Sarah

Sarah was a girl of knowledge. Someone who knew what she wanted, who didn’t roam around the
ice-cream parlour deciding on what flavour to feast on. She loved books; the smell of books, her
fingers would pass through those yellowed pages, making them yellower by the touch. She lived on
a language none in her family spoke of or even knew of. She dreamt of dancing in the arms of the
scandalous yet handsome Rhett Butler, of being friends with Darrell Rivers in her six terms of Malory
Towers, of the trees of Nainital how they swished and swooshed as the times of the monsoon came.

She had her own little nook, where she’d elope when the night would give away, when the house
would be bustling with hungry men drinking to the brim, where her innocence would be juggled by
men with hungry eyes and hands the size of her timid body. All that separated her from the filthy
shenanigans of the night outside would be a cranky door latch and a world of imagination tucking
her in to sleep to a much safer abode, to a morning where the house would be so quiet that she
could finally be.

Living in a man’s world was a task she was born with. She wasn’t used to emotions, to teenage love,
to going crazy about the next MTV stint. She wasn’t used to staring at mannequins, to tapping away
on trashy touch-screens, to manicured fingers and pedicured toes.

The house rarely smelt of food. Rarely would there be a pan frying or the sizzle of burnt biriyani
masala her Ammi used to recklessly burn, but that was two years ago. Sarah was now the only
woman in between the ravenous beasts.

Her only escape would be Charu and Panchali, people of the same mind set but with four-wheelers
to step on to head back to their respective homes in the posh area of Ballygunge Place. Charu
and Panchali might be her only solace but they would never understand, would never know how
cold it was for her outside, how she was in this psychological trauma, this anxiety, how her very
adolescence was a thing she was scared of. How the very sound of Abbu’s arrival with the Koran
tightly held under his armpits was the most ironic image she had ever seen, even more than the
fictitious work she was so used to reading.

Abbu was a child molester. Someone the crew from the new show Aamir Khan had come up with
would pay a bunch of rupees to secure, someone they were taught to fend away at school, and
someone who would be a felonious criminal in the eyes of the media and the public in general.

Sarah was a girl of knowledge. Someone who knew what she wanted, but had only patches of
dreams of a reality she would never get hold of.

Inspiration:

Source: Pinterest

Little something I wrote at school, just scribbled down some words and voila had something to get rid of the worst kind of writer's block. :/ And yes I hear you, the inspiration and what I came up with are like miles apart but PINTEREST does that to you I guess. 

I think Deepika Padukone (?) looks absolutely breath-taking and I REALLY REALLY need to get my nose pierced. SIGH 

SAM B

Summer on the Sea

Chapter 1

The rusty bell rang announcing the arrival of yet another girl from the foreign lands trying to merge into the Indian populace. Wearing that ever famous Kurti with a jhola, the quintessential Gayatri Mantra weaved in red throughout the fibers and with that an attempt of carrying the bindi on her pale white forehead. And that very same air of adventure; of living life on her own terms; Of not giving a fuck.  The thousands of such people outnumbering the Goan man are an intriguing batch of people; I bet you feel the same; or else why look at them intently when they cross paths?

I hopped off my rusty high stool, walking through the circle of smoke I’d specialized through years of practice, hurried over to the door. Outside the area marked with pristine white canopies was flapping madly in the wind. The sun was out, a glint of the sea obscuring my sight. The doors of “Baga Café” were open to one and all. Obviously she was new to the place and waited for her turn to enter into the blood red walls of paradise. Yes, this is what Baga was. The minute you enter, you encounter this waft of marijuana, the intoxicating Goan beer, of white shrimp sauce and eggs tossed over in sizzling pans and a whole lot of sweat, sand and the sea. The brilliant red color pouring out of the walls wakes you up in a trance. You enter, and it takes a while for the eyes to somber down.  Amidst the chaos, is the everyday crowd of rookies, lazying around, aimlessly cooing to the hearty tunes of the big guy, Fernandez.  A Goan man with a paunch the size of his loud mouth but a heart even bigger.  With a ukulele in his hands Fernandez was the life behind our café, millions pouring into the place just to see him smile, jitter from stool to stool, and contemplate over his music ranging from the Beatles, the carpenters to my favorite Goan song, yaya mayyaya. Not one person is left seated as the whole cafe swings into groups celebrating life as it is. All in all, Fernandez could beat the crap out of any wannabe soul singer gaining fame out of reality television.

Now you’ve seated yourself far away from the disorder, opting for a quiet spot overlooking the blue waters. Your stare is calm and composed as if you’ve found out your niche in this place and have sunk in. You look somehow washed out; clearly having a hard time dealing with the parched Goan summer. A minute later you are flipping through the soiled papers of our printed menu seldom used by the usual customer. Thank God I made it a point to leave some for circumstances like these. Enjoying myself, I see you worry yourself from head to toe over the array of omelets served here. On a usual day I would have walked over recommending the Spanish omelet, by far the crowd favorite; but seeing you cringe and fret over such irrelevant details catered for sadistic pleasure in my heart. I smiled. Leaning over the bar, I looked around as sepia toned pictures of my own alcove animated through my mind. For that moment, I felt like yes things were right, that I sure had grown from being the aimless bloke, who had his life served in a silver platter, a person who would be stereotyped as a  ‘snob’. The minute dad died, me in my second year in college; it had to stop. The partying, the booze, the girls, the cars, the bikes, the living on the money from dad’s big-time company.  What came was responsibility of my family, taking a stand as the only male left in the family, caring for my little sisters and my inconsolable mother, but mainly what was left was this massive guilt of doing nothing throughout my life then. Of having no dreams, no aim, no vision, no experience to boast of. I felt incomplete and not the usual handsome stud I was made to feel, who could get around with whatever he wanted, do whatever he felt like. Not thinking through, I had bought a ticket to Goa, running away from my traumatized family, I had hid inside my friend’s house in the heart of Panaji. With hopes that the sea would provide me a new home, a place to clear my mind out, to set off to a new start. Hence commenced my summer on the sea.

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Here goes something I've been writing. About the sea, the sand, the sun, of new beginnings. Awaiting your feedback like always! 

Sam B

Fantabulous February - Day Twenty Two!

Hello Fellas,

I started out crappy with the Fantabulous Feb, but 2 posts back to back is not bad, eh? 

Today's inspiration! 

(Definitely saving this pic..Ruhani sahi hai yaar :))

"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” ― Galileo Galilei

I wish my life was as simple as Judy's next door. I wish I wouldn't have to see glasses shatter at quiet dining spaces; wallpapers scraped away from the wall; I wish promises of life long love to each other would not be broken in fits of insecurity; I wish Tess would not have to witness situations that would give up his faith in love and family at such a small age like I already had. I wish each and every night wouldn't be a new episode of watching my family crumbling to pieces. And the worst thing is how nothing can be done..how me and Tess just walk away from the room whenever we have an inkling that the skies will be rough tonight; we try to drift into our own worlds..me in my thoughts; Tess in his music. We knew that someday not far away the final words will be said; but no we were not ready today. The proceedings were undertaken. For one last time, we were all huddled into the drawing room; with the same old fireplace burning for the last 21 years. Me and Tess were told to listen to their decision; a decision we already knew but tried to forget with all our might. Ours minds were not functioning to words of comfort " This decision will not affect you two...you know we love you..don't you?" Transfixed, we nodded throughout. Then came the showering of how they were sorry and had not planned this and then my mind stopped to register. I think I saw them start their same routine once again forgetting the whole reason behind this Friday night gathering. I pulled Tess by his sleeve and took him to my safe abode; the place that had given me shelter to nights like these; sitting under the hood of our car we watched the sky, connecting dots midst the vast frozen expanse of unreachable stars....

We had loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. 

Again, check out Kanika's post!

Wrote this in a hurry, could have done better I guess. But I have limited time this time of the year (read exams) :/ And whoever is interested give it a try.

Comment!

Have an amazing Wednesday,

Sam B

Fantabulous February - Day Twenty One!

Hey :)

So finally I'll do a Fantabulous Feb post like it should be done, Check out Kanika's blog for details and join y'all!

Today's inspiration

My post : Imaginary lover

Someday I'll meet you by chance. The circumstances of our life will over the years bring us to a merged path. I imagine that from then on we will see the world differently. As I meet you, an aura of silence will spread. The  words that used to come out with ease somehow will not be exchanged. A blush, a quivering smile, a look away to gain composure. Somehow we will drop our guards and stare at each other, bright eyed...our gasps will be louder by the second. The sense of magic will be palpable. Dumbstruck, I'll see you come over; as the space between us will be diminished in the physical world and in our hearts. Our secrets will be out as whispers in the wind as we float like paper lanterns in the depths of our desires. 

All this while you will be quiet; as they say sometimes words are just not enough.

You can read Kanika's post for today, here.

That's my post for today :) and before I forget Happy Bday to my dearest of people, you are the Shizzzzz Ria. And hell yeah, words are not enough for the gratitude I feel towards you...will "I love you" do for now? :)

 To Ria *raises her tropicana* 18 yrs old! Man things are legal for you now toh; geez I'm jealous :P

*The biggest hug ever*

SAM B 

The Last one.

He said it today. He swore he would not touch it again. He swore that this would be his last taste of nicotine. He swore he would never again light one and blow out the circles with the biggest smile of satisfaction on his face. This wasn't the first time he did swear. But this time we begged. We knew that his lungs would soon be caked with tar and this would be the end. But we were helpless. All we did was begged. And all he did was promise. Time after time. Until we somehow started letting loose the rope that tied him to us. But we loved him and still begged.

There was a reason behind every Cigarette he inhaled. As if the world was in a better mood, as if at that time there was nobody other than him, the marlboro sealed between his lips and his endless thoughts that circled through his mind. 


For him, it was the same old words from every person who knew that he was slowly slipping away. The same "Don't do it. Do this one thing for me and quit what you're doing". He would listen. And maybe feel bad about hurting the said person. For not living up to his expectations. But that was all. The next step he couldn't do. Maybe he didn't try hard enough. It was all so confusing to him. And the solution to being in a dilemma again was that cylindrical pipe that he felt would relieve him of all the miseries. That would break him away from what was going around him. He would then promise that this was his last.


It all happened again. And in the end, he sneaked out to the balcony; and hesitantly savored his promised last Cigarrete again. 


The cycle still continues....


*This was inspired by an article I was reading that day about smoking as an addiction and how hard it is to leave it behind. I would love to hear your reactions*


Thanks for stopping by,


SAM B