Gentle translucent dew drops
brought along murky clouds
on grey chariots of northern winds
taking me in their mighty clutches
tossing, spinning me to the
dimensions of the other world,
as rays of amber Sun descended
on the eclipsed horizons, the
mighty chariots of Northern winds
froze in eternity and I once again
came back from the hell!
Having feasted past-midnight, Persian Laila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,
Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.
Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,
For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .
She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.
A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.
On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York.
Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town, as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,
For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman.
And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem.
All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!
So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII.
Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.
One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…
And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner
Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of.
Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.
Stolen glances
missing beats
those translucent
moments, porous
breaths evaporated
in cheap sooty puffs
of gas-station
cigarettes, lungs
choked of highway
psychedelics, motel
caffeine to measure
vaccant hours of
your casual neglect,
I measure from
puff to puff,
smoke to smoke
and make most of
those empty
hours, all while
gazing at your
sinful lips,
marveling the
arched Sicilian
nose where rests
that snobbish
indifference…
If there is one writer who inspired me to write, it is William Sydney Porter known by his pen name O.Henry. A great twister of words and language. No other writer played with language as much as he. His made extensive use of used wit and sarcasm in his tales. His clever plot-twists, use of cliff hangers made him the master of short-story genre. Born in 1862 North Carolina, he begin his career as a pharmacist. But his serious literary career took off while serving a sentence on charges of embezzlement. Some of his most admired works are The Gift Of Maggie, The last leaf, The Pendulum & The Ransom of Red Chief.
It was a chance encounter that I stumbled on Le hora short story at cousins’s house. What a brilliant horror story, it literally spooked me for nights. Henri Rene’ Albert Guy de Maupassant was born in 1850 in France. His own experience in the Franco-Persian war became the setting of most of his stories. He brilliantly portrayed the suffering and tragedy of country folks. His stories also reflect his own despise of rich and bourgeois. His notable works are The Necklace, Le Horla & Boule de Suif. In his later life he suffered from a mental illness and died in a mental asylum in 1892.
Leo Tolstoy without any doubt is the father of the short-story genre. His works often reflect the Russian social milieu and the spiritual dilemma that he himself faced in his life. Born as Count Lyov Nikolayevich Tolstoy in 1828, Russia, he drew heavily from his experiences. Despite born in privilege as a aristocrat he very realistically portrayed the plight of peasants and the vast gulf between the rich and the poor. Although he is renowned as great novelist and credited with literally masterpieces such as , War and Peace, Anna Karenina & The Death of Ivan Ilyich, however I most enjoy his short-stories. His short-stories remain a great comfort to me in my hours of darkness and moral crisis. If you are literature lover than the works of Tolstoy is must on your shelves.
The noble laureate Rabbinate Tagore remains as one of the most influential Indian writer. His works are notable for ordinary characters placed in extraordinary situation. His stories reflects his own surroundings and people. Most of his work is penned against the backdrop of British imperialism in India. His protagonists very often voice his take on the nationalist movement and woman empowerment. I am drawn to his stories partly because of the strong female characters. I personally feel no other writer in literature has given so much space to women as Rabindranath Tagore. The bard of Bengali Literature as he is fondly called, he redefined the Indian Literature. He truly remains a rare literary gems, his most famous tales are, Kabuliwala, The Postmaster & Hungry Stones.
No list of short-story writers is complete without mention of the great Edgar Allen Poe. The great American writer known for his tales of macabre and dark remains as one of the most prolific writer of all times. His life and death like many of his most famous works remains a mystery. One of the first short-story writers, he compressed the art of novel into stories. Many attribute the birth of detective and science fiction to him. Poe was born in 1809 in Boston and led a life marred by financial woes and instability. The master of Gothic fiction, he abhorred the transcendentalism of eighteen century. To name a few , The Tell-Tale Heart, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, The oval portrait are some of his most notable works.
“A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever, It’s loveliness Increases and It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.”
Keats
Let us in the warm coziness of the vibrant autumn,
brew some majestic Hibiscus and drink together
from the same cups of desire,celebrating momentary
love as we delicately place china tea pot on the Indian
lotus tray and allow the saffron waters to be poured in,
cascading like a fall through the walls of dashing indigo
porcelain tea pot, handcrafted by an ancient artist,gently
falling on the tender petals of the regal Hibiscus, veiled in
pink petals like a wedding garb of a young mountain bride
so shy and very coy, as the heat of warm waters hinted,
it began to take-off the layers of wet petals one by one,
like pieces of ruby and pearl ,till reached the very end
last petal, draping a satin lingerie teasing and flirting
the onlookers until completely naked in the arms of the
hot passionate waters, opening up its juicy voluptuous
lips to wildly infuse and melt in the golden waters to
become one for now and forever, let us drink tea
together from the same cups of desire…
For I’ve seen…
The smiling faces are never the happiest kinds
The crying ones are not always the gravest types
The silent demeanor’s may not always the honest ones
The truthful souls most often are the angry beings
For I’ve seen…
Silence fills you
like nothing else
a need, an addiction
a compulsion
Let the seconds,
minutes, hours
be infused with-quietness
draw the blinds of heart
rejoice in tranquility
of poise contractions
stillness of fleeting moments
freeze the much
pervasive solitude
pause the endless cacophony
of incoherent sounds,
of million thoughts.
Let our hearts
become the shrines
of calmness and serenity
those who fear silence
will not go so far.
I took refuge in myself as a
hermit in an ancient cage,
enduring the thunders and
the howls of angry wolves
in my brain, as the centers
would not hold, no one ever
cared for my broken words
so I started to scribble long
verses on my aching heart
while taking refuge in my
my withered soul caged by
the barrage of human folly.
I may not be the exquisite rose of your French orchids,
or the fragrant Jasmine of your manicured lawns.
A wildflower of some unknown species, yes I am of a wild tribe!
The type that grows on the sides of your very dirty roads and
muddy paths, the kind whose seeds are never sowed
and fruits shall never be reaped.
Do you know that in my womb, I too carry a fragrance?
A pungent smell which never made it to the bottle of any perfume.
No lover ever came knocking on my humble door. No never!
Such abhorrent is my appearance that my beauty is never a joy to any.
My petals are never given a chance to kneel at the altar of any shrine,
for the pundits prophesied, it would have been blasphemy of some kind!
But I continued to sway when the cold winds would blow and
bloom whenever the benevolent Sun would shine.
I flourished, even when the florists at my site continued to whine
I thrived when the rains were scarce at an hour when suddenly the eclipse
took over all the Suns, and the Moon simply refused to show up.
So you ask me why? For I possess a zeal, a yearning to live, so strong that even
when I am trampled on your dirty roads, I never cease to grow….
and continue to grow and like a phoenix rise from the ashes.
I am a wildflower, the kind that grows on the sides of muddy paths.
