The Performer

           The view from the window captivated me no more. She had moved in her sleep. The soiled sheet covering her naked form shifted to expose her perky breasts. "It's definitely cold in here", I thought, studying them. She lay like an angel with cherubic cheeks. Side-parted curly hair had been disturbed through the night and it now slept beside her with equal abandon. Sunlight was the missing man in the otherwise almost perfect picture.

          But the sun never shone on "Shangri La", where men came to satiate a small part of their endless desires. Those who had none to partner with and those who were afraid of sharing love with their partners equally frequented "Shangri La".

         She was just one among the girls. Emotionless beings who absorbed emotions from their customers. Positive terminal to negative terminal. Emotional to the emotionless.

         As I saw her lying upon the bed decorated by the flowers in her hair which were crushed by our vigorous love, my emotions began to slowly rise once again.

       She stirred in her sleep once again, involuntarily licking her dry lips to supply them with moisture. Her innocence beamed through. I watched her silently and reminisced about the time when I first met her, at the lower floors of that very building.

       "Madam", the cliched epithet that attached itself to the owner of Shangri La, had paraded her best girls in front of me and my friends. Scared though I was, this being my first time in such an environment, excitement also bustled about within me. My eyes scanned their faces, looking for something to connect with. As I eliminated one after the other on the basis of simple parameters, my eyes stopped on one face.

        Shyness. That was what attracted me to her. Over time, I was to learn that it was her biggest strength. Presenting herself as 'new' and 'fresh' brought in more customers for her and many more envious glares from  her co-workers.

         It was the proof of commercialisation affecting the oldest profession in the world. Whores having to compete against one another for clientele, having to advertise themselves more.

         The sound of her anklets brought me back from my memories. She had woken and was sitting up on the bed.

"Neend nahin aayi, Sahib?", she asked, as naughty smile being born at the corners of her mouth and maturing all over her face.

"Chai piyoge?"

"Jaan, tum pilaogi tho kuch bhi pee loonga."

"Chal hat, natkhat", she laughed.

         Tying her hair in a knot and wrapping herself in the crumpled saree, she left the room announcing her departure with the fading sound of anklets.

        Then the usual. Placing the money on the dresser table and leaving before she arrived with tea. As usual. For the love had ended for the day. But just for me. She had to go on. Faking love for one more night with someone else.

Copyright 2007 Sudheesh Satheeshkumar

Poem

This is a poem which I found written on a piece of paper in the middle of some junk that I was clearing today. It is a very beautiful poem and if my memory is correct, then I had found this on fictionpress.com. I do not remember the name of the poet though. I didn't want to forget the poem so I thought I'd immortalise it on my blog. Remember, this is not written by me so all credit and props go to the unknown poet.

 

He stood among his friends from school,
He joined their childhood games
Laughing as they played kickball
And when they called poor Sarah names.
Sarah was unlike the rest;
She was slow and not as smart,
And it would seem to all his friends
She was born without a heart.
And so he gladly joined their fun
Of making Sarah cry.
But somewhere deep within his heart
He never knew just why.
For he could hear his mother's voice
Her lessons of right and wrong
laying over and over inside his head
Just like a favourite song.
"Treat others with respect, son
The way you'd want them treating you.
And remember, when you hurt others
Someday, someone might hurt you".

He knew his mother wouldn't understand
The purpose of their game.
Of teasing Sarah, who made them laugh
As her own tears fell like rain.
The funny faces that she made
And they way she'd stomp her feet
Whenever they mocked the way she walked
Or the stutter when she'd speak.
To him she must deserve it
Because she never tried to hide.
And if she truly wanted to be left alone,
Then she should stay inside.

But everyday she'd do the same:
She'd come outside to play
And stand there, tears upon her face,
Too upset to run away.
The game would soon be over
As tears dropped from her eyes
For the purpose of their fun
Was making Sarah cry.

It was nearly two months he hadn't seen his friends
He was certain they all must wonder
What happened and where he'd been
So he felt a little nervous
As he limped his way to class
He hoped no one would notice,
He prayed no one would ask
About that awful day:
The day his bike met with a car
Leaving him with a dreadful limp
And a jagged-looking scar.
So he held his breath a little
As he hobbled into the room,
Where inside he saw a "Welcome Back" banner
And lots of red balloons.

He felt a smile cross his face
As his friends smiled, too
And he couldn't wait to play outside-
His favourite thing to do.
So the second that he stepped outdoors
And saw his friends all waiting there,
He expected a few pats on the back
Instead, they all stood back and stared.
He felt his face grow hotter
As he limped to join their side
To play a game of kickball
And of making Sarah cry.
An awkward smile crossed his face
When he heard the words, "Hey Freak!"
Where'd you get that ugly mask?"
He turned, expecting Sarah,
But Sarah couldn't be seen.

It was the scar upon his face
That caused such words so mean.
He joined in their laughter,
Trying hard not to give in
To the awful urge inside to cry
Or the quivering of his chin.
They are only teasing
He made himself believe
They are still my friends;
They'd never think of hurting me,
About the scar and then his limp.
And he knew if he shed a single tear
They'd label him a wimp.
And so the hurtful words went on
But he knew without a doubt
The game would never end,
Until they made him cry.
And just when a tear had formed
He heard a voice speak out from behind.
"Leave him alone, you bullies
Cause he's a friend of mine".

He turned to see poor Sarah,
Determination to face
Sticking up for one of her own tormentors
And willing to take his place.
And when his friends did just that,
Trying their best to make Sarah cry,
This time he didn't join in,
And at last understood exactly why.
"Treat others with respect, son
The way you'd want them treating you.
And remember, when youhurt others
Someday, someone might hurt you".

It took a lot of courage
But he knew he must be strong
For at last he saw a difference
Between right and wrong.
And Sarah didn't seem so weird
Through his understanding eyes
Now he knew he'd never play the game again
Of making Sarah cry.
It took several days of teasing
And razzing from his friends
But when they saw his strength,
They chose to be like him.

And now on the playground,
A group of friends meet everyday
For a game of kickball and laughter
And teaching their new friend, Sarah, how to play!

                                                       ---Anonymous.

 

P.S.: Beautiful, isn't it?

Memories

I remember our walks in the rain. Me and you getting totally wet with our umbrellas in our bags.

I remember us at the movies. Your beautiful eyes getting wet with tears during every emotional scene and holding my hand tighter.

I remember our times of silence when one of us would suddenly break into a song and the other would follow and then the rest of the time would be spent dancing and singing. So much for the silence.

I remember us with our friends at the club. Us sitting in a corner, sharing a Diet Coke and assigning silly names to couples and their dances on the dance floor.

I remember us slow dancing. Both of us occasionally stepping on the other's foot simply because we got lost in each other's eyes.

I remember our talks which would sometimes develop into debates and then into arguments ending with me trying to hide the flower vase so that you wouldn't throw it at me.

I remember our bus rides. Both of us looking out of the window and then suddenly looking at each other and breaking into laughter.

I remember us being partners in crime. Bunking classes together,not submitting assignments because we were busy with each other.

I remember the time when we both played with Barbie dolls to cheer up your sister when she was hospitalised. Ken and Barbie. Plastic romantic couples. Crazy in love.

I remember our walks at Marine Drive, eating Bhuttas and having silly chat.

I remember trying to call you up and apologise on days when we had a fight, only to get an engaged tone because you were busy dialling my number trying to do the same.

I remember us trying to make shapes out of clouds on Sunday afternoons.

I remember the silly names that we had for each other from time to time.

I remember you helping me burn my answer sheets because I hadn't done well in my exams.

I remember us sitting together and reading books in a cafe. Occasionally one of us would read out some interesting lines to the other.

I remember me trying to get you interested in F1 racing and you trying to get me interested in The Oprah Winfrey Show.

I remember the crossword puzzles that we solved together.

I remember your sad face when I said goodbye to you at the airport.

I wish our good times had never ended. I still hate fate for drifting us apart. Two young leaves set free on two different tributaries, hoping that they meet in the ocean.

Copyright Sudheesh Satheeshkumar.

Dark Blue

The following is a story written by me for the class' "kaiezhuthu maasika" which is a sort of class magazine. It isn't among my best works but certainly a good one in recent times.

Named after the colour she was. Blue.

"It's the colour of the sky. Bright, happy and infinite.", said her mother.

"It's the colour of a frozen dead body in the snow on a dark, gloomy, Friday evening" , she thought.

Such was the way in which blue perceived the world around her. "The disturbed child" as she was known , was also known to only look at the darker side of the coin. But Blue remained proud of her vision. She saw abundance of beauty where others failed to find even a trace of it. Her joy lay in exploring the less shiny things and embracing the feeble light that it reflected on her.

One spring morning, her mother took her to see a vast display of flowers upon a hill. The assortment was vast. The crowd that had gathered to witness the exquisite display was even more vast. The air was filled with scents that would attract the most cherubic little angels down to earth to mingle amidst mortals.Flowers of every pigment pulled all eyes towards themselves except one.

Blue's eyes were transfixed on to a dead tree on the hill that the organisers had endeavoured to keep furtively hidden. Her fascination was shackled by the tree which did not have any bright leaves to its name. If all the flowers had vied solely for Blue's attention, then their pride would have been rather badly hurt by her ignorance.

Awkwardly shaped naked branches at odd angles reminded her of the rebellious spirit of the tree in its good times when it dared to grow in weird directions. The times when this feat was masked by the heavy coat of lush green leaves that coated it. She discovered silly patterns in the wrinkles on its bark and the numerous little creepy-crawlies that it still remained home to. She marvelled at how it held its ground despite being ridiculed by the mighty winds and rains.

And outside her world of insane beauty, the crowd at the flower display also ridiculed her. They jeered and chided the lone girl staring at the ugliest sight on the colourful hill.

"If only they could see what I see" , she thought.

If only they could see beauty in things that they imagined to be inhabited by the Devil. If only they could see the future in the objects that were believed to be part of the past.

The thought troubled her for quite some time. She wanted to make people aware of life in the dead and nearly dead. She wanted them to realise how a wider perception would enrich their vision. But how? She wasn't a singer so she couldn't sing the praises of the tree or of anything like it. Her two left feet prevented her from showing the beauty of the tree through dance.

The solution suddenly rushed into her head. Her only gift to express her feelings, her opinion, her view, her vision.

Ergo she put pen to paper and wrote -

Named after the colour she was. Red.

"It's the colour of the rose. Bright and seductive." , said her mother.

"It's the colour of blood seeping out of the wound of a crippled doe" , she thought.

Copyright Sudheesh Satheeshkumar