Uninspired. Pt.1.

Mediocre sunshine peeked in through the stained and cracked glass, on the only window in the apartment. Plaster peeled off the walls and she could smell the dampness. A baby was crying somewhere and outside, street-vendors were out already shouting and yelling and pedalling. Pushing or pulling. Morning-tea smell wafted all around the building. How she hated tea. How she hated the sounds, the smells, the gnawing feeling of helplessness.

The same dreary, dusty place. The same emptiness. The same couch and the same wobbly bed. Dust covered corners of the room, the doorway to the kitchen. The doorway that had no door.

A leaky tap in the kitchen had been making awful noise all night and she didn't have the money to get it repaired. Tying a rag around it had done absolutely nothing except making it worse. She hadn't slept all night and her head throbbed with a dull pain that had become typical to her mornings.

She got up from the thin mattress which she had covered out of habit by a moth-eaten, faded cloth she had been carrying with herself since she had left home.
Out of habit, again, and not vanity, she stood up and unknowingly, lazily shuffled and dragged her feet over to the dressing table. And stared back at her reflection.

A stranger in the mirror. Kohl smeared, sleepy eyes looked back at her. She had been wearing the same set of clothes for four days straight now. And she was sure she smelled, but she couldn't tell. There was grime under her fingernails. A couple were broken, a few others about to. A soiled bandaid was tighly wrapped around her left index finger.. result of a gruesome accident in the kitchen, trying to cut onions with a blunt knife.

She ran her hand through her hair and her half-broken nails pulled out some strands. It hurt. Banging footsteps on the corridor outside. Neighbour's children. One squealed, and the other shrieked. And their mother bellowed at them, yelled at them, and then began complaining in that nasal, annoying monotone. And she carried on all day, with the clinking of the utensils, with the swish-swash of the water, with the flapping of wet clothes being hung up, the story of her life. Her consistent babble of which only she was the listener in addition to being the speaker.

The mirror rattled as someone on the other side hammered a nail into the wall. Presumably. A glass of water lay on the floor. The water rippled, splashed, the glass tilted and then the water was spilt, splashing on the floor. It ran across to her feet and travelled all around them and in between. She stepped out of the puddle and moved towards the window. Her feet made dirty brown footprints on the already filthy floor. The floor felt slippery under her bare feet as she reached the window. Leaning on the ledge she peered outside and it was the same.

Like everyday. Never changing. Bicyclists. Scooters. Cars. Trucks. The sun shone strong on all of them. It was like a spotlight gone wrong. It was too strong and it was too hot. It was yellow and brown. And hazy. Noises on the road and noises in her head. Dust swirled up from the street and covered her thinking. Her eyes stung and she recoiled violently, a mad coughing fit. She sat down against the wall, wheezing. Water.. water.. it wasn't there. She trembled and laid her head against the solidness of the wall. It was not even remotely cool, just hard, solid wall. And it smelled bad.

She was thirsty and hungry. Getting up with a groan she went to the kitchen and dug out a mouldy loaf of bread from the fridge that didn't work. And decided to use whatever butter was left of the small packet she'd bought last week. Taking the knife she scraped all of it off and smeared it across a slice of bread. It barely covered one. Breakfast for one.

With food in her hand, on the way to the couch, she banged the switchboard to make the ceiling fan work. She hadn't even noticed it had stopped. Well, it didn't feel that there was a fan in the room, anyway. Chewing the hard tasteless, crusty slice of bread she scratched her leg unknowingly. After finshing eating she ran her hands over her stomach, trying to sooth the rumbling. Like a baby who won't stop crying.

The room smelled musty, the fan clattered and clattered and then stood still. Unmoving. She sighed deeply and drew her legs up on the couch. Rolled into a ball and nuzzling the arm of the couch, cried. She knew she was the only one crying. She knew she was the only one crying for herself.

Now there was thumping on the ceiling. A noise.. it sounded like glass smashing. On something. Someone. She didn't care. Not anymore.. she started sobbing uncontrollably and rolled onto her side. She wished that only holding her breath could make her die. But it was insane. It was impossible.

Getting up.. lying on the dusty green couch, with painful eyes and a cramp in her neck. And numb all over. Panic grabbed her as she wondered where she was. And then it dawned on her slowly.. but steadily. Fear, as her heartbeat, mounting till she could take it no more. She screamed. At the top of her voice. With all the air she could gather in her lungs. She could hear a million other voices screaming with her.

The room grew silent all at once. A constant ringing sound took its place. She realized the screaming was in her head. She hadn't made a sound. But her throat hurt. Judging by the sounds of crickets and the coldness she felt.. it must be well into the night. But the traffic never ran out. Old bollywood songs could be heard from across the street. Baritone voices mixed with the unbearable noise of speeding, screeching and honking vehicles. Her head thudded with a piercing, pounding pain. Her shoulders ached.

Tears sprang up in her eyes. She felt a lump rise in her throat. She felt her face burning up, her ears going hot and the hair on the back of her hand prickling up. Hugging herself she whimpered till the sobbing stopped. Like a ghost, she went over to the window and smelled the air. It smelled of night. And rotting garbage. She noticed the traffic was relatively less than it was in the morning but it made the same clattering noise, the sounds of metal against metal. The rumbling. The unearthly vibrations.

She turned around and crossing the room in long strides reached the door and stepped out. Stained mosaic floor. Broken bottles lay on one side, on another were newspapers. Probably were used to pack something in.

May as well wait for the elevator.. she pressed the button with her left thumb. Ten seconds.. It rattled up. Metallic clinks echoed all around the corridors and she thought to herself. She should be scared. But nothing was child's play anymore. As she could see it coming up towards her.

Up. Up. Up.. she imagined it. Imagined a skeletal face with a scar right across it, skin stretched tight against the gruesome grotesqueness of a face she'd never seen. Sunken eyes. Lips curled in a sneer. Eyes darting in every direction. An ugly half-smile pasted across its face. It was coming. Coming towards her in the smelly elevator.

No. It may even be running, gliding, sliding towards her on the stairs. On her right. No, on her left. She was sure it was coming towards her right now. Not in the lift. But now she could almost feel its ratlling breath on her neck. The smell of fear. Closing in on her. Her heart beat wildly, she could feel it throbbing at the base of her neck. Her throat was constricting quickly. She gasped for breath. And gulped down a mouthful of air.

At the second the lift reached the floor, she clutched the iron rods and started shaking it back and forth. But then she felt weak and stopped. Finally she managed to drag open the door. Inside was a three-legged wooden stool, the liftman was supposed to sit here. But she had never seen him. Inside or out of it.

The life stank of cigarette smoke. There were etchings all over the sides. Names and phone numbers. Some wrote names of Gods. Some had scratched in vulgarities. It still made her snicker. Sound of the breath she took in echoed around the narrow walls of the elevator. It lurched to a stop on the ground floor.

Without looking at anything, not even once. She ran out the main door out into the pavement. There was no-one. Just cold air swishing around her. It made her happy for a moment. This was perfect. Just "perfect". She looked up at the sky and took in a deep breath. She saw just a little right of her, a speeding truck was rushing in closer. Closer. At last, this had lasted a long time, she thought.

She stepped out into the road.

"Nothing much.. " Sure.

I don't know what kind of people seek refuge in writing.

I have to get rid of the TV. And to think I hated the mere sight of that screen some months ago. I've been reading too much of the surveys and stuff and they say watching the television is for depressed folk. What do I make of it? But anyway, watching three movies in a day is pretty cool. I mean three full movies. I've seen parts of six or seven in a day but I'm aiming at 4 full ones next.

And also, I just read multitasking's not good for you and you should do one thing at a time. Or you never get anything finished. Well, I could never get anything finished in the first place anyway. But I thought multitasking was a rare talent. Yay me. I've been known to read, eat, watch TV and listen to music at the same time. And daydream about something/someone completely different with it.

Every year the Republic Day is turned into a 4 hour escape/torture into the fantastic/revolting world of awards. Okay, add badges, ties and blazers. Green and blue and maroon. The last one more like brown. Had the first look at it today. They could really try searching for a better word, 'cause hello.. it is NOT "uniform" we are talking about. Take a friggin' look at the dictionary.

13 days to go for the Exams and nothing's done yet. I'm busy doing nothing. It's an art though. The world's got too many perfectionist overachievers to experience something as laid-backness. Okay, laziness for some. But who cares? ;D

Sans.

A dash of red fury
In a cauldron full of hate
Complete with a debatable date
Could it be me, could it be you
It could be anyone, anyone could do

Paint the Mona Lisa
Give her a tear in her eye
There you are with the Taj Mahal
Let's paint it black tonight

It was a fiasco of favourite colours
Red and black and white
It was a rollercoaster of happiness
On a sea of starlight

The oars made a lovely sound
Against the silver water
It was like a lullaby
For the lamb to the slaughter

The air ringing with the angels' sweet laughter
Rose to a defeaning din
The boat gently rocking like a sleeping baby's cradle
Lurched, stopped and began to spin

The boat disappeared with the silvery stars
And you rose into thin air
Into the sky so dark
You were someone else, and the difference so stark

I couldn't utter a single word, even if I dared
The demonic nightmares had me ensnared
You had snapped the bond that we had shared so far
And finally you had declared..

The water pulled me down so low
I screamed but I did not scream
I cried but it couldn't be seen
I was an inch but close to dying and you went away.. blissfully flying.

Like a dream.

Bubbles and Blankets.

I see an entirely new species of people everyday. It's as if interesting people don't exist anymore. They're all the same person with varying levels of awareness of what they are. And they're not much. It's nice observing everything from a cozy bubble, a blanket of comfortable peace wrapped around yourself.

Get the Sports Day over with, then we can resume with normal life, if we can call it that. It's hard class-hopping everyday. But it's better that way, I've always wanted to have a two-person class, and most of the time it's only a one-person class.

Teachers getting ruder, students getting dumber. What kind of a world do I live in? It's not all teacher and not all students. But it's a good number of the defected. People were never really good, but this is getting to be too much. And I'm another step to becoming a full-fledged misanthrope.

The bubble's not so soft anymore. It now clinks while I walk.

Marchpast practice, full on. Last one tomorrow. Dress rehearsals. I always loved staying in school till eight or so. Loved travelling in the bus at night. With someone turning off the lights and scaring the kids. But then I was never the "kid" and never the "bad" person. Just a spectator. Bliss. All the Annual/Sports Days were good back then. I can't really be sure what fate has in store for me tomorrow.

Marching as a parade in unison. It had me thinking.. what if someone turned rebel and broke into a run yelling at the top of their voice? I like the marchpast. I really like it and I'm in it because of that. But it just hit me in the head. Why do we do this? Is there really a valid reason : Why? Does anything have a valid reason for existing? I would never know.

I sometimes think if it's me or the world.

I'm running out of things to look forward to. Anyway, volunteering, handling the kids.. that's one thing I can live with. Aww, cute. It was nice how the teacher incharge remembered me from a trip we went on 4 ears ago. Felt good. Then I just hope I get to escape and watch the rest of the rehearsals. It's entertainment, at least, if not the best way to spend my time. One of the best things is getting up late and boarding the bus in the afternoon.

I guess something's wrong with me. People live in the past, I'm beginning to live in the future. It's as if my school's life's already over. But IT IS as good as over. My semi-class, mundane afternoons, cramming away stuff. Banging my head against my bubble. Hurts, but thank goodness for that, it's hurt a lot more if I were to live bubble-free.

I'm living a life I hate.
I'm beginning to believe in fate.
I just need to get some things straight.
But I hope, I truly hope, it doesn't get too late.

A Thing of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

I've heard of people getting Writer's block.. I've experienced it too. But a Reader's block is new for me. I didn't even know that something like this exists but, however hard I try I can't get myself to read more than two pages on a stretch. Hard Times - Charles Dickens. This BOOK is giving me a hard time coming to terms with reality. Perceptual, ofcourse. Or I hope. Why am I starting to think that I won't be able to finish reading this thing ever?

I mean I've read lots of Classics. Lots and lots of them. Then why not this. And I couldn't even get myself to read more than a quarter of A Tale Of Two Cities. It's something to do with the author, probably. Positively. It has to do something with the author. Moving on, like yesterday's obsession with groupies and supermodels, today we have Artists. Lawrence Alma Tadema. Particularly this painting called "A Favourite Custom" which was painted in the year 1909.



Breathtakingly beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off this composition. And I didn't even know that I could call Fine Arts one of my obsessions. Phew. I loved this one a little less than the first, but considerably. Fascinating because the far left portion of it seemed to me like a photograph instead of paint. Incredible.


Take a look at it closely. Right here. There is -- Lord Frederic Leighton's "Flaming June". I truly believe a person looks the most beautiful when he or she's asleep.


No words. Absolutely no words. And there was one more I loved. "The Roses of Heliogabalus". Love of roses. Since time immemorial. I mean, since I can remember.


As The Roses of Heliogabalus was painted during the winter, Tadema arranged to have roses sent weekly from the French Riviera for four months to ensure the accuracy of each petal.

How can people not like Art? Whoever says that has to be lying. And when even sploshes of random colours on canvas is considered Art. Modern. Then what is not? My scribbles turn out to be works of Art when I finish joining them together. Voila! The precious work of a perpetually depressed teen. Oh, but that's private collection. Not for viewing. You won't even find them in some Art Gallery somewhere, so don't you even consider googling it. :D

School re-opens tomorrow after the Exams. Sad. There's not much to look forward to. It sharpens the sadness. But anyway, life's less than exciting but there is some sort of "peace" going around inside me. Is this what I asked when I wrote this poem of mine. I just happened to stumble upon it while going through my previous posts. The sadness gets sharpened with peace. Well, at least now I know Peace is NOT = Happiness. Not always. Not ever. Maybe substantially but not completely. Nothing's "enough for me". Yes.

The gloom always hovers over the joy like a troublesome raincloud. Ready to burst. And I never liked using umbrellas. Sigh.