s too,
Only music behind was the cow’s moo,
Magical it was when I told,
And you you said you loved me too.

Later that year, you were with me,
The whole day holding my arm;
Under that tree you wrote our names,
“Leaving me? Did you witness a harm?”

She had to leave, not for me at least
She told me about no choice.
Now 60, I still visit the hills,
Looking for MY heart
Behind the cow’s noise.

The Breeze

New to the sea, I knew about the wind;
I wanted 
to turn the shoulders.
‘Fraid of the wind, I sure was then,

Now it’s breeze, and I’m the boulder. 

A new sailor, for whom the wind was new,
Called not wind, but storm too.
From that sailor, I became the next.
Steel hard now, reckon I do it again? 

Walked through the storm, I fell.
Fell again, but not that well.
I bled once, twice, then thrice,
Now it’s memory, then not nice.

The Plootroop With Me

Sitting by his brother, his tears still on his tomato-red cheeks, Denice had no knowledge about the rough, sympathetic, shaky -‘Let’s go now’-coming from his 70 years old grandfather, who too had slight drops coming through his huge eyes. Having been shaken on the shoulder the second time, he wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his already wet t-shirt. Wrapping his arms around his grandfather’s waist, they sobbed together for a moment, before checking into their Maruti, already boarded with his parents, whose tears were silent, still evident.

The boy came out of the womb dead the last week. Denice looked out the window till the graveyard was well out of sight, still not out of mind. About and hour it took, but the tears were still there when they went into their 2-BHK rented apartment.

Denice, being 8, grew a habit of viewing the world every night, from the roof, where he would look into the beauty, and try to forget all the excitement he had before the delivery. Not that he was old enough, but his folks still allowed, though he never got over it.

Standing in a corner of the rectangular roof, he realised that the darkness was being disturbed by a flashlight. It was pointed on his back. He thought that someone came to take him home, so he told that someone that he’ll be back, still not facing the light. But that someone was not in the mood to face down, so it was Denice who decided to turn himself.

Finally his mind got off his brother and towards the boy standing with a weird light. As the boy drew closer, Denice had a clear look on the shiny belted robe he was wearing, and the light was not a flashlight but it was from the boy’s forehead. The only things peculiar about him were the light on his head, he wearing such outfit at that hour, and of course, his height being no more that 10 inches from the floor.

‘Ello, fent!’, the boy told, trying to say- Hello, Friend! – in the English accent of any foreigner struggling to learn English.

‘Who are you?’ I said vaguely, in spite of him being unbelievably tiny.

‘You can call me Forty Two.’ (In his own way actually).

‘Forty Two? Where did you come from, man? And so tiny?’ I said without my manners.

‘Of Course. Back in Pluto, we are given numbers, unlike earth’s way of giving fancy words to a new-born. So, what fancy word do they call you by, eh?’

‘Denice. And that ain’t fancy, Mister!’

He told him that he came to earth on his vacation. And boasted about how skillfully he avoided the defence’s radars, and now as he was the first of humen to meet him, he was responsible for his safety, and would have to show him around. Denice suddenly remembered something and asked, ‘Wait, are you God? If yes, then tell me why you killed my brother?’ He had the tears back.

‘I am no God, child. But your people may refer to us as something called aliens,’ he sighed.

He wanted to know about his dead brother, and was polite enough to delay his vacation. Forty Two told him about ‘New Horizon’ which was sent from earth, which he had seen from his balcony in Pluto. He told Denice that the Plootroops (Pluto people) also call the human being – Aliens!

Forty Two was telling him how earth was weird for him, as everything there was all alien to him. Then Denice’s small mouth told something really huge. He said the whole world was all alien to him. Whole life was alien to him. God’s ways were alien to him, for he never understood why the God he worshiped didn’t let him have an alive brother. Why Humanity was alien to him, seeing the laughing faces of people in the hospital, who thought his family to be creating a scene on the news of a dead child.

Then Forty Two told that Humanity sure  was an alien thing. The people who call themselves social workers by donating clothes or money once a month are the firsts to lift the car-windows on a poor beggar. Firsts to give, and firsts to think they’ve done enough. Denice nodded, though he vastly disagreed to that, but was happy to have someone to talk to.

It was a blink which took him to the bedroom, comfortably tucked into bed. He heard from his grandfather that it was his father who carried Denice’s sleeping body to the house from the car. That he was too tired to wake up, and thus, they didn’t call him up.


Nothing for Her

Crying-WomanWalking down my mind’s lane,
I saw my mother cry.
Every night it happened the same,
And I always asked – why?

Then I had been seven or eight,
For father I saw her wait and wait.
Came the sun and still no sight,
Her day was dark, being so bright.

Daily I saw her cooking for us,
Cleaning and washing, and nothing for her.
She went to the shop, on the local bus,
Taking food – for his hunger.

Turning nine or ten, I watched him go,
Leaving my mother – ‘why’, I don’t know.
After couple years, I saw him again,
With a new lady, and also children.

I’ll Play My Part

david-beckham-the-prince-on-a-white-horse-hi-830260In the world in my mind,
It was a horse I would ride.
With a crown on my head,
And my sword drenched with red;

Galloping across thousand miles;
The preventing monsters will paint my blade.
High as where the bird flies,
To win you – which they say God made.

You women dream of a charming prince,
On a white horse, who’ll kiss your lips.
I dream of being that charm –
Playing my part won’t do any harm.

Life took them away

Walking down the lane,
I saw the young me.
Seeing myself cry then,
Maybe I was three.

The cry was valid,
So was the sorrow.
I saw her bleed,
She had no tomorrow.

Dad already bought the farm,
When I was only two.
Not much later, but a year,
My only, too, left to the blue.

Life took my dearests,
I felt there’s more.
At least I had an aunt,
Stayed behind her door.

I blame life for what it did.
Taking my folks,
Whom I most need.
I kept hope,yes,
Till the muddy bed.
Now tears to the life,
Which I so regret.
Trust me it’s my life
That I most hate.

Can’t wait to die,
If it’s the only way.
The way to my folks whom
I dreamt to meet one day.


They Cared.

I was left home all alone after they went for the so-called urgent meeting they had. I knew it was important, since they have been working at this office for over a month now. They told me that it might lead to an increment and our lives might change forever. But it didn’t change my mind. I stuck to my decision – I believed they should have paid more attention towards me.

This belief lead to the rise of another belief within me. I believed that I couldn’t do any worse without them, and that I could live my life better. I didn’t want their attention anymore. Thus, I started ignoring my parents long before that day.

A week before that day , I told them that all my friends had a car, and that I wanted them to buy, at least, a family car, if not any of the cars I liked. But I may have been too insignificant for them to listen to me. They just laughed at me and it upset me so much that I didn’t leave my room until it was time for dinner. I believed I needed them to only to feed me and support me financially. 

Few days before that week they told me to change my friend-circle, only because THEY DID NOT LIKE IT. ‘Who are they to judge my circle, cause I don’t need them anymore! Why do they pretend they care. I don’t see any love.’ – was what my mind barked.

It was getting late, as the clock already hit 10 pm. I was almost sure that they got the increment and went off to a restaurant or to the movies, without me. I was walking towards my bedroom and I was so pissed off that I wanted to curse my life until I fell asleep. And as I reached to turn the doorknob into my room, the doorbell rang, and I was amazed to see how quick the party ended. 

As I opened the door, there stood a huge body before me, in a uniform with a badge. 

‘Yes, Officer, may I help?’

‘Yes, son, we have to talk’

We sat in the living room, where he told me that my parents had a car accident. A drunk lorry driver crashed into them, and that I had to go to the Hospital to identify the bodies.

My jaw dropped, ‘You must have had a misunderstanding, we don’t even own a car!’

‘Your parents had the car’s papers and receipts, it was bought today.’

After identifying the dead bodies to be of my parents, the officer took me to the Police Station from the hospital. Then he dropped me home, where I cried myself to sleep.

Next day, at school, my friends joked about my parents. That they themselves were responsible for their death. That they shouldn’t have driven the car if they didn’t know shit about driving. I cried home, because I did care. I cursed myself for thinking they didn’t care, that I didn’t care, that before I didn’t give a fuck about them, whereas now, I did care.

I was done with life.