The Prologue (short fiction for a prompt)

I find myself in a hospital bed. I smell pus and realise I have come to. But I wouldn’t last for long as the stink forces me to puke. There is nothing in the tummy to let out, so I let my body fade away to oblivion again.

I open my eyes again, I still have the memory of that smell, but it is not in my nose. I focus my eyes and see that I still lay in a hospital bed but a better one. I also have more energy, probably from some saline injections. Then it dawns on me and I sweat. The police are surely waiting for me to wake up so I can be taken away. Yes, I am done for this life and that means an end to my life’s work as well. Incoming..

A nurse walks over, takes my pulse, asks some unintelligible questions and walks away without waiting for answers. No clues yet. An hour later, a doctor comes over and wakes me up. I feel better now. He says that I was admitted by a neighbour who found me in my apartment few days back. That’s all they know and the neighbour hasn’t returned after promising to come back in an hour. I find out that I was in the general ward of this government hospital for two days before moving to the intensive care as my health deteriorated. Since they didn’t have anyone to contact, and I didn’t have anything on me, they informed the police who decided to wait for a couple of days and avoid the paperwork. After all, I didn’t seem to be defective pathologically. If I did care enough, I should rapture with joy on the realisation that I am a free bird. I don’t.

I wait for the doctor to move on after he declares me healthy and says he would call the police so that I can clear up with them. He goes out and I get up, stumble a bit, and walk straight out ignoring the staring pairs of sick eyes. The only thing running through my mind is the last thing my memory holds.

It was the third day with her after the ritual. Three days after I relieved the body of the soul. It wasn’t the first body, nor the soul, but every time is unique. Nothing is more divine than separating a beautiful body from its corrupted soul. The raw energy in the lifeless eyes and the shell-shocked body after going through the ritual is too enticing to bother about food or sleep.  I usually live on water and go sleepless for days.

But on the evening of the third day, I knew it was getting critical. I hardly ate anything for last two days and the hallucinations were more tangible now. I finished the scraps in the refrigerator in the morning. I needed to eat more now or risk starving to death. I put on something, grabbed my wallet and headed out.

The hallucinations were there for sometime now and they were not surprising me in content anymore – they were about being a normal human being with a family and a day job. There were vague mental images of working the day and coming back to wife and kids in the evenings, socializing with friends and travelling on holidays. If I were ever forced to live the run-of-the-mill life, I’d kill myself. So the hallucinations I thought were not potent and there was no threat to my psyche. What was alarming was the frequency and length of the hallucinations. I would sometimes live in this alternative world for many minutes without coming back and this now happened almost daily. I never understood my mind’s attraction to this state of consciousness but I couldn’t do much about it. I did recognize that maintaining a good health would help, but sometimes, like this time, I was too involved with my baby to bother.

As soon as I stepped out I was delusional inside out. There was nothing to point me to my reality and I started thinking and behaving like I was indeed a regular person with a normal life. Out of the blue, my mind now had a whole context and history of this alternate world to work with. I smiled to the waiter and asked about cricket. I thought about my imaginary girlfriend and the upcoming marriage. I ate selectively tasty food and ordered whiskey. I smoked a bit and called my family after many years, with all intentions of re-connecting with them. They all thought I was dead or missing and I didn’t miss a beat in promising to go back. I don’t know how I managed all that and why, but the switch that turned on (or off) inside my head had changed everything.

Back to the flat in this delusional state, I was about to insert the key and turn the door knob when the door creaked open by itself to da rkness beyond. I imagined that I had locked the door and left the lights on. Now, could it be a faulty lock and the fuse? Could it be just my memory playing tricks? I sighed. Problems were my best friends I thought. They never left me alone.

I stepped in, left the door a bit ajar, and groped along the wall, uncertainly feeling my way, to locate the nearest light switch.  Somehow, something did not feel right. There was a faint misty floral fragrance and I was certain that it was not there when I had left the house. As I tried to place the scent and think of its origin, I suddenly heard, an ear piercing scream – close enough, from deep within the walls. It sent a chill down my spine. I gulped and somehow managed to stifle my own scream. Maybe it was the neighbor’s loud TV? I needed to flick the lights on, like, NOW.   I continued my search for the light switch – only to reach an ice-cold, damp, bony hand. The stifled scream let itself out. I let myself faint – the option looked better than facing the owner of that hand…

Looking back, nothing could have been more absurd. Imagine blacking-out from the shock of touching the love of my life, how awful. All the screams were mine of course.

Now, free again and in possession of all my faculties, I walk back to the same apartments in the same pyjamas I wore that day for dinner, half-expecting to get flagged at the entrance by the guard, or worse. If my saviour neighbour somehow didn’t discover the body that night, which is hard to believe, it was only a matter of time before the stink spread and someone called the police.

I approach the building entrance and nothing happens. The guard is busy in his register and only glances at me before looking down again. No encounter on the corridor or the elevator. I reach my floor. Heart beat slightly elevated as I prepare to face any music. I slowly move towards the door, what could be in store this time?

I see the door is closed. I don’t have the keys with me and have no second thoughts about what to do. I simply turn the knob. It opens. It is daylight and I see everything clearly. I immediately realise that no one has entered the flat since. I would instinctively know if anything changed. I lay my eyes on her naked body hanging by her hair just there. Ah, that mesmerizing, silky brown hair that drew me towards her a few months back. My phone and wallet on the floor two feet away, simple enough.

I start the clean up – I cannot carry on here. The body has decayed too much to eat now due to the heat. I dispose it off but not before washing her thoroughly and ravishing the beauty for one last time. I pack up the closets, settle all dues online and prepare to move out within two days.

Two weeks later, I start this journal which will eventually become a memoir for you to read. I am at my new temple of worship now. The only loyalty I owe is to the deed which saves me from nihilism and chaos and I do not want any distraction in my path. This place gives me more freedom to pursue my destiny and looks ideal from first impressions. What about my mind and its delusions? I will sort them away soon enough.

During almost a decade of my journey down this glorious path, this is the closest I came to being discovered despite the dozens of bodies I saved from wicked souls. That day at the hospital, I was not really scared of getting caught. I do not fear the punishment or the offense – they cannot move me. But I was truly worried about the degradation and disgrace that my higher goals would be subjected to. People would never understand what I live for. They would call it gore, murder and cannibalism. How can I ever make them understand that the destiny I pursue is the ultimate glory, a worship which transcends their trivialities?

No, I cannot let them label this – this. I would not let them condemn it on their terms. If everything I ever did and plan to do should be known by another being, it better be my words. And so in the coming chapters, I will try to put into language that which cannot be expressed. It is going to be difficult. What I experience when I am at the alter of worship that is a human body, doing the creators own work, cannot be explained or analysed away. No, I will simply tell you what I do and how I do it and you will understand hopefully. Maybe there will be a torch bearer in the future inspired by what I have to say.

But whatever may be the consequence, I have decided to bare everything down here without reservations. But I will only start after spending some time in ecstasy with my new love that lies in the dark room.

(End of prologue to “The Body Worship Journal”)

The Miserable Music

I do listen to quite a bit of Opeth and so you must understand that it isn't by choice that I sometimes come across as a miserable guy.

It sometimes is true that there is an ocean of sorrow in you and you are ok with it. Sometimes there is no sorrow, just a melancholy. A vacuum. Or maybe that is just delusional, how do we know for sure.

Anyways, point is - there is something to this kind of music. Or any art form really. But music of a certain quality can communicate somethings with such vivid clarity that practical worldly language just can't come close to that experience. Sadness - the kind that lies deep inside the heart and doesn't really depend of any actual cause to exist is one such thing. It is there along with the whole package of being a human at this point in time and here. So you leave your context and experience it. You don't try to understand that feeling. You leave the expectations outside the door - expectations such as to imagine that this whole write up would lead to anything at all. Nah, I didn't really bother this time haha.

Anyways. You listen to a Burden by Opeth. Or a Raven by Steven Wilson. You listen to it and you chill. You don't try to understand that sorrow. You live it with your whole existence.

The shelf

Go home son

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
They hate it when you look so so clever, oh so clever
They loved you when you needed to move on, ah it's gone

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
So far it's a futile endeavor, lost it forever

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Always wanted to be a believer, believer
(you) have a nest but you are a freebird, can't stop

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Wicked world, no place for a brave heart

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Spoke too much you turned out a rambler
Stake too much and you are gambler

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Broke that bridge as soon as you crossed her
Forgot the river you used to feed on

Go home son you lost it forever..
You.. lost it forever..

.....................

Step 1 : Write some lines - check.
Step 2: Set it to a tune and chords - WIP

Abondoning (on a prompt)

I don’t remember specific events and I hardly remember anything when I try too hard. But I have something called nostalgia about certain phases of time and I depend on these nostalgia to tell me how to feel about certain parts of my life.

For example, that excitement when it was time to get going to play cricket in those hot summer afternoons. Or the threat posed by a next day exam. Or more recently, the solitude offered by lonely walks on South Goan beaches with nothing more than a pint of Kings beer in my mind. Or the warm comfort of my woman on dark nights on the same beaches and the same old Kings in my mind.

Or back in greener days, that beautiful girl who waited to get on the bus with me, and then stood on the ladies side, ah well. I don’t remember the stories that well which is a shame because my stories tend to be very happening.

But I remember this one time when I came back from the city I worked in, to hometown to visit my parents uninformed. My brother and I took a video of my mom’s reaction. Priceless. The joy in her eyes and voice was only equalled by the pain she endured a few years back when that young son ventured out into an unknown world. A world she did not trust to keep her son safe, to feed him well and take care of him.

But for me, it was adventure time back then. Again, I don’t remember the specific stories of the first time I moved out into the new city because I visited family every couple of months without fail. But everytime I had to go back after a visit, there were tear drops in mom’s eyes. Fighting hard to stay in and failing everytime, even after a couple of years of coming and goings. My brother who is a rock has never been spotted with anything close to an emotion, but my dad and myself have had our vulnerable moments in those sad departure times moved by mom’s intolerable sorrow.

We got used to all that in sometime but there were times when we argued. Mom and me, we are polar opposites. We fight over everything from my collarless tees to her Gods. And if one of our departures came between an unresolved bitter argument, that was disaster of the worst kind. That was me turning my back when she needed me to stay and work out a compromise. That was abondonment for a moment there. The pain was too much. I felt like a murderer stabbing a heart and there was no end to the suffering it seemed.

But that was short term really. All the arguments in the world were rendered trivial with first signs of those magical tears and all that was left was to get done with our suffering and abondoning together.

Why do you only call me when you are high?

What to do. It is when the lights are off that I open up. When the sobriety loses it, the dance begins.

The music flows and my heart glows. My heart, its not a stone then, it flows.

I let it go and there it goes. The joy and color is real.

The raw energy of that life in me, it searches for a life to hang with. And you know how few little lives are left worth saving.

And so I call you, one of the few I know are worth fighting. It so happens, I only ever call you when I am high.

And then you walk away

It is that, isn't it.

Finding balance in places where there is an utter lack ot it.

Where you know you are gonna drown
So you drown well.

It is that isn't it

You do well, everything you have to do
And you take the pain and laugh with it, my friend.

You laugh at everything and you do it well
You laugh with yourself and the other

It is that isn't it

It is that happiness isn't it, thats hiding deep within. That which hides in open sight. That raw thing called life.

So then, you take the pain and imbalance, take the joys, the balances, and you look at it. Look at the life in it all. Find the raw happiness thats not hiding now.

You take it all and throw it away. Then, you  walk away.

Buddhaban

"No" - His father's no was as hard a stop as Saleem had ever seen. Equal with the will of those icy mountains he called home. Just like Abba, the mountains were always cruel. At 10 years old, he had some way to go before he understood that they both meant good.

His grandfather, Dada, was looking on as his mother, Ammu, lit the firewood in the clay hole and placed a milk bowl on it for the visitors. Dada knew that these were the moments that could change everything about them. Not just the child, it was about the Khandaan, the bloodline, his ancestry coming down from hundreds of years.

...

They have always been shepherds, grazing goats in the high mountain passes of the beautiful Parvati valley in the summers and migrating back to lower villages of Tosh, Pulga and Kulga during the winters. The valley was sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, but it was home. 

The Parvati gave them everything they needed to live a good life. And a river ran through it. The Parvati river that flowed right through the heart of the valley was ever refreshing and always has had nourishing fish to offer. The green pastures were heaven for the cattle and the forests had rare herbs. The forest also gave them the firewood which was the only fuel they used - key for survival during the winters when the snow was knee deep and cold made its way right through to the bones.

The winter months were just about that - survival. And so, they ventured into higher mountains during warm seasons leading the cattle into the grasslands. The sheep was the only wealth the family ever really possessed, they put their money where their mouths were -  the sheep’s mouths. Though the Muslim community was a minority, it was a significant minority, very much part of the valley life. The family, much respected through the ages, had built their summer shacks on one of the higher flatlands in the region.

This place, called Buddhaban, was practically the highest of meadows in the region. It was also at the furthest end of the valley, far away and high above Tosh, the last of the valley villages. Spiti, another charming Himachal valley to the east that touched the Chinese border, was just a days' trek away, maybe two. But the trekking paths went around some really big peaks and glaciers, through mountain passes that were safe only for a few months in the year.

...

As far as Saleem could remember, he had been going about his wanderings and small thrills without much care for all that his Abba and Dada tried to teach him. He loved herding the sheep and staring at the birds and the clouds on those lower Himalayan mountain meadows. His favorite times of the day were the mornings when his Ammu gave him glasses full of sweet goat milk, and the evenings when he sat around the fireplace with his Abba and uncles. He also loved running along the slopes with his elder brother Karim when they had to fetch something from the lower villages. His relationship with his brother was the closest he had or would go on to have - it was just that they had only each other for company and nothing to compare to. Everyone else in the Buddhaban dwelling, including their cousins, were way elder or younger than them. All the twenty-or-so people from the three families living together there were pretty much one family and had cattle as the main livelihood. That has been the way of things for decades now.

It was not all well for the family though, nor was it for valley people in recent years. The old times were changing. It was a boon for the Parvati people that the valley became the go-to hippie destination in the Himachal for all the prosperity that it had brought. At the same time, it was threatening. At the stake was their way of living itself.

The youth had lots of opportunities to earn a living now, catering to the tourists. No longer did they have to depend solely on cattle and farming. Livelihood was not an existential problem. Markets were getting bigger and trade has been ever-growing. The development came in the form of infrastructure and better opportunities. But the culture was slowly rotting underneath.

The fabric of the society was not as pure as it once was. But like any decay, this was slow. It was too late before anyone realized that their villages were not as happy as before - harmony was waning. Opportunity brought conflict with it and groups fought for prominence. The ugly side of urbanization - plastic, over-crowding and noise - was now a fixture in the famous marketplaces. Many young men and women were getting involved in the hashish business and it was a slippery slope from there towards more hazardous drug mafias. Too many outsiders were venturing into the mountains and valley lives, and not every visitor was a good-natured trekker. The villages more often felt like tourist destinations and relations based on familiarity were slowly giving way to more practical businesses. The traditions and habits passed on from fathers to sons and mothers to daughters were slowly being intruded by external factors.

...

Even as Buddhaban was more than four hours of intense trek through the maze of a forest from the nearest village Tabu, Saleem had been seeing visitors regularly this season. His father, Abba, was not thrilled with the strangers but he always treated them graciously -  warm to the travelers and tourists alike. Everyone who ever came was surely many times richer than them. After all, the shack that the family called home and what protected them from the chilly winds at night was nothing more than a handful of huts put together as though they were was meant for a few days of camping. But the visitors knew that these people here were living a life which was both a dream and a nightmare at the same time. They had seen enough on the way to understand what it meant to even survive here. So there was an environment of mutual respect accentuated by easy smiles and longer attention spans during conversations. 

As usual, these visitors were nice folks, awestruck with everything they saw around them. The scenic beauty of Buddhaban during that season was unmatched even by Himachal’s standards, which put the tourists in especially good spirits. Abba invited them into one of the bigger huts after the greetings. After the visitors enquired about the family's lives here and after they recovered from the culture shock, Abba offered them to come into another hut that had the fireplace and kitchen, for some refreshments. 

All the while the visitors were playing along and laughing with the kids. Saleem was especially enchanted these days with the visitors’ fancy gadgets. Abba had already warned him to maintain his distance with the outsiders but Saleem was just too thrilled with everything about the modern people and their stories, so foreign to him. He flooded them with questions, trying to understand everything that so was different from him and his surroundings. This had been sensed by his parents for some time now and they were slightly worried about his feverish energy whenever one of the visitors showed him their phones. Abba had already been given the wise word by his own father, Dada. The fascination with the glitter and glamour had to die young and Abba had to be the one to enforce it.

The person with whom Saleem was most playful this time around was relatively reserved about showing him his fancy stuff. He didn't use his phone in front of the kids except for the obligatory selfies and groupies. But the time had come when Saleem became over-enthusiastic after Ammu served them milk and the elders seemed to get engaged with their conversations. As his new friend was showing him pictures of the cities beyond his imagination, he was visibly vocal and started requesting for car games. The visitor hesitated knowing well that it wasn't for him to expose the kid to such seductive stuff. Especially when his father was looking on intently.

Abba seemed to look at Saleem forever who was trying to grab more of the iPhone. After a few moments though, he has had enough. His "Saleem. Nahi." was clearly a condemnation and not a scold. The stern voice grabbed everyone's attention. They all looked at him, a bit ungrounded. Abba had fire in his eyes "Pehle bhi bola tha tujhe" - told you before as well.

Saleem hung his head down - tears down the reddish cheeks. The visitors were apologetic with their soft smiles. They only wished well. The phone slid quietly into the visitors’ pocket, not daring to come out until they were out of Buddhaban.

Saleem didn't eat that evening and he would be moody for a couple of weeks, but he would never get enticed by the bait of fancy technology again, first from the fear instilled in him that day and later from understanding and the love for his people and place. He had learned his lesson and humiliation was a necessary tool in the process. Karim, three years older, was higher up the wisdom chain. He knew his Bhaijaan would come along fine now that the storm was over. His Abba told him so.

…

That evening, there was no fire in Abba's eyes as he squatted in front of the fire along with Dada. He only had moisture in them now, for all that his sons would never have. He said, "Kya kya qurbani mangunga apne baccho se" - what all sacrifices will I ask of my children. 

"Vahi qurbani jo maine tujse maanga tha" - the same sacrifices I asked of you, Dada looked straight through the fire into his teenage days in Buddhaban.

Where do bats go at night (on a prompt called "laugh yourself silly")

It is already late. But the fuckers won’t stop, no. To be fair, best conversations start after 2AM and I am generally at my rhetoric best then. What with all the booze I have had by the hour.

So we sit in the balcony, which isn’t really bad at all. If it was not facing a busy road, it would’ve been so much better. I did mention this to my host-cum-colleague. Despite my best efforts to keep my comments subtle, they do show me for the ungrateful asshole that I am.

Anyways, we were talking, the five or six of us. It wasn’t all pleasant because this collection of people was brought together by the virtue of being teammates – by no means a promising context. But we were slugging out this party with half-jointed expressions of ideologies and philosophies, which were promptly interrupted and shouted-over so that the speaker hardly ever reached the conclusion he intended to reach.

And so, the timing couldn’t have been perfect for the bat to go flying over the buildings against the background of the cloudy skies (what beautiful weather that evening had by the way). What with everyone seeming to hope that some miracle would happen that will relax all the unaccounted-for frictions that were floating in the air.

Alright, I intrude whatever was being said to say to my mate sitting beside me “You know what it means when you see a bat at this time?”.

Silence.They wait, some curious, some anxious. After all, this was also the time of the night for epic anti-climaxes. And I seemed to have set myself up for another minor failure.

Aha, but this one was well prepped my reader. After someone suggested lamely that “its too late?”, I said “nope, it means the bat is lost”.

Everyone burst out laughing. There ensued a series of screams and curses. But this was exactly what the whole night was struggling to be!

It took a couple of minutes of haggling for me to get called out for what I was – full of shit.

Sehnsucht - on a prompt

I climb up the mountains. I can touch the heavens and laugh at the clouds. 

All the solitude I dreamed of when I was down in the world. 

Ran away, I did, but forgot to take myself along.

I sit on the beach. Wave after wave passes me by. 

Sand is soft, yet cruel is life. The beer bottle talks but there is water in it now. 

Is the ocean salty or is it my loneliness.

I drench in the rain and the traffic is buzzing all around my bike. 

I feel the wetness, right through my white shirt. 

I need to let go. Why can't I let go. 

There is a freedom that I seek. And always here it seems. 

I could never reach out enough though. Nothing can grip it.

I find a bench in the retreat. 

A temple of peace. A place with a heart. 

A treasure trove of nature, a forest dwelling for the soul that yearns. 

An empty mind I seek, but something still evades.

What is your poison

What does it take to take you down?
Where is it that you go out of town?

What is it that drives you mad
You'd rather slug it out in the mud

What is so enticing about that one thing
Is that a seductive curve or silk clad

Pleasure so good
You'd forget what is good

Or is it passion that lasts
That grows into an Atlas

The dream you can't die for
Only because you are going to live it

Flesh and bone?
Or is it the mind that moanes?

If not rum or lust
I'll show you a fire going rust

What is it, oh what is it
You'd lose your soul to have

.. .. .. .. .. ..

An illusion perhaps,
When your wakefulness pauses?

Some sought after delusion
An alternative existence has its uses

Maybe an ambition bold
After all we have been well told

Born into the world
Going after the gold?

You've grown too old for that I see
Been there, not very sweet

Indeed old you seem
But the quest you haven't yet quit

Have you slowed down yet?
Ready for the truth that bites?

"Damn the flood,
I've come to end it all"

Peace and tranquillity,
Transcendence is the way to be

Oh I see, you are smart
Shooting for the moon you fine art!

Ahaa, enough of this the Buddha has already had
Wanting not to want is just as bad!

There is you and then there is everything else

There's two sides to it, isn't it. Of course you have to be who you are. There is that, yes. But then, its also a matter of everyone else's capacity for bearing with so much boredom.

Yes, I am kidding you. There is no excuse for not being yourself. That's the only authentic way to be. You say it like you see it. And you say it all to be sure. However, you of all people know better than to expect the universe to care about whether you see at all.

Yes you, with all your individuality, who drifts through the time frame that is your life. The same you find yourself craving for a connection.

Sometimes, any connection.

Sometimes grabbing all that you can. All for yourself. Sometimes arms stretching out, desperate for a breeze.

And yet sometimes, giving everything away.
Didn't bother caring, did you?
In silly moments of liberation, you lived. And lost.

You have seen a lot, haven't you. Giving everything you got. Getting everything in return, yet wanting more. You've seen it all, I know. Yet you aren't finished, afterall it's all about avoiding boredom.

My failures

I need those 300 words a day
I need to write that page
What do I need?

I need my market watch, twice a day
My model with its target price
Very fast
What do I need?

I need my chords and notes
Songs to go with them

I need my football shoes
Need to run in them
Very hard
What do I need?

I need to read those unimportant books
And the other important ones
Above all

I need to be that and be there
Get lost in what I don't comprehend

Closed eyes with a shut mind
Wanting nothing, but wanting just that
How to end it all?

I need my 300 words a day
And a stanza or two to go
What do I need?

A million things
All of them at once
Maybe nothing at all?

Elaborate plans to chill

There goes another waking up, another brushing of teeth and another taking of bath.

The day is already hectic and there seems no end to it. The only way to escape the menace of time is to get so involved as to reduce it to a triviality. Time, the greatest of all elements, struggling to intimidate a layman - what a view that makes.

But whats up with today, is there anything at all fun? Otherwise what's wrong with you.

So plan. Get the work done, at least a couple of hours past the schedule. Call the getters of fun things - they better  be there. And also call others who might be fun to have fun with. They need a break more than they think they do.

Call them all you can. And more the cheers the better. But remember, a good time is more the state of your mind. So have a beer by yourself once in a while. It sure helps if you don't act too pretentious though.