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

The Artist

Midst the twisting streets, buzzing motor scooters, leaf-shaded cafes, faded roof tiles, cigarette smoke, ancient buildings he sat on a patch of sidewalk his belongings haphazardly strewn all around him.
A vagabond artist noted for a life of travel between festivals, Franz solely lived from the coins tossed next to his drawings by foreign tourists in awe of his masterpieces.

He sat alone in his own bubble tracing lines to match the cathedral round the corner he was attempting to replicate. His board hitched on the cobbled street just beside the city square, his palette colored bright today he was living out dreams on a sheet.

Long forgotten were the fights with Martha over the scanty money he produced yesterday, the begging eyes of his two little sons craving for a loaf of bread to fill their empty stomachs. Today he didn’t have a care in the world about the self imposed deadlines, the marketing, the need to produce good art for his existence.

As the colors started to bend, he slaved away on the canvas perfecting every line, smoothening out the edges, darkening the shadowed parts.
High accolades from the crowd filled the square as more and more tourists thronged around Franz staring at the impossible, murmurs of “how he did it?” Some taking photographs to show to their friends and family. Some sympathized, others just stood in awe of him.
People were more interested in seeing the cathedral through his oil and pastel rather than through the sanctity of their naked eyes. With the rattling of coins, they sure did guarantee a safe escape from the painful words Martha never failed to spit out at him.
As the last rays of light scanned over the place, he hustled away from his usual spot, cleaning up the mess of paint and hurried over to his den.
On the way he stopped by the local bakery, tugging along a warm loaf of bread with his baggage of tools. The warm bread felt heavier than even the sturdy wooden board, bet the kids would rush over to their papa with shouts of joy.
As he walked past the dark waters of the Seine, his mind wandered off to the days when life was so much easier.

All he now knew was that the night was to be a good one, a lot like they used to be before the night when he lost one eye.
Yes, tonight he would sleep in peace, he would glimpse his angels savor the bread, he would kiss Martha good night and rock her to sleep, tonight he would be intoxicated by memories and feelings, a very rare event in his two dimensional life of a struggling artist.

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This is written for Ruhani's Mindbowing May DAY 16!, check out you'll!
I started off with the first inspiration; the second inspiration just happened to find its place somewhere in between. Yes I be total coolness B)
Anyway SOME BIG STUFF happened in the past few days blog-wise. More on that later, maybe on my next post here.

Love :*
Sam B

"The ones that love us never really leave us"

"Do you miss your son?"

"Yes". 

In the beginning,
she said yes because her son was murdered overseas at a place where she could not protect him. 

She said yes, because your son isn't supposed to go before you, that's just not the way life is supposed to happen.

She said yes, because Tom was a brave kid, so daring, so young. 

She said yes, because her son had gone, never to come back, until the haunting memories of his funeral would obscure her dreams.

She said yes maybe a thousand times as millions of people, lovers and strangers thronged her house over and over again. Her house was stocked with so much food that would last her the whole of the year. Or maybe two.  She had flowers so many that she didn't know what to do with them. Cards expressing love, sadness and memories of the fondest kind. She even had awkward conversations with the kids that lived on her street, their mothers forcing them to check up on her every other day. 

Then came the day of the funeral. The first time she had cried in the stillness of the night as she had set the time for the memorial pretty late; telling no one of the secret memorial she performed at the quaint, shady spot at the nearby park. Somewhere where Tom would be blessed with knowledge, somewhere where she could silently tiptoe to talk sweet nothings to all that was left of him. An aesthetically engraved stone of his name and a patch of green filled with white daises he had always loved.

Time passed as she slowly turned older. Every year she would reach that same spot she picked out for him with a bunch of wild daises in hand. One more year accomplished. One more year set. One more year of solitude, seclusion, isolation.

Years have passed since. One last time she was asked by the local newspaper reporting of Tom's unexpected death 20 years back. For the final time, "Do you miss your son?" A silent pause followed by a silent denial.

In the end,
She said no; because her son was murdered overseas at a place where she could not protect him, he had gone knowing what to expect, doing a job he had loved.

She said no; because even if your kid isn't supposed to go first but you have to trust them and let then go because you know he had been young, happy, brave and strong while he was at the ends of his life.

She said no; because her son had not gone at all. What all remained of him was not only that little spot at the park by her house, it wasn't only the books and pictures she had left of him. It was so much more than the inanimate objects around the house she kept close to her fearing they would somehow vanish. She didn't need a Polaroid of Tom tucked in her hand purse, she didn't need to stare at her desktop background till tears flooded her tired eyes. She had learnt to carry him in her heart.

After so many years she finally understood "The ones that love us never really leave us, You can always find them cradling deep inside our heart".

~Sam B
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This is written for Ruhani's Mindbowing May.

Firstly, I feel the writing could have been better had I paid a little more effort, went through it a little too hastily. Other than that, I feel a little sad at the weak response for Mindblowing May, not many bloggers are actually joining in like they did during Fantabulous February, I know people are busy and all but it feels so nice to see 10 more people write on the same topic.I hope Ru's amazing efforts bring a lot many people to join in because she's doing such a good job. I love love the inspirations this time. So variant and fun. And yes Harry Potter FTW. Join in all you creative heads out there!

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

The 29th day of Fantabulous February!

Heyloo Guys,

It's the very last day of Feb, and the end of Fantabulous February!! You will be missed dearly, I swear. 

Anyway moving on to today's inspiration which by the way is very appropriate considering its that one extra day today!

The leap of faith

Every day at 6 in the morn, Kamal would scurry up the hill in his torn pair of Batas, bustling through the Deodars; reaching his everyday spot just by the banks of the Teesta. Amongst the gurgle, burble and the splash his eyes would juggle between looking up and checking the time from his crooked watch every once in a while. He couldn’t wait as the time had come. The rush of Adrenaline. The leap of faith.

"Jumping heights" has been working in Sikkim for two years now. With its base over the gushing Teesta below, it is a must visit for every adrenaline junkie far and near. Single-handedly, under the efforts of Sameer shah, a professional Bungee jumper from Australia, "Jumping heights" is the country’s first cantilever bungee platform built over a rocky cliff overlooking the lifeline of Sikkim, the emerald Teesta.

Kamal couldn’t wait as he saw hordes of people gathering over the cliff; all geared up and ready. He knew the whole story behind every jump. Standing on the edge, people would look down into the rocks, the daunting shallow river below. He would scrutinize every person up there, there mind screaming out fears of: What if the cord snaps? What if I hit my head? What if? He would watch as Sameer would delicately assure the person of no such fear. With legs tied up, the guy would take baby steps and and hold on to the iron guard; unable to let go.

Falling is the only decision that makes us think twice. To release or not?  To stop still or to hear the loud thumping under our chest.

“Ready 1,2,3…bunjee” Kamal could hear Sameer shout; the waiting jumpers join in. First take, the person doesn’t jump. The trainer shouts words of support. “You can do it. It’s all in the mind” Once again, “Ready one, two, three..Bungee” and he plunges into the valley, shouting his lungs out.

The process would go on, every jump, every leap of faith, every release was ultimate solace to Kamal. He knew he’d never be able to join in; what with the 10 ruppee note in his second hand shorts. He scurried up the hill heading back home chuckling to what Bhaijaan had said the other day; “Kamal it’s okay to not do the bungee; you should be knowing that driving in India is much riskier than jumping off a cliff.” However absurd that sounded, he somehow knew that was true.

He bid the Teesta farewell for the day and to his prospect to feel alive with promises of being back tomorrow, to feel the rush one more time, to feel the infinite.

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Waiting for your feedback! 

Bungee jumping has been in my bucket list right up the ladder and being a harcore adrenaline jumkie I CANNOT WAIT TO DO IT! It gets to me even when I'm typing this over here. I CAN'T WAIT TO DO IT..whenever it is. Anyway, I hear Soumi is going to host the MEMORABLE MARCH! So exciting. Kanika, it's been a lovely journey...though I've started pretty late, it's been fab! 

And a big SHOUTOUT to ANTARA, KIRTI, NIL, RUHANI, PEABEE ...and whoever else is giving the dreadful BOARDS tomorrow. Chill guys and do your bestest! 

To read Kanika's post - http://stone-paper-scissor.blogspot.in/2012/02/last-and-very-fabulous-day-of.html 
To read Anuja's heartfelt post ( totally touched mine)-http://thetimesofmylifelovendhim.blogspot.in/2012/02/fantabulous-february-day-29.html

Stay calm and take the leap forsureeee,

Ciao

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 

Big Fat Post Below :)

Shadowed Verses 

She slips out of her blankets

Hearing them whimper asleep

Her shadows cross dark corridors

Door to door, she creeps.

She’s unstoppable now,

All her heart now desires

To write under the candle light

Her passion high on fire.

She runs through her words

Draws stories in her head

They sleep in peace knowing

Naima has not gone ahead.

She cares of no one now

She leaves her qualms behind

Naima Ali, the upcoming writer

Is the picture she has in mind.

She remembers how they would torture her

Strangle her passion to death

She remembers the pain, the fear, the sweat

The obstacles, the walls they would set.

The pain she feels, the anger in her

She puts into her lines

Like a burning hearth that ignites the soul

Her words shout out her cries.

This is the Naima she dreams of

This is the Naima she strives to be

Through verses of love, she’ll topple weak walls

Which veiled her face, from the world to see.

Yesterday I had this "huge" emotional upsurge; very weird I tell you. Makes you go waaaaaaaaaa....but then brings out the poet in me which is a plus point. Made me write 2 poems and I'm pretty happy with how they turned out to be :P Ok I'm done with my haughtiness, so Enjoy and show some love through your comments :P


And I had NO idea Naima means tranquil. I had heard the name before and instantly loved it. Hence Naima Ali :)

Anddddd We play holi tomorrow. So Im superr duperrr excited. And Ujaan is in town and Koko is here too which makes things awesome. 

And I have PICS to share...Sam B meets her canon presents u these -

This was at Shankha's wild yet beautiful garden. Damned I don't remember the name of this beauty :P

Football at our terrace. Golu doing a super duper flip!

@Balarampur village. Mother India I call her!

My little cousin Tito; my only model for pics :P. I love him to pieces. 

Tito again.

The days of Film. Some old picture I found of baba in his college years. :) Memories.

Football @ our terrace. It can't get any better! I wish I wouldn't have cut off Golu's legs. Shit :P

Dida, one of the strongest people I know. She knows to live life. <3

Sam B and the cam. What can I say? I play around with it too much you see :|

Thanks for stopping by,

Happy Holi once again!

SAM B

PS All pics takes with a Canon EOS 500D

He ambles along our square

He ambles along our square

Everyday at 4.30 in the evening we play football at the field in front of Shankha’s.

Earlier, there would be a gang of two entire football teams with something like 22 players playing, chasing after the ball, practicing passes, dribbling, playing matches. But now, these days, there are just 5 or 6 of us running around in this rocky dusty yet large football field of ours.

You can find grass patches here and there, but at very few places; so it really hurts our feet every time we run over a rock or if we fall down and skin our knees. In spite of all that, this is our everyday spot, our own playground.

I must say we are pretty regular. We try to make it a point to give some time to “play” every single day. There are times when we turn up to play late and there are days when we skip playing and instead bicycle around the campus. However, everyday without a miss, I find one boy, medium height, striped shirt with trainers on, with his father at our playground. Everyday. It’s been a year. Almost.

He has misty eyes and his stance is sluggish, controlled and disabled. He holds on to his dad’s tailor-made cotton pants and takes one step at a time, traveling the length of the field while watching us play.

I wonder what he thinks of because his eyes say so much. They stare as if they are themselves pages of an open book, sucking all the spirit life has to offer. I know he thinks different; not the usual same way we do. I wonder if he feels the same way as we respond to emotions. I think he has bigger ideas in mind.

The way he clings on to his dad and the way his dad has this protective arm around him, although he does let his son try to walk without any assistance, makes me wonder if it’s that hard for him to go on as it looks?

Everyday while we are busy playing our game - cheering, celebrating, hi-5 ing after every goal, swearing on God’s name how awful we play after every mishap, I turn behind and watch this little friend talking to his dad, walking like he does and also being the most attentive spectator of our silly small game.

I have never talked to him and I also have no idea what situation he is going through; but every time I bid him a ‘hi’ or ‘bye’, I feel like I make him much happier because the way he smiles his warped smile – it is the cutest thing in this world. Moreover, the way he says a sloppy ‘bye’ to me, tilting his head to one side, with his mouth drooling all over is the purest form of love!

I think he has lots to offer and is a spirited little soul and tomorrow when I’ll watch him go, treading slow and careful measured steps, with his endless thoughts blurting out from his twisted mouth, I will deeply crave to sometimes take a break from my game and walk with him and hear his mind out and laugh with him about the things he feels are funny, and get scared at ghosts and will love to hear about the great War of Independence in 1947 when the Indians got freedom, from his dad.

Till that day, I will keep on staring and wondering….

Shambhobi Bhattacharya

21.2.2011

{Wrote this yesterday. This was an instant thing I felt. Hope you like it.}

Love,

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