03 Tuesday Jan 2017
Posted in poetry or something of the sort., Uncategorized
(C) Nils Werner
“I can’t trust you anymore,” he says,
“You are so different,
I have no clue what has got into you.
It’s best
we don’t speak again.
Why did you have to speak to her?
And you didn’t tell me!
That too
for ten days!”
He screams.
“What happened to you?
How can I ever trust you,
again?”
“Sure” she says.
It wasn’t she who had spent the night with another.
02 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Uncategorized
She immersed in the water, the ripples forming around her. It was warm, and she let her whole body submerge as she blocked his screams that resonated in her head.
He was back in one of his moods, and this time with another woman in the picture. It was tiring, very tiring to be listening to the stories, reliving them, and then trying to make sense. His I-love-yous made no sense, nor did his i-miss-yous.
She dipped her head in the water, her hair clinging to her scalp, her fingers holding onto whatever she could. She was grasping for what was left, if there be anything left, while her fingers lingered in the emptiness, in a vacuum that she felt within.
“Bitch! Fucking bitch! Slut!”
His voice echoed, once, twice, thrice, a million times.
She was under the mass of water which blocked his voice. It was warm, unlike the coldness that prevailed around her the moment she emerged. Stay in, keep her head low, let the waters block her existence.
Love had turned null, dead and an irritation. She hoped he would leave her in peace, she wished both of them would stop messing with her peace, and let her drown in her little solitary being, in the waters that calmed her, soothed her, and made her feel her being from within.
Her legs kicked harder, waves forming with the anger and the helpless that gushed out.
“Slut! Slut! Slut!” he continues.
She dived deeper, while his voice faded into the Bollywood music that surged out piercing her ears.
01 Monday Oct 2012
Posted in Uncategorized
It’s funny the people we trust, the people in whom we have faith, and how the very same would break the trust we have in them. May be it is a little too much for them to handle. I have heard one tell me that he felt “inadequate” next to me so he had to be with another woman. I am yet to discern the logic of that statement. I have heard a man tell me that he loved me and also the other woman, and then later that he loved her more while she lingered and then while she was not around that he said it in order to prevent me from forgiving him again for all the bullshit he regularly fed me with . In short people baffle me to high levels and I lack capacity to understand the point of their behaviour. Then again I do not understand myself at most times, and mostly when I end up dating a jerk. Sonali tells me “you are no longer going to reform people!”. Though I never intended to reform anyone, well I doubt if I could reform the behavioural incapabities of keeping one’s dick in one’s pants. Then again, with my never give up hope attitude I might even try my luck at that. He tells me his cheating had nothing to do with sex. I wonder alone, if it was not about sex, and was only about chats on music, TV shows which he claim was what he liked about her, why in the world would one need to go around sleeping with the other. Once again, my intellectual capacities of logical analysis fail me, and I flunk at understanding the more complex ways of life.
All I feel is numb. Not anger. Not sadness. Just numbness. I have to admit that it is an awfully calm feeling despite the regular disturbance of churning by a persistent child from within.
16 Monday Jul 2012
Posted in Fiction
Tags
She looked at the house once she thought would be her home. A house full of memories for the short time they had spent in it. Though he had left, his presence there was felt, with shirts forgotten and other files he had spread around on the floor. She wanted herself not to cry, not to be weak, and not to give into that need for him to be there, but failed.
Her clothes fit into one bag, a green bag he used to take his clothes in when he went home to spend his off days leaving her behind. Folded and crammed in, she managed to fit it all in. Her books she had no strength to carry. She had only two hands and a belly that protruded and blocked her way at most times. Her life with him seemed a few months, a few cloths, a few books and a son left behind.
Their home never had time to become a home. At least looking back she felt that she might have lived an illusion. She believed he would be back, he would come and that they would be happy and their child would make them happy. A child they had decided to bring up and he had wanted to name “Moksha”. Her child he had decided to leave behind, and had made up his mind to not see.
It was late, but not too late to leave, to leave the place where she was not wanted, where tears clung onto her face too often with memories of a man, who made her happy when home, and then turned into a being she did not grasp the moment he stepped out of their house.
She wondered, how things would have been , had she liked a different type of music, had she read fantasy novels, and had she worn more revealing cloths with bigger earrings.. would he have meant his “I love yous”? would he have not cheated? Would their son have had a father and not just a mother who would have to work every moment to give him what he needs, without depending on the world for anything?
She closed the door behind her one last time, and walked down carrying her bag of clothes, hoping one day her son would make her proud, and become a better man where his father had failed.
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