Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Water Bodies (Part 1)

It is that time of the day again- night. The security guard's whistling sessions are creeping me out more than I already am; the dogs are howling in chorus, allowing my heartbeat to synchronise with it; and finally, there is the ticking of the clock that is growing more and more prominent with each passing second.
I have come off to a place where no one can question me, no one can judge me and no one can dictate me. If being alone is what everyone else wants, so be it. And as I say this, I pull out all the elements from my body, one by one. My shadow is the first one to leave, and honestly, this action doesn't even surprise me. I then lay my mind and heart on the ground, and they begin quarrelling while walking hand in hand. Now, it is my soul's turn. It acts a bit reluctant at first, but it gives up as I apply more force. It stretches out of my body and wanders around the stars, not knowing what to do next. My conscience tries to talk some sense into me, but I shush it and let it dissolve in the atmosphere.
The street lights conk off, foreshadowing a series of events. A few bubbles appear and dance around me as if I am the supreme light, but in reality, I am just a target of their crystal ball like properties. I know they are teasers for my upcoming plight or rather additions to the current one.
I try and prick the first bubble- the texture of which feels gooey- with my index finger, but it pulls me into a different world; one with an ideal starry night at a seaside, bearing just the right amount of darkness and the right amount of sparkle. But then again I know, this scenery isn't as pristine as it looks. 
A quarter part of my body watches over the gentle sea that balanced both its soothing self and its rage admirably, while my soles attempt to prove their obstinacy by halting their movement. They start longing for an outrageous wish, of transforming the ever beautiful sand dunes into quicksand. And this desire, to my astonishment, crawls into my nerves like an epidemic. I witness it come alive as the perfect blend of oatmeal and gold vanishes and a swamp comes into existence.
The adamant marshland tries to swallow me up, but a sudden downpour lends me assistance in standing back up. It transports me to a distant place and it occurs to me that the conniving droplets were saving me for themselves. Luckily, I am able to locate a safe spot, just enough to protect me from the merciless raindrops. I wait for the shower to subside and so it does. I extend my hand out in the form of a cup to be sure of its departure and subsequently pull my limbs out of the shade and start walking towards nowhere. However, the coast remains clear only for a while as I meet the torrent of water halfway with no place to run or to hide. I decide that I am not up for a battle and flee from the scene, letting the raindrops smack me as they please. Maybe giving in will show cowardice on my part, but I do not feel like I am in a position to justify my actions, even to myself. And I do not need to either, with my conscience being gone.
I run and run only to be drenched by another water body again- my sweat. The muggy atmosphere causes it to stick to my skin. I pause for a moment to regain my breath, but all the sweat seems to drain me. My mouth feels dry. I do not feel thirsty in particular, yet...

To be continued...

Washing emotions away
(Picture credits: Sara Herranz)

Thursday, 15 June 2017

The bee, the butterfly and the blossom

Dawn had just begun sprinkling her fairy dust on our homeland, and it clearly meant another day of struggle for me. To others what I experienced was just another natural phenomena, but to me, it was something greater; something worth pondering over.
Being a flower meant I had certain responsibilities to fulfil, and catering to other's needs was one of them or maybe all of them. Either way, I had to please everyone just by being present; be it for early morning strollers or for a canine's claim for territory.
My usual contemplation was often interrupted by the butterfly's noiseless arrival. The fluttering of her wings was as subtle as one's blinking of eyes while the patterns on it were so detailed and symmetrical, that her body seemed like a fine piece of tapestry. Like a pair of scissors, she would fold her wings, with the exception of slicing the winds into a scented breeze. Using the word 'scissors' or any other pointed object for that matter and her name in the same sentence could have been morally incorrect and visually disturbing, but that's what helped in creating a juxtaposition with her dainty self.
Young girls saw her as another 'pretty thing' nature had to offer and they frequently set out to chase her. They, however, remained oblivious to the fact that she was swift in her movements. Perhaps the human species used her as a metaphor not because she was a universal emblem of love but because this was the closest they could get to her. And honestly, who could have even guessed that she was once tightly wrapped in a silken covering and even before that was locked to the ground?
Just when I would attempt to give her a description better than that of 'The Mill on the Floss,' she would come and perch herself gently on one of my petals. As a reflex, my petals would stretch out further and form a curve in a manner that would allow her to fit snugly. Not to sound vain, but when she landed on me, it felt like she was adding to my beauty. The motifs on her front fell perfectly in sync with my artistic structure. Together we made a lovely pair of one charming being atop the other.
She was certainly one pleasant soul, and the nectar she collected appeared bland in front of her as it was I who would end up relishing on her sweet aftertaste once she made her departure.
It was only a matter of minutes before my busy afternoons were put to a halt by one busy creature herself. Her stinger was always upright like some high-headed noble and probably too sharp for others to notice her mellow and grounded side. One could say that she was the epitome of 'Pride' but at the same time subject to 'Prejudice.' She was, of course, impulsive and blatant in her conduct and in many cases, these traits overpowered her. For instance, if a passer-by would trace my ends out of affection, she would be quick to charge at him or her. In her defence, she was just being on the lookout for me. In fact, she was that one spirit who in spite of being reckless could induce the right notions in my mind.
Furthermore, her sipping on my nectar left me with a tingling sensation- something moderate yet extreme; something more balanced. Nothing could have been more proper and well in place than this.
Could I have been any luckier?
One let me experience unfamiliar senses, the other made me more sensible.
One followed the laws of nature, the other justified it as well.
One was magical, the other mystical.

But as soon as I would summarise a comparison between the two, dusk would make it dawn on me- that they were possibly an ideal match, and I was unknowingly providing them with a potion that would let their saga blossom.

One true pairing
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

And she learnt to fly

She often found herself
Lost in a bundle of thoughts,
Sadly, what belonged to her
Were the adjoining three dots.

She stood out
In her balcony,
Others looked up
With a look of pity.

'On cloud nine'
Was a baseless paradigm
'In seventh heaven'
Was used for the sake of rhyme.

The feathers of her pillow
Flew her to a dreamy creamy world
Needless to say, once dawn awoke
There were no wings to unfurl.

The caterpillar had it better
While its days in a confined space
Were calculated, were numbered
Hers were all but a fancy lace.

Folding a satin brooch of a butterfly
And a pair of scissors as a tool
She ripped off all its embellishments
To wind it around a wooden spool.

All she ever longed for
Was to witness a free fall
But the universe and her desire
Were engaged in an eternal brawl.

So she wove herself a set of wings
By letting her quill spill and sigh,
And others couldn't possibly fathom
That she had actually learnt to fly.

~Poem 33

"What if I fall?" "Oh but my darling, what if you fly?" -e.h
(Picture credits- Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Monday, 26 September 2016

Bridge the gap

All we had
Was a gentle stream
Flowing between us

Strange how it compelled us
To arrive at the shore
Despite the marshy land
Despite the saw-edged pebbles

So one fine day,
You said let's build a bridge
I was apprehensive
So you built one on your own-

A rickety one; a flimsy one,
A rocky one; a shaky one

Perhaps to alter our inconvenience
But today I rack my brains thinking-

Was that your strength?
 Or, 
Was that your incapacity?

Maybe you "bridged" the gap
Quite literally.


~Poem 32

I fretted, but I made it too,
You didn't even step forward, and claimed you had the flu.
(Picture credits: unknown; Source: We heart it)

Monday, 19 September 2016

Interview: International Relations by Adele Archer

Recently I got the golden opportunity of having a discussion with the debutant authoress Adele Archer, in regard to her book titled 'International Relations.' And no, her book is not about globalisation, or maybe it is...*giggles*



Here is how our conversation went:

For starters, could you tell us what your trilogy is about?
Arghh! I am so bad at blurbs and synopses…synopsis…sin…summaries of the book. Well, I hate to call it a romance, and yet it is. But an offbeat romance with a difference. It’s an amusing, yet adventurous tale of two seemingly opposing people’s struggle to be together. However, life conspires to force them apart at every turn. See? I’m rubbish at synopses. I’d suggest you read the blurbs instead, I slaved hours over those babies.

According to your website your inclination towards writing came from your late sister, but where does the inspiration of the two main characters, Milo and Dee come from?
I remember being bored by fictional women in novels and TV when I was growing up. They weren’t the women I knew. I wanted to portray a female character that was multidimensional – like real women. Dee, I suppose, is a little bit of me. But me without any filters. And with more bad life choices. Milo is the archetypal brooding, enigmatic male protagonist – yet fragile and troubled. Actually, my husband absolutely loathes Milo. I had to point out that characters a bit like him are littered all throughout literature. He just responded that all women must like ‘bad boys’ (he actually used a different ‘b’ word, but I’m trying to be polite). And in a way, we do. But I would never personally choose one in real life, though. I’m too practical. And I think too much of myself.

What challenges did you face while writing and publishing your books?
Well…children, having a day job, having to actually talk to people. I know, I had a lot of hurdles and crosses to bear. Up to now, though, I’ve never found writing itself a struggle. What I do find challenging is allowing myself to sit down and write, when I feel guilty about neglecting everything else. I don’t suppose I’m alone in that.

What piece of advice would you like to share with aspiring writers?

I’ve said this before, but I think it’s difficult to be a young writer. When I was young, I believed that to be considered a proficient writer, you had to fit into a certain way of doing things. It was only when I matured that I realised I had to be 100% myself, or it was never going to work. It seems completely obvious now, but I just had to stop pretending, and do my own thing. Even if everybody else hates what I do. Because ‘me’ was the only thing I had that was unique. So that’s what I’d suggest, be yourself. You will certainly have a quirk that is all your own. Use it.

Could you give us a fun fact about your work?
How about three?
A) ‘International Relations’ (which went through a number of titles) was originally called, ‘And After That’ (rubbish, ay?). My husband thought up its final title. I never much cared for it!
B) In ‘American Cousins’, Kirby the cat isn’t fictitious, she’s my actual cat.
C) In ‘American Cousins’, the sheep joke happened in real life (sorry if you haven’t read ‘American Cousins’ but now you have a reason to)!

What can readers expect from the second and third parts of your book?
I’ve got to tell you - things get a little dark as the story progresses. I didn’t do that as some kind of ploy, it was purely timing. I was going through a bereavement during the latter stages, and I suppose that was where my head was at. Life isn’t rainbows and lollipops. There are times when I just had to let the story go its own way, even though ‘escapist me’ wanted to put a jollier spin on everything. But the narrative had a mind of its own and dictated that I couldn’t. People think it’s odd when I say that, because it was up to me, right? I wrote it. But it’s true. The story sometimes wrote itself.

Are you working on any other projects other than your series?
No. I’m a ‘starter-completer’ (it’s a thing). I can’t move on until something is finished. Other than my blog, working on Book III is all I am doing right now.

Would you like to venture into other genres apart from romance?
Yes! I’d like to think I will never write another romance novel again (but I can’t promise). My favourite genres are fantasy and murder-mystery, but I’m nervous that I don’t have an aptitude for writing them. But you never know until you try. One book I have no choice but to write will not be fiction at all. I will probably be writing the story of my childhood (which I won’t enjoy writing a single bit as I didn’t have a very happy childhood). But I imagine I won’t write it until I’m an old lady – don’t want to offend anyone, you see.

What is your favourite book from the classic era and from the contemporary era?
‘Jane Eyre’ would certainly be my favourite book from the classical era – I love the brooding Mr Rochester. Hmm, he sounds familiar… Closely followed by ‘Pride and Prejudice’ (of course) when I’m in a more frivolous mood. From the modern era, I’d have to go for ‘The Game of Thrones’ saga. I read them all. Murder, romance, intrigue, war, politics. There just isn’t anything out there quite like it.

What was the most fun part and the most difficult part while painting your fictional story?
The most fun part was seeing what had been rattling around my head for years actually taking form on paper. The most difficult part was bringing the saga to a close. Those characters had been with me since my teens (when I originally came up with the story). It was hard to say goodbye - they’d almost become real people for me. But I’ve definitely said goodbye.

Name three or more things you cannot write without.

A laptop (I hate writing at a desktop computer). Coffee (sorry, obvious). Google (‘nuff said).

Is there anything else you would like to say to your readers?
The story is nearly at a close (well it certainly is for me, since I’m just editing Book III). ‘International Relations’ might not change your life, but it might just take you away from the stresses of yours. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Adele is currently working on the third and final part of her saga. You can meanwhile purchase the first two parts of her book from Amazon. (Currently, hardcopies are only available in US and UK )
You can even subscribe to her website- Adele Archer or her blog- Adele Archer Writes if you would like to know more about her.

P.S You can see my review of the book here. I highly recommend reading it!


Monday, 12 September 2016

At war

Our wedding bells rung
Like every other couple's
Except ours was a commencement
Of a forthcoming battle.

She was alerted beforehand
That setting me off
Meant putting everything at stake
But surrendering isn't an option.

Unlike me, her only armaments
Are her dangling ornaments
That jingle as she marches
And what the enemy clan is eyeing.

As for allies
She just has her neighbours
Who again might switch sides
As part of a strategy.

She could fall prey
To their constant scheming
But I know she will rise
Like she was never pinned down.

And even if the God of War
Descends on the battlefield
To declare a truce
Victory will still prevail.

Every second of her survival
Is a tussle in itself
Because our probabilities
Can turn out to be inaccurate.

She could just be out in the garden
Watering her white roses
When the bulletin would be updated
With blood stained reports from the warfare.

She could be slipping a postcard
Through the mouth of a mailbox
When my lifeless body
Would pass her shadow.

Once the news breaks out
It will hit her like a grenade
And though she would shield herself
She'd still thrive as a worthy opponent.

If there would be a series
Of missiles shot to honour me
Give her a tribute there and then
Because she is the real warrior.

And if at all an epitaph
Would be laid in my name,
Have her sacrifices engraved too
For she is the one at war.


~Poem 31


Glorify her risks
(Picture credits: Gunduz Agayev)

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Entwined in swirls

For a person with absolutely
No sense of rhythm,
But only blues,
You sure have cast quite a spell.

From bearing two left feet
To those awkward hand movements,
I have come across a long way
As now I am both tamed and free.

Look at me Honey,
See how I am dancing,
The general audience isn't bothering me,
But I am in accordance with everything natural.

The grass is getting tickled,
The sun is beaming from arc to arc,
The wind is blowing in my favour,
While you're in awe of your own creation.

So tell me who requires mirror walls,
When one has a muse like you?
And tell me who needs a pair of bellies,
When one is being propped up in your arms?

~Poem 30

A feeling of freedom like never before
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Pinterest)