Island Corayyo

One day somebody asked me—

“Where do you hail from?”

I sat in deep thought, munching on my pencil.

“What’s the matter?”

“I have been to many places in life....

But I suppose if you ask about my origins,

It is Island Corayyo.”

“Ohhhh....what place is this,

Never heard of it...”

I gave her my secret smile—“I daresay you haven’t.”

“Tell me something about this place.”

“Tiz’ a very strange place.. this Corayyo,

Its population numbered;

The seas surrounding it are turbulent,

The coast flanked by hostile rocks.”

“My!! Must be difficult to visit the island?”

“Extremely so.....”

She bends, rapt and eager,

“Tell me more!”

“There are springs, quite abnormal,

At times they are neutral, and yet at others,

They boil scalding hot—

 There are craters everywhere,

Visited by no one,

Rumoured to have nasty things brewing deep,

 Brought by falling meteorites—

There are patches of forest strewn about,

Deep yet cheerful,

The only source of food and nourishment for the residents—“

“And what about the weather?”

Amused I reply,

“Dark and brooding, It is

Almost daily cloudy.”

“Do you never see the sun?”

“A few days the sun does peek,

But the clouds cover it up again.”

“Does your Corayyo have any folklores?”

“Legend has it, It was a small island

Thrown up by the sea,

It was so unstable at first, That the sea would have gobbled it again,

But the Sun Goddess reached out,

And pulled back its child lovingly from the abyss.

I remember there was a tsunami

On Thirteenth of August, in 2007,

The waves would have killed everyone,

But that day the Sun shone so brightly,

The coming danger was known,

And everyone hurried to the mountains.

The waves couldn’t kill,

Everyone escaped unhurt,

The homes were broken;

The forests destroyed,

But with time they grew back again.”

“Have there been any calamities ever since?”

I give a short laugh.

She gives me a funny look, “Why do you laugh”? –

“Nothing. Well, yes, there have been many storms and

Earthquakes,  But nothing that

Corayyo couldn’t overcome.”

“Where do you live ?”

“Ever since that tsunami ,

I have become afraid ,

I live now on the top of the mountain, alone.”

“Ohhh........”

“Is there anything else you want to ask?”

“What’s your favourite place in Corayyo?”

“No place at all. I do not like it much”—

“But then!! There must be a place,

That you must frequent a lot. What is it?”

I give her a look.

My reply is quiet—

“At the Heart of the island, amidst

All the springs and craters and forests,

Is a clearing. It is where I go the most.”

“I suppose it must be a beautiful spot,

That is why you visit it??”

“It is barren, level piece of land,

No house or landscape adorns it,

No one lives there,

The soil is dead,

So there are no flowers or trees.”

“Whoa. Depressing isn’t it?

Why do you go there?”

I choke back tears—

“I have no where else to go.

Like I said, it is the heart of the island,

The Centre of Corayyo.”

I am stone

~~~EXISTENCE AS I KNEW~~~

I stand in the middle of the town square,
I stand there all alone.
Unmoved by the life bustling around me,
You see, I am a statue,
Made of the darkest, strongest stone.
I have stood here for 190 years,
And had hoped to stand for another 190 more so.

They say statues and monuments have histories to speak of,
But oh, I am a disappointment, I have none to share.
I am only a product of deceit and despair.
If my makers could reverse the flow of time,
Perhaps, they would wish I never existed.

I cannot laugh or smile or cry or frown,
You see, I am a statue,
I must show as befits one of my stature,
I must, I must show a face of stone.

Whether its winter or summer or raining heavens,
Whether it is a scratch or a blow or the flaking of paint,
My anguish and agony cannot be shown to the world.
People must only see an unchanged form.
For anything that might happen on God’s green earth,
A statue cannot feel, right??
So even if apocalypse comes, there must be a permanent reassurance,
Anything might change, but not I.

Ignored and abused as and when liked
By those who call themselves “alive”,
I have stood there long in the town square,
Forever stoic and stern.

~~~THE VISITOR~~~

It was 25 full moons ago,
That I saw a visitor, a sad snow-child roaming about in the night,
Her little pink dress torn by stray dogs,
Her beautiful face a shame to Misery herself,
How could I, how could anyone resist----
I had to give her shelter for the night.
She had found no friend in this hostile town,
But I promised her she would be alone no longer.
I would be her guardian and friend and caretaker.

The pretty gal came to me every night,
And told me all her troubles and pains.
I listened and counselled as much as I could,
I was glad to see her suffering lessen.....
She called me her dear friend.

Do you hear that, you living hypocrites?
Who said that a statue cannot be one of you?
You called me dead and part of the background,
You would not even deign to speak to me-----
It seems now that a statue has more humanity than all of you.

I do not know what value does a “friend” have today,
Perhaps others, if they knew, would call me a fool.
I do not worry about my rusting armour or my almost-broken fingers,
I don’t care, I am happy to give.

~~~BEGINNING OF THE END~~~

Happiness cannot last forever, even the generous kind,
Good beings cannot survive in this hellish realm, they are cursed--
It is better to be forever miserable,
Than be at peace for a few moments
And have grave tragedy fall upon you.

Did I tell you about the snow child’s irresistible charm,
She could twist around her little finger whoever she met,
It was only a matter of days before the whole town was enthralled with her,
She found other friends too.

She would leave me in the day to satisfy her wander-lust,
In the night, she would come with an unruly gang.
She spoke only a few words to me in their presence,
Like you would reassure a dog,
And play with them the whole night.

I hurt from within, yet it wasn’t her fault,
I cannot bear to tie such a creature to myself.
I hurt from outside, for her cruel “friends”,
Would pelt me with stones for their amusement.
No pain and anger showed on my exterior,
Only a lasting indifference.
Oh God! I curse you, why did you make me a statue?
I break in bits and pieces,
I am not even allowed to lament!

The town witch passed by me one cloudy day,
She stared at me for a long time.
Her words I still remember, even in my present state,
“Drive the fair maiden away , Statue,
If you have the slightest desire to exist,
Lest next I might see you as a heap of stone.”

I knew she was right, I knew I should have acted upon her words,
But I am after all a statue, I cannot change.
Once a promise given, always kept.
I remained the caretaker of my maid.

Her companions kick me and throw stones at me every night,
So much of me has fallen apart,
And she does not notice, does not care.
So naked now with chinks in my armour,
So deformed with huge bits missing,
I do not seem to be a statue anymore.

Within me, deep cracks run from head to toe.
I am not the stern statue of the town anymore,
I am only a pathetic stump,
I have lost my form and my dignity.
I am now only endurance.
I am stone.
Tiz’ only a matter of time ,
Before I disintegrate into nothingness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

You get what you give - 3

Hours after the saint had left, the woman cowered on her bed. As the evening had progressed and she could no longer bear to hear the sound from her walls, she had stopped listening to them and stayed away. But now those sounds stalked her- they had come out from the walls and shadowed her every move!! They clung to her like a second skin and they wouldn’t leave her alone. And when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, it all stopped. She waited for the screaming and the sobbing to start again, but it didn’t, and then slumped back on the pillow, relieved.

The clock downstairs chimed eleven times.

           “Mama.”

That soft little word stopped her beating heart for a moment. No, no, it couldn’t be happening, this only happens in serials and books. Take a deep breath. Just close your eyes and pretend it didn’t happen.

But the stone cold palm on her forehead felt so real.

“Open your eyes, Mama, I am not going to hurt you. Be a good Mama and sit up.”

She had to obey, she had to be a good Mama, and there stood her eleven year old girl in her short frock, looking at her with her big brown eyes.

       “I finally did become a good girl, Mama. Finally I wasn’t a burden to anyone.”

The girl sat in her Mama’s lap, and the woman could feel the weight of dead stone.

“But you are being such a bad Mama to my brothers. Have you forgotten what you always taught me?”

     What was this girl saying to her?

“You are sinning against them, Mama. You are being so selfish.”

   Red-hot anger boiled in the woman’s mind, momentarily eclipsing the cold fear in her gut. SHE was being selfish? She had sacrificed all joys that life had to offer for those stupid sons, and now they could not even thank her for it, let alone allow her to live peacefully. They had taken over her house and took her money and jewellery; they would not let her sleep at night while they had their rowdy parties; their fat wives would stuff themselves with sweets and wouldn’t make dinner for her and make false complaints to their even fatter husba-

     “Mama, do you think it is their fault? You give nothing to them now, you do nothing for them. You are just a burden, one that’s sucking away their money and all their resources.” The cold tug on her plait brought her wandering mind back to her room with the dead girl, and the fear came rushing back like the waves on a shore. Why had this girl returned? Was she going to kill her?

       “I am here to make u a good Mama. I am going to teach you what you forgot.”

Yes, the girl had come back as a ghost to kill her painfully. The woman tried so hard to scream.  But as hard as she tried to shout and call for help, no sound came from her throat. She pushed and pushed, but to no avail, the dead girl wouldn’t even budge from her lap.

       “Are you trying to call your sons? They won’t come, Mama, they won’t listen to what you say anyway. Nobody listens to a bad woman.”

      Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks- is this how her life would end? Would the girl tear her body off limb by limb, would she grow sharp nails and shred her stomach to ribbons? The girl did not seem to see those tears.

         “Why are you being so stubborn? Why don’t you want to change? Even now you are being selfish, Mama. You are thinking about yourself only. It is not going to have good results. Let me show you.”

       The ethereal ghost pressed a small palm to her Mama’s forehead.

The room disappeared in a whirlwind of colours and the old woman found herself travelling through a blurry of images- images where she saw her strength waning and her health worsening. Her face looked haggard and her hair grew wispy and lank as the days flashed by. Her daughters-in-law yelled at her and hit her, her granddaughters abused her, her sons ignored her. Suddenly she was lying in her bed, having lost the inability to walk ever again. She constantly called for someone to come to her bed, her stomach rumbled for food and her parched throat begged for water, but they never came. She saw her own self lying on the same bed as she had been sitting a few moments ago, only this time she was lying on the bed, dead. They would still not come, and her body had rotted in places and smelled worse than death, and maggots had started laying eggs in a festering wound on her cheek---

    “No, no , please God, no..”, the girl’s mother sobbed hopelessly, her body shaking with despair. She wished for someone, anyone to rip away that image from the walls of her skull. Realisation set in that this was what the future had in store for her. Her end would be in a dark room, she would die a horrible death, all alone, with no one at her side.

      “This is what happens to selfish people, Mama.”

The girl lovingly stroked her Mama’s hair and held her tear streaked face between her hands.           

                 “Come with me, Mama, there is a way to be good. I saw it and I will show you too.”

The little girl held her mother’s hand and led the woman out into the cold dark night, past the locked doors and the sleeping family.

THE NEXT DAY-

The entire village stood by the rock beside the well. The cold stony body of the old woman who lived in the house facing the well lay on the rock. She had died from the cold in the night. On her face was a small smile.

         As the entire village stood and gossiped, the sons of the woman in question stood on the balcony facing the well.

   “Huh. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

“I was getting sick paying for her medicines and food!”

“Thank God we didn’t have to call a doctor- she made it all the more easy for us. But the funeral still has to be taken care of.”

“Just dump the body for all you care! I am pretty glad that we all get her jewellery now! I want the diamond set for my wife!”

You get what you give - 2

Fifty years later , on 6^th January, 2011, the balcony that had witnessed such events as told above now had an old, wizened man in saffron robes, with ash on his forehead and beads in his hand. His other free hand was running up and down the railing, his forehead knitted in thought.

     An old woman, with a wrinkled face and wearing a white saree, stood beside the village saint.          “Great saint! Please tell me a solution to my problems. I have four sons and all of them are married. I have nine grandchildren- and all of them are girls!! I have performed so many yagnas but this house has not been blessed with a baby boy! Tell me what to do. Tell me how to bring happiness in this house.”

                                                  

            The old woman in the white saree beseeched the saint to say something. He was lost in thought, however, for a long time. Finally he turned to her and spoke sternly,

   “Foolish woman! You still have the craving for boys? Can’t you see how God is punishing you? You may wear an arrogant mask and not tell anyone, you may hide your sorrows, but I know everything about you. Your sons ignore your poor health and rob you of your jewellery. The last time you refused, your youngest son threatened to hit you in a drunken rage. Your daughters-in-law starve you as it pleases them. Your grandchildren don’t even touch you for fear of being cursed – they think you are a witch! And yet you are still so ignorant. You are being punished for your sins, woman.”

   Defiance lit up the woman’s eyes. “What sins I have committed? Don’t speak such nonsense to me, I am a very old woman!” She cried shrilly, “I am pious. I pray to the idols in my house every day. I have got my sons educated despite being a widow and they have all got jobs and got married to devoted wives because of me! And despite their selfishness, I still am worried about their family-“

                The older man shut up her ranting with a raised hand in the air. “That’s enough. Nature has given you so many indications and yet you do not understand. Come here, and put your ear to the wall.” He waved his hand towards the wall.

   The woman thought that the village’s saint had gone cuckoo. “What madness is this?”

  “DO NOT DISOBEY ME! DO AS I SAY!” He raised his voice at her.

    His grey eyes and booming voice made her comply. At first she heard nothing. And then there was a familiar sound from the wall- what was that? Stifled strangled sobs, which changed into moans and wails, and then screams assailed her ear!!!!

      The old widow jumped back and fell on her knees- “What is this? What is the meaning of this? What spell have you cast on my house?” She could not help but tremble.

     The saint looked at him with piercing eyes, and told her in a level voice,”I have done nothing, woman. This house simply has a story to share, one it has witnessed.  A story of a little girl who was pure at heart, and who met her tragic end at your hands.”

          

You get what you give-1

                             

I am sitting on a rock all alone. The moon or the stars aren’t there and it is so dark. The rock I am sitting on is beside the village well, and I am scared of the strange noises coming from within.

                     The giant clock on the village square chimed eleven times. It would be 9^th January in an hour. I would be eleven years old. I shiver in my short frock. Tomorrow will be a day like everyday. I will get up at dawn and I will try my best to be a good girl.

      Everyone says that a girl’s birthday is the most special day in the year for her. She wears a new frock and cuts a star-shaped cake. She gets beautiful dolls to play with that she’s allowed to break. She is allowed to eat sweets even if her teeth rot. She invites everyone to her “birthday party”.

       I have never been to one, nor had one myself. Bad girls did not have birthday parties. I asked Mama once why I couldn’t have a birthday party.  She said,” Because we are poor people and we can’t waste money on stupid things. You ungrateful cursed girl! We waste so much money for you and you want a birthday party! Useless brat!” She had to hit me with a steel tumbler, poor Mama, to correct my mistake, and my head went black where it hit. I felt ashamed of my greediness, and promised God never to have a birthday party in my life. My four little brothers were good boys, unlike me, and they always had their birthday parties.

         Mama told me the truth ever since I was born. She was a great lady that way. She told me that I was the daughter of the devil, sent to her by God to correct my evil ways. She said I was a great burden to my family, I was eating up all the money my family had. God was angry at me because of my selfish behaviour. She tried her best to change me- she woke me up at 4 am and made me collect sticks for the chulha. On her orders I would clean the house in the morning. I assisted her in the kitchen. I would bring water from the well. I had been schooled up to the age of 6, since Baba had insisted so badly. Then after he went to a city called Heaven to work for God (my Grandma had cried a lot while explaining that to me), Mama decided that I should never go back to school. The money saved that way would be used for better things. She would often take my rice and give it to my little brothers and pet goat Meena.  She never gave me new clothes or toys, as I did not deserve any. I believed in my Mama’s efforts- I vowed to change myself too. I wanted to be my Mama’s daughter and not some devil’s.

     However hard I tried, I was still selfish and committed sins. My hands were little, curse them, and I would often break the jars and cups while cleaning them. I would break pots and drop buckets and spill water. I left cobwebs in corners while cleaning. I still could not know how to cook and give my Mama some rest. I never brought home enough firewood. I still ate too much. I had cried a lot when Mama had killed Meena and sold her meat. When she would hit me, despite my best efforts, I would scream.

    Each time, my Mama would correct me. She cleansed me- she would hit me with a rod again and again, then make me stand beside the village well till dusk without food. When I would come in, she would tell me I was going to be a whore(it is something that horrifies all village women) when I would grow up and be a good-for-nothing  blood sucking parasite for my brothers. I would be married to a bad husband who would beat me up and have no children. All the time I would beg my brothers for money and food and clothes. My future would never change until I changed. Every time I vowed to be good.

         But I still committed mistakes. Like today in the evening, I felt hungry and went to the kitchen to get biscuits. Mama caught me in my wrongdoing. 

    She slapped me hard, again and again till my cheeks went red. “You rotten little bitch, how dare you come into the kitchen without my permission! You just want to eat up everything, don’t you, you glutton, and then one day you will eat me up and my sons up and then this house!! Get out of this house! GET OUT! Don’t come into this house till I say so!”

        And so I am sitting on this rock. I hope for another chance. I pray- please God, please help me in my efforts. It is so cold, I can’t stop shivering, and Raju Chacha next door saw me here and asked me to come inside before. But it is a sin to be a selfish burden on anyone. I want to be a good girl, and good girls are obedient.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT DAY saw a large crowd of people beside the well. All of them encircled the girl’s cold, lifeless barely-clad body lying on the huge rock. Big or small, fair or dark, they all had the expression of muted horror on their faces.

          The mother of the girl in question stood on her balcony facing the girl. “Huh!  Good riddance to bad rubbish! Although, even for her death, I have to pay the expenses! What a pain!!”

When faith dies

I DID NOT HAVE A BREAK UP. I really wanted to clear this out. Ever since people read this poem, they have been asking me the same question,"Who was the dog who hurt you so much?" Then there are the encouraging ones,"Don't worry . You will get a much better guy than that bas***d, whoever he is." People please, do not, I repeat, do not invent a boyfriend for me!!!

Roses were red

And the sky so dark blue,

The grass was green 

The night was so cool.

I could see my Moon 

Shining in the sky,

Dispersing all the clouds away.

So beautiful, so pure,

The stars so dim in its comparison.

I lay on the ground 

Looking at the only beautiful thing,

My most special romance 

Warming my heart.

I closed my eyes 

And slept in my Moon's wake.

I woke up, 

The world around me burning,

So bright, so hot, so ferocious.

My Moon had disappeared.

In his stead was a giant orb of fire.

The Sun laughed at me and mocked me,

"Faith is a wondrous beautiful thing,

And also the biggest misery when you place it wrongly.

You could see him only when I was unreal,

He shone as my reflection.

Come back to Reality foolish girl.

He would always come 

To woo you in the night,

And show you pretty soothing lies,

But he only needs a fool 

To appreciate his fake beauty.

He would always leave you to my mercy in the morn."

I tasted bile in my throat,

Why is betrayal so bitter?

Why did I want to scratch my eyes out

And walk on broken glass and fire

Than have the courage to face the inevitable?

The roses were dead thorns, 

The grass parched and yellow,

The sky was nothing but white.

This was Reality and my Moon of the gentle night only a liar,

This was where I must spend the rest of my life.

Why am I even attempting to write something?

Honestly speaking, this is my 3rd teeny weeny attempt at blogging. I had started 2 blogs before, posted in them once or twice, and then I got tired of sitting in a place and troubling my fingers(and my mind even more), so I just gave up. And I don't know if I am going to abandon this blog as well or not. So you can see that writing, or more specifically, blogging, for me is perhaps a futile exercise as I am not even consistent. So why is it that I am starting another blog again? Why am I driven to write, even if my mind keeps telling me its worthless nonsense?

        I googled the question, "Why do people write?"(Don't laugh. Everyone does it.) And there were a number of explanations from reputed writers as well as amateurs on why people want to write something. Something about words being powerful and lasting even after our mortality ends, or that everyone just wants to rant and rave about their problems and are unable to do so and hence turn to the all-accepting white papers, or people wanting to enlighten the whole world with their writings. So I sat about and thought a great deal about why I wanted to write(even when I suck). I don't want to enlighten anyone else, God knows how much mess I have created in my life. I have many loving caring people around me who are always there to listen to whatever I have to tell them. I don't want to leave anything behind after I die. So why do I write?

         I discovered the answer yesterday while chatting with a young(he's my age) albeit really talented writer. We were discussing my inability to write anything that people could completely relate to. On a whim I asked him a question,"Don't you think its enjoyable to write something that has a secret deeper meaning for you alone while the whole world comes up with different explanations?" He was amused, I think, when he replied,"Its deeply satisfying to do that." That's when I realised I write for that satisfaction. I realised that despite many people around me who would always listen to whatever I have to say, I myself would not tell them everything because I simply didn't want to. I wanted a last part of me reserved only for me, I didn't want anyone else to even have a glimpse of it. I did want to flaunt that last part to everyone but hide it as well. I liked it when guesses about my poems and characters were off mark, and only I knew what I had been thinking about when I wrote. I write for relief.

        I know that most probably I sound a little narcissistic, or maybe arrogant. I don't care about that though, it is always an important day for me when I understand any little thing about my really weird self. If and when you read what I wrote, do be kind enough to guess what it was about.