What the fuck!

The drama that was played through the last night, which is not under control even after almost 24 hours of its commencement, was nothing less than the most dreaded nightmare of us Mumbaikars. For the facts, it was something unprecedented in independent India, something that would have easily gone in as a tall story if talked about earlier, and rightly so, because the way the drama unfolded in was simply unbelievable.

Around 20 - 25 men dock a ship at Sassoon dock, in the heart of Mumbai, with ammunition that outplayed the imagination of our top cops. They get inside what probably is one of the most known identities of Mumbai, The Taj, and later go on to destroy it; they go inside the Oberoi, which has been the prime face of Mumbai's extravagance over the years; and they also get inside the Cama hospital where patients were heartrendingly held hostages as in the formerly mentioned places. Moreover, some gunmen hijack police vans, and fire randomly at the common Mumbaikar. The men also cause a Taxi explosion at Vile Parle, leading to beliefs that the attack was going to spread over the suburbs too.

101 reportedly dead, and over 300 injured. We lose 3 top cops.

I managed to get back home safely from Malad which was thankfully an unaffected place, before I got hooked to the television that spoke of the grand scale attack that has shaken Mumbai at the roots.

What the hell! Isn't it utterly shameful that these men come right into the heart of Mumbai, and execute such a devastating plan? Can our intelligence be called even moderately intelligent if it wasn't aware of this efficacious plan? Is Mumbai police just good enough to harass middle class and lower - middle class people? Did they have no information network or disaster management scheme at all? And how the fuck could people dock ship loaded with heavy ammunition at the sea coast of Mumbai? Does our coastal security exist? Are there really so many loopholes in the security system the great city of Mumbai?

Is it an epitome of the incapability of our government to take a stand against the relentlessly repetitive terrorism? These and many other questions have haunted me since 9.40 pm, last night. I have perhaps missed many things that I would have written in a better state of mind. This is not an article. I don't care a shit for language or quality at the moment. It's time to get back at these people big time. Find them from their roots (which quite obviously lie to the north - west of India), and kill them! It's high time Manmohan did a Bush. It would surely require planning and patience but start the eradication process right away. The city of Mumbai that has given us so much over time cries for help. It's time to pay her back.

Anomaly

I’m holding on to the last strands of lucidity that I think I possess.
The sleep that I didn’t sleep is all pervasive.
She engulfs me like a thick mist.
She beckons me like a sweet temptress.
But I’m afraid it is not to be.
She will not let me enjoy her. Exploit her.
She would rather keep me waiting, so I don’t stop wanting her.
She delights in my agony, reminding me of Him.

He, the man of my dreams.
A face I can put a name to but not much else,
who has made me less than myself.
He says You’re my best friend.
He says I’m giving up on you.
He says You slut!
He puts himself first.
He lacks the courage to be vulnerable.
He is not faithful.

This elusive duo has shattered my existence.
Sleep.
Him.
Sleep.
Him.
I resent both.
I desire both.
I am scarred.
Living, but not alive.
My gut says this morbid state of being will not subside.

I am going out today, all dolled up.
The kohl in my eyes hides the circles around them.
Caused by the Two.
My archenemies.
Today I will rise
Above the power they hold over me.
I will defeat them.
Conquer Her and set Him free.

Again, a night!

It's 3 A.M. The darkness of the night intrigues me to write, and it's appearance provides me with the words. The window of my hall is half open. An astonishingly empty road separates me from the vast field on the other side of it. The road is lit by the light of a street lamp hidden behind the window. The light is intense on half of the road, and gets tame as I look towards the empty field, leaving passage for an evoking darkness to be seen and felt.

It's just a fractional part of the cosmic darkness spread over eternity that I am looking at. And how simply intriguing is the experience! These nights are transitory worlds. Experiencing them is a pleasure of an unmatchable satisfaction. The night comes to you with a new tale everyday. Hear it carefully until you, yourself, become one of the popular ones!

The Sinner's Paradise

As I sit by the window
and watch the sun go down,
down the cliff, the glittering waters fall
they've always stopped my frown

As I see the greens extending towards the horizon,
I see an angel gliding through the fields,
her beauty shines through as much as the sun,
the purity and the whiteness, it is love revealed

Her hair catches the flowing wind
Her hands make a slow breeze
I forget that I've sinned
as her gracious steps make the time freeze

She comes near, now closer to love I am
My hands on her hips
her kiss on my lips, a permanent ecstasy
I can't help but believe, real is this fantasy

She holds my hand
and caresses me tender,
but since I'm a sinner
why did God send her?

I'm lost in the trance
wanting the magic to continue,
but she's got to go, she's called back above
she whispers to me
"I am your angel
who's been looking for a chance
to replace your heart of hatred, with the heart of Love"

She lets go of my hand
and glides away into the sky,
She looks back with her diamond eye gaze
assuring me that
she'll be back soon, in a new phase

I rub my eyes and wake up from the beautiful dream

realize that the lost paradise awaits the sinner,
but the warmth in my heart confirms that God resides in me

so I'm ready to start again as a humble beginner.

The Drummer

A song was being played in the background. Two typical beats per second. The process was continuous. They all enjoyed and swayed to the song untill an aberration was heard. It was an extra beat. "Where did it come from?" They all wondered in unison.
"How did that transpire?" Most of them asked. "Was the sound unprecedented?" asked the others expressing panic.

She was unmoved and serene. She hardly bothered. "I have a different question," she announced,
"I wonder who the drummer was."

SkEtcH mE

lying down trying to figure out
me and myself
all i have are doubts
stuck in a corner with no help

trying to collect
pieces broken of the past,
to figure out myself
of a known me last

can u sketch me?
a figure in the shade?
can u figure me?
I'm a sketch never made

down and frayed
lost and never found,
though i prayed
hope never made a sound

weeks gone by
with nothing to remember,
can ticking time be a lie
like this onset of cold december?

free yet caged,
moving but still,
feeling yet numb,
is this HIS will?

can u sketch me?
a figure in the shade?
can u figure me?
I'm a sketch never made

in the light i lay
but wander still in the dark,
once bright as a sunny day
searching now for the lost spark

once i knew me
and knew myself,
now there's many me
and i can't find myself

can u sketch me?
even now a figure in the shade?
can u figure me?
i'm a sketch once made

The Comeback!

Well, many of us have truly longed for this moment.
Here I am, launching The FRW Magazine again.

FRW has come out of the sabbatical with a new structure, new ideas and the old fervor. It learned a lot in the time of inactiveness while introspecting on a large scale. Some of the major changes that FRW has gone through can be understood while reading the new features listed below.

1) Increased Flexibility: FRW will now have registered authors, who can post their articles, poems, reviews or any other random write-ups directly on the blog at any time and on any topic.

2) Freedom of Expression: In spite of it being one of the most important characteristics of the first era of The FRW Magazine, it will be implemented in a new manner this time. Anything that an authorised author posts shall go up without editing.
Spelling, grammar and content editing will be a responsibility of the respective authors.

3) No Editor: I, Mihir Chitre, will not trouble any of our writers with their write ups. Individual writers are solely entitled to them. I shall just be the blog admin.

4) How to get a login?: Our old writers will get a 'writer-invite' right away. Anyone else, who is interested in contributing to the blog, may contact us with a valid blog link or a demo article on edit.frwmag@gmail.com or/and (since multiple copies of the same mail do not cost more) mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Come on! Let's share a word again.

A Sabbatical

Dear readers,
Due to reasons, strong enough, The FRW Magazine shall be on a sabbatical for a month or two. We hope to return with the same fervor that was missing lately.

The exact dates and other details of all the happenings shall be updated on the blog.



** I shall miss FRW as much as anything else in the course of time. **



- Editor
(edit.frwmag@gmail.com)

The Prodigy

Once upon a time in the city of Zwolf, lived a painting prodigy. He did magic with colours. He painted not only people’s faces but also their emotions with a splendid elegance. His fame, fortune and skill were revered and envied across the country.

As the unidirectional time flew, the ace artist began to turn into a narcissist. He began to believe that there is no better artist than he, himself. He proclaimed ‘art’ to be esoteric, and would often deride others who called themselves ‘artists’. His influence on the city’s culture was immense, and his opinions were often understood as facts.

It rained that day. The morning was embellished with spectacular butterflies and the few rays of the morning sun which successfully made their way out through the clouds to reach a surface that blossomed with colours. The melodious chirping of birds provided a sublime musical effect to the beauty, and the breeze kissed the man’s face generating a heavenly delight inside his body. Naturally, the artist in him started releasing strong urges to paint the splendor all by himself and make it his own. He took out his paint brushes, as if he were challenging the nature; his colours, as if they were to compete with the ones that were dancing outside. And, now, on a clean, white drawing sheet hanging on one of the huge halls of his quaint villa, he was all set to duplicate, or rather better, the beauty outside.

Magical, as it may sound to a few, he finished the painting within a few minutes. He stared at it twice. With the first stare of scrutiny, he smelled it. And with the second one of a distinctive pride, he drank it.

“There!” he said to himself ardently, “Even the nature, itself, would be jealous of my artistry.”

And then, he turned around to, once again, fix his eyes on the show outside, as if to tease the nature. But his eyes changed the language, as if hit by bewilderment. It was merely for a few minutes that he had his eyes off the scene outside, and much to his surprise, the picture of the outside had changed its shades and skin. It was ravishing, just as it was before; but now, it was different. The artist was shocked to see this versatility, as if it exploded in his mind, destroying his pride in a single moment, and the very next moment, he was ashamed of himself for doing what he did throughout the morning.

“Thou art is greater in the truest smiles,
Thou beauty is superior in the eternal joys,” he uttered unclearly as he walked out of the house of his art, to get lost in the art of his house.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

A Photograph

Delusions in the mirror,
Blood-smeared frames,
Caught his fancy,
Often.
And yet the brush lay
Unused, dry and colorless.

Lost in a delirium,
Counting his last pennies,
As a mellow tune
Drummed his ears,
He wondered sadly,
Was this the death knell?
Darkness filled his world.

As this picture was unraveled,
His dilapidated world came alive.
Onlookers gasped,
And she won her prize.
Her eye made his life,
A reverence.


- Janvi Gandhi
Janvi.87@gmail.com

The End of 'US'

It was two years since I was seeing her
Her sudden absence was causing a stir
It felt like I was fighting the world
I felt alone, so alone without my girl.

We stay away but it’s gonna be fast.
Not too long, will this feeling last.
Just stay together, she said to me.
We'll be one forever, she said to me.

I said yes. So I vividly remember.
But then how could I do this to her.
How could I forget that tear in her eye.
She could just whisper, couldn't even say good-bye.


And I! I asked my colleague for her body?!
Oh my God! I was so stupid and now so sorry.
We did it; without a fuss.
It was the end of love and trust.
No. It was the end of 'US'.


- Samir D. Bellare
sambell111@gmail.com

The Face

I saw a peculiar joy, enclosed in those eyelashes.
An unusual smile escaping that dispirited face,
After ages, there was a vigor amongst the ashes,
After ages, by the light, dark was embraced.

The smile widened its horizons.
The face blossomed with sheer ebullience.
The spark in his vivacious eyes paid a tribute to his optimism,
As I eulogized the mirror’s invention!



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

My Best Friend

I wish you were still alive. Fuck… why did you have to go? My brother, my heart, my fucking best friend! I had tried everything, everything possible to keep you safe. I used to keep telling you, keep warning you, keep pleading you… but you, you really never cared for what I had to say, did you? Would it have been so bad if you would have listened to me? For ONCE? You would have still been alive! You would have been somewhere far, far away from me, but you would have at least been alive!

I wish you didn't have to go. You were too nice, man. You were too fucking nice. You knew we can't be too nice if we have to survive in this world. We learnt that early enough, didn't we? This fucking world isn't a place where you are nice to each other. It's a place where you fight. You need to fucking fight for what you believe in. You need to fight to have your say. You need to fight to fucking survive! Did you forget that? Did you forget OUR goal? Isn't that why we were fighting? To survive? To have our say? To stand for what we believe in?

I wish things would have turned out right. But if they went wrong, it was only your fault. Only your fucking fault. You betrayed me, man. You betrayed all of us. You betrayed our fight. You betrayed yourself. You betrayed my dead mother and sister. How could you forget the atrocities of the Indian soldiers in our valley, in OUR home? How could you forget the death of your aunt, my mother? How could you forget Noor? She was only 12 years old! How could you fucking forget what they did to her? We were into this together! You had wanted to fight! How could you forget?? It was our fight! Our jehaad! You betrayed our cause… you betrayed our people, man. You shouldn't have turned snitch, brother. You shouldn't have.

I wish there was some way out. Even after what you did, even after I found out, I prayed to the Lord, to the Almighty, to tell me if there was a way out. There was no other way out man. That's why I had asked you to run away. I had asked you to run away, before it was too late. You should have left. You should have taken ammi with you and you should have left. Now how would I face her? What would I tell her? I was supposed to have your back! But you left no options, did you. I gave you enough warnings, enough signs, I told you enough times that you should go away, before they found out! But you couldn't fucking listen to me, could you?

I wish you would have understood. You thought it was the RIGHT thing to do, didn't you? Betraying your brother, betraying your family, betraying your people, that was the right thing for you? What did you turn into, brother? You had always honored our cause. There was only one more mission left. And then we would have been free. Forever. For the sake of the lives of a few hundred people, you betrayed your entire community? You knew, our cause demanded sacrifice. You were doing this for ammi. For my mother. For Noor. For the hundreds of Noors who the fucking Indian soldiers rape every single month! You knew, only a fucking blast can wake these people up. It's a cruel world out there. It was always going to be a life for a life. And you KNEW that! Then why did you turn snitch? It was our lives at stake. Against a few of theirs. And you chose them? You fucking chose them!

I wish there was an easier way for it all to end. I tried, brother. I tried. I prayed, day and night. I thought of all the possible ways in which it could have been easier. But there was no other way. There was not a single way. I didn't want them to find out. And trust me, they would have. They fucking would have found out. And then, and then they would have cut off your head. They would have punished you in front of ammi. I didn't want that! I didn't want ammi to suffer. At least now, at least now, they think that you died for our cause! At least now they think you died saving my life. You died a martyr, brother. You died a martyr. You are immortal now. I saved you from disgrace. I saved ammi from being condemned. I have done her a favour, I have done you a favour, I have done our community, our people a favour. And yet, I wish there was never a need to do this.

I wish you were still alive, my brother, my heart, my best friend! I wish you didn't have to go. I wish things would have turned out right. I wish there was some way out. I wish you would have understood. I wish there was an easier way for it all to end. And I really wish, I really fucking wish… I really fucking wish that I didn't have to kill you...

- Nikhil Taneja

nikhiltaneja@gmail.com

Two

Two folks saw the most spectacular of the sites,
Lit up the roads to reach unprecedented heights.
He laughed her smile once in a while,
she illuminated his darkness on every travelled mile.

His bewilderment came to party,
as he abstracted something upright,
She was lost in the peculiarity of the moment,
as she returned him the delight.

On her way back,
she wasn't lonely, though alone.
And he had sunk in the splendor,
like a crazy rolling stone.



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

The Rise and Fall of My Fantasy

Fantasy! As I came to think of it first, the word painted pictures of extraordinary characters studded with supernatural powers and pictures of ravishing women flaunting their bodies in minimal clothes, in front of my eyes. Though, as I gave it a deeper thought, many more aspects of the word invaded my mind in a short while. I observed that the very definition of the word fantasy has seen many changes in its dimensions with an increase in the number of days I have lived.

‘Fantasy’ once visited me with characters that outgrew realism and with an aura that exuded extravagance. It would be colourful and splendid and exorbitant. It was boundless. The only thing that stood between my fantasy and reality was time, which again was a fantasy (or perhaps, the only reality?). As a kid, I always believed that I were soon going to actualize the world of my fantasy, where everything was ruled by my dreamy, juvenile fanaticism, and I had the right to turn any ‘X’ to ‘Y’ at my will. In fact, then, I wouldn’t know why fantasy was fantasy and not reality. But I would always embellish my fantasyland with the most spectacular inputs I could think of, and would try and get a queer compensation for the much desired things that I could not experience in reality.

For me, fantasy has always been a way to live through a world that is unlikely to be actualized but, at the same time, is craved for. Over time, fantasy has permitted me to live in a specious world and satisfy some of my unrealistic desires at a superficial level with a remarkable consistency. In short, sweet fantasy has been my most lethal weapon against the harsh reality. Now, ‘how close can fantasy get to reality?’, ‘Can fantasy be perceived entirely as reality at a level of extremely high intensity?’, are questions whose answers range vast and are pretty controversial; but the concept can surely enable one to design his own world of mystic and permit him to be temporarily satiated with it by using dilatory strategies to avoid reality.

Today, life tells me that I am grown up enough to stop fantasizing. I see darkness scattered over every aspect of my life. Though I try and digest the fact as a byproduct of the austere process of growth and maturity, melancholy phases become unbearably long and torturous at times. A minor savior in such times is again my good old friend whom this article is about. And today, unlike my good old definition, fantasy isn’t about extravagance at all. Today, fantasy is just a true smile on my face with the anachronistic innocence that’s lost pointlessly in the course of time. It’s just a smile, a pristine smile! But unfortunately, now it’s fantasy; and by my definition, it’s the thing that is craved for but cannot simply be actualized.



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Soaked

Atop the massive waves,
Of the deep blue ocean,
I walk along calmly,
Barefooted.
In glee, I wet myself to
Emerge, dry as the wind.

An unhurried express
Full of vacant passengers,
Drives me through wilderness
Till,
A besotted prince,
Returns to my kingdom,
Only to be driven away.

Tonight,
I lie at my bedside,
Reliving my other,
Exploring the world within,
I am soaked in fantasy.


- Janvi Gandhi
janvi87@gamil.com

Primal Instinct

Sex! Male or female, everyone wants it, but not everyone admits it. No wonder then, that everyone's so sexually frustrated. We always underplay this instinct that's been around since the time of cellular beings. You need to switch to Airtel and express yourself (who'd want the Hutch puppy jumping into bed at a perfectly intimate moment anyway?). Sex has been connecting people even before Nokia was just a way of telling people you were rejected.

One of the major reasons sex isn't spoken about as freely as, say, chocolate ice cream is that it's an activity (naturally) involving a male and female and the two hardly understand each other. Women expect men to pick up subtle signals like Dish TV (Ha, girls, thoda AUR wish karo). Men, well, the less said the better. You see, kinks in men's amour are the chinks in men's armour. Every ass only wants a piece of, well, ass. Someone said: Women give sex for love. Men give love for sex (of course there are exceptions such as *ahem* me and homosexuals). I'm sure whoever said that never got any more sex in his life. So it's really true that truth hurts eh? Ouch!

I'm sure moans, hormones and harmony have the same origin. What I really don't understand is how sex went from “woohoo!” to taboo. Who brought civilization to sex? Or sex to civilization for that matter? Sex is best enjoyed with animalistic passion (I guess, I wouldn't know), a sort of primal instinct. I mean, there wasn't really a need to make it ethical/moral/religious, was there? Don't try to make sex 'propah' is what I'm saying. Let it remain a natural activity between two that brings pleasure to both (Usually one! Men, are you listening? the girls aren't satisfied). It's a natural desire, like hunger or peeing. Like Nike, you've gotta just do it. But like Reebok, we keep running from discussing it. Well, I'll confess that for most of us, who look the way we do, sex is just a distant fantasy. But buck up people, impossible is nothing. If you aren't so choosy, I'm sure you'll find some action.

Sex is, without a doubt, the most powerful expression of love; and of course, the climax of lust. The most beautiful (transgender) activity two people can indulge in. Having said that, let's keep it safe and beautiful. The importance of protection cannot be overstated. I now know why that pestilence on computers is called a virus. It's easy to see the correlation. One infected pen drive can infect every motherboard. Similarly, one man's overdrive can infect every mother (to be) bored. And of course, you know how the other pen drives too get affected. In the time I take to write this article, 235 people will have died of AIDS. And of course there are other diseases like Herpes, Hepatitis (not to mention addiction) too, that spread through sex easily. In a very short while, the only activity that produces people will also be the very activity that destroys the most. Not only can sex make a person's day, it can also make a person! And kill him/her too. So keep it safe, okay?




- Nikhil Kini
Nikhil.skinny@gmail.com

The Sea of Fantasy

“I want to go alone to the beach next Tuesday,” I said to mom. “You know that’s not possible, sweetheart. Moreover, we do take you there every week, because you love it so much”

“But it’s not the same with you all around!”

I had decided firmly at that very moment that I wanted to go alone. I have had a close affinity towards the sea ever since as long as I remember. It began when mom and dad took me there for the first time. They had thought that I would like it there. In fact, I had fallen in love with it the very same day. Then week after week, they have been taking me there every Sunday evening. And of course, with every other visit, my love for it has just grown. There are a lot of people and a lot of chaos on Sundays. At times, it irritates me since then I cannot enjoy the visit wholeheartedly. That’s why I wanted to go on a weekday. I didn’t want to share the place with other people, not even mom and dad. I did not want the sanctity of the moment to be spoilt by other people’s presence.

Mom always holds my hands as we walk towards the shore. I didn’t want that. I wanted to touch the waves with my hands. I wanted to feel the waves as they touched my feet – the waves I’d heard so many times. They sounded so magical, as if calling out to me. I would jump on them a hundred times and splash water all around with every jump. It would be fun to have the water splash on my face. The water would then trickle down my face and I would feel it against my cheeks like a kiss. I wanted to walk the entire length of the beach; all by myself. I wanted to feel the sand playing with the back of my feet, trying to mingle with my toes, teasing me. Then, when I would grow tired of walking, I would just lie down on the sand and go to sleep for a while. I wanted to feel the coldness of the sand below me. I wanted to feel the warmth of the setting sun above me. It would feel like a tight embrace from someone you loved. After I wake up, I would buy balloons, the gas ones. And I will stand on the shore, and right when the waves kiss my feet, will fly them away. I will stay back till late evening. I want to be there when the sun sets.

It has always been a fantasy to watch the sun-set with my own eyes. I had heard mom and dad always talking about the sun-set looking so beautiful. They used to describe it as one of the most beautiful things they had ever seen. They say the sky looks orange and the sea glows in the light as the sun tries to touch the sea. I have always tried to give people and things a face; a face which would not necessarily be theirs. But I associate them that way. But it is a challenge for me to give a correct picture to the sun-set. I have seen the sun-set so many times in my fantasies and it looks different each time. I don’t know what orange is. I don’t even know, how the sea, which I have always loved so much, looks like. I can just feel its vastness. I can hear its constant turbulence. I can only touch it as it advances towards me with some kind of an exigency; perhaps it will always be a fantasy to see it outside of my eyes.



- Divya Shetty
divya_infinity@yahoo.com

Fantasy Ride

I want to be a superhero. I want to fly high, across the world. I want to fly into all the toy stores and get whatever I like. I want to be a superhero.

When I will be a superhero, people will flock around to see me. I will be popular and I will have my own trendy outfit. All the kids in my class will look up to me. I am a superhero. Everyone knows me. I have magical powers to make all my dreams come true. I am a cool superhero.

I have grown up a little. I want to grow more. I want to grow older a little, to watch TV when I want to. To go to the mall by myself and buy myself all the ice-cream I want. I want to grow up a little, so I can finally have a room of my own, a computer of my own and eventually a world of my own.

I have grown up a little more… I want to end up in a great college, a great college with great friends and a great degree. I want to have loads of cool friends around me. I want to have loads of fun. I want to be able to do all those things college kids in the movies do. Flirt a little, play a few pranks and have big laughs.

I have grown up a little more. I want to end up with that person I fancy. I want him to hold me; I want him to whisper sweet nothings to me. I want him to fancy me as much as I fancy him. I want us to hold hands at sunset on a long, lonely beach. I want him.

Oh man, time has passed. I have grown up even more. I want to land the best job with a great pay-packet. I could use that money to get fancy things for my Mum, Dad and friends. I would spend money I have earned doing things I have always wanted to do. Go to the pub, go shopping, travel the world.

Time has passed yet again. I want to get ahead of all my contemporaries. I want to be the most successful one. I want to have a fat bank balance, a plush apartment, a fancy car and of course everything fancy. I want to be known as the best of the best. Wherever I go, people should talk about me. They should know me. I should be respected.

Now I am an old lady, watching the sunset in the distance. Trying to point to that long lonely beach, I may have walked in my fantasy. So what, if my fingers are crooked and my vision blurry! I still fantasize. I want to go back again and fantasize about those beautiful things all over again, even if they didn't come true. The moment of fantasizing gives me enough joy to bring a smile on my wrinkled face.



- Shakti Salgaokar
shaktijs@gmail.com

Biker Boy

Flipping through pages of a bike magazine, a section on new bikes catches my eye. I read through each of the articles carefully. The thought of a new bike has always fascinated me. Fantasizing about bikes goes way back to childhood. The best fantasies are the ones that a human being experiences as a child. Everything’s possible in his mind’s playground. He then keeps growing and so does a certain fantasy which he holds on to ‘forever and ever’.

It all started with my dad buying me a toy bike. A shiny yellow sports bike look alike which to me, was faster than any bike on planet earth or at least the neighboring kid’s toy bike. The next few days were filled with the whole house going ‘VRRRROOOM VRRROOM, BRRR BRR BRRR’ and all sorts of engines sounds my bike (rather my throat) could make. It would run all day on the flooring or jump in the air traveling the entire area of my house. It would run in circles on the insides of utensils and, buckets even if they were filled with water. It could climb closets vertically or ride along windows. Hell, it could even climb my grandpa’s pot belly and ride on it till his annoyed grunts started to sound like another bike engine growling.

One fine day it had an accident (repairing it was another of my fantasies) and so it HAD to be repaired. I stripped it down to the last part with my dad’s toolkit only to realize that my engineering skills were limited to breaking it down and not putting it back together. My dad swore not to buy me a toy bike again. I guess he feared I might grow up to become a garage mechanic and quite naturally, he had much more ambitious dreams for me. So the bike fantasy was replaced by fights with Skeletor, teaming up with He-man and enjoying Disneyland with Mickey and Donald. And thus the love for bikes continued; a passion that evolved from a life-long fantasy.

One fine day on T.V a series called Street Hawk began to be aired. It had a guy clad in black clothes and riding a bike which was equally black all over. It ran faster than other vehicles, it could jump over cars; it could chase bad guys and also save the girl in the end. I said to myself”Wow, this is new!” Dad too seemed to enjoy this and hence let me watch it. This brought back all the bike fantasies I cherished as a kid and also made room for some new ones. With age, the toy bike was replaced by the real thing. It all started with my neighbor buying a new bike. It was a Hero Honda for the kids and the owner’s son was the most popular guy. Luckily, I would get an occasional ride on his dad’s bike and I would go of to sleep every night wishing that I had one of my own. My love for bikes was later supported by a bicycle. It didn’t have an engine but what the hell! My throat could still give that extra grunt. I would ride it all day with my other friends and soon a “BIKER GANG” was formed. Impressing girls was never on the agenda. Getting even with other boys was. Street hawk had indeed inspired me and I turned to doing wheelies (flipping the front wheel up), stoppies (flipping the rear wheel up) and skids. My stunts led me to my ultimate fantasy: the tag of the coolest rider in the group.

As years rolled in, maturity exposed me to another aspect of bike riding - the female attention that came with the power over the wheel. This, I learnt, on seeing the older guys driving fancy bikes with girls on their back seat. It must be such a high, we wondered. The next few years went begging with cousins to teach me to ride a bike, who wondered that this guy couldn’t touch his feet to the ground when seated on a bike, why does he want to learn it? How would they understand my deep-rooted fantasy for bikes now!

I entered college life and we moved into a new place near my college. Moving into a new place gave a new impetus to my bike fantasies. Everything but my college was far off so a bike seemed the need of the hour or at least I’d make it sound like. And my enthusiasm of riding a bike convinced my parents to finally get me one. At 18, I owned a bike. Riding a bike is great but owning one takes the cake. It became my most priced possession. Soon I learned to ride and hope to ride it everyday.

In the next few years the number of bike riders grew and so did my bike fantasy. It has actually grown with me. What started with a plastic bike which could ride on my grandpa’s tummy had then turned into Street Hawk which then again turned into a bicycle that had ultimately turned into a real bike. This reality was the sweetest of them all.

But then, it’s not about impressing your friends with your riding skills, getting some female attention or being popular with a neat looking machine under your ass. The real fantasy is above all this. It’s just the thrill of being on a bike, riding it fast with the wind blowing on your face, and performing those occasional stunts to get a new high.

The childhood fantasy of riding a bike was, still is, and will remain my ultimate fantasy forever. Just when I thought it wouldn’t grow anymore, I’ve been proved wrong. And for those who share such fantasies with me, until the next ride.



- Harshal Kalyanpur
harshalkpr@gmail.com

The Mind of a Day-Dreamer

You want to know what fantasy is. You just ask me.
If you call it off as daydreaming, it might sound too easy
But you dare not stop me; it's not just a stupid excuse,
Just try and understand, it's like a satisfying bruise.

You don't need to be sane all the while, it's not always real
If you're always level headed, you won't be able to feel.
Else you'll enjoy it; with a closed mind and open eyes,
No response to waves or calls, completely ignoring the Hi's!

You'll have no clue of what you can do, nor of what you can't
Just try and think that you're Rajinikanth
But you can't, you just can't stop your vagabond mind
Someday you might chase your fantasy and grab it from behind.



- Samir D. Bellare
Sambell111@gmail.com

The Return of the Wall Clock

“There is nothing that stops one from exiting the villa that hosts the wall clock, but no one has ever managed to come out of it”, a frail old villager warned William Tale, who had taken up the fatal challenge of solving the long-prevailing mystery of the wall clock. Many were said to have been swallowed up in the tranquility surrounding the occult clock over the years. Many voices were dampened and many lives were cabalistically terminated.

Willy was driven to the villa by sheer courage. He found himself right in front of the wall clock as soon as he crept in. 1.30 – the clock read. The forward shift of the heavy iron minute hand was captivating enough for Willy to hypnotically stare at it. Now, it was 1.35. The clock looked out of this world. It had an archaic charm to it. It seemingly had the power to play with time. It complimented the villa fantastically. The paint of the walls had deteriorated, the doors looked anachronistic and windows allowed the passage for an all-accepting darkness that had almost invaded Willy’s mind. He couldn’t restrain himself from glancing at the clock time and again. Now, the clock read 1.55. Willy courageously started walking toward the clock. His eyes were defined. The pair emanated a conglomeration of emotions during that ephemeral walk.

Dong! It was 2 o’clock. The sound resonated in the void scattering over each part of that room. And much to Willy’s horror, he started moving backward. 1.55…1.35…1.30! Time flew in the reverse direction. Finally, it froze at 1.30 leaving an omnipotent quiescence. The decorum was same as it was. Willy was trapped in the strangest of the time cycles.

Nothing was stopping him from exiting the villa, but he simply couldn’t since he had just entered.

(This genre of writing is known as Flash Fiction. The above story consists exactly of 299 words.)



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Disorder

The screen of his laptop lay slanted, inclined at an acute angle to the horizontal surface of the table with sunrays fighting their way through the cluttered branches of the trees and through the grill fixed in front of the window to reach the top-right corner of the screen, producing a vague, yet intense yellow dot. The quiescence of the screen seemed unreal and eternal. The ‘ocean mist’ visualization of the ‘windows media player’ had unruly blue bars dancing all over the screen, synchronized with the repercussive music being played at the background, much to his engrossment.

Surroundings looked completely disorganised, bizarre. Nothing could get his thought ride, which was going totally astray, to a fruitful conclusion. He could hardly meet any new ideas in that hour characterized by abstraction. His frustration grew. The result of some futile attempts of covering up his disorderly mind was frustration; plain and simple frustration. There was absolutely no creativity involved in that session as if it were demonically blocked. In fact, nothing was involved at all except for a deafening silence that could be heard vividly. It was challenging him in all possible ways. He fought, but couldn’t win. “Is disorder the ultimate truth of life?” He forlornly asked himself as his desperate struggle to achieve stability had consistently gone in vain.

He started speaking to himself. When will my struggle end? When shall I find solace? Will I ever find the much desired and much sought-after emotion, contentment? Will I ever find stability, order?

“No, never,” answered a sharp voice, “Not until you rest in peace!”



- Mihir chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

The Battle

I just caught a seat,
It’s a fight every day,
I finally feel the breeze,
I feel the oxygen intake.

About half a minute goes by,
And then it halts again;
A mob of ladies goes out,
to let another mob make its way.

A mother stumbles and comes in with the mob.
Her baby attached with a cloth to stay,
I stare at her in awe,
I want to get up and give her my place.

Just when I am about to do that,
I see her hand goes in the bag and she says,
“Chains for fifteen bucks,
Hair bands for ten”.
I am shocked; I just don’t know what to say.

She’s here to work I thought,
She’s not here to travel the way.
She’s here to earn I thought,
Her battle is not just the place.

It’s much tougher,
It’s much deeper,
And it grows with every day.
Her battle is to survive her way,
Her battle is to make her baby stay.


- Priyanka Talreja
priyankatalreja@yahoo.com

Imagine

We all grow up, a little by little. Somewhere in the process, we lose something most precious, most important. We lose our power to dream, dream all those impossible things. And we start believing that our imagination is just imagination.

When I was 10, I used to believe in miracles, used to believe in a number of things. All were mere fantasies, but the best fantasies I’ve ever known. We used to play hide and seek, at Vani aunty’s house. It was my chance, I was lacking by two dips behind my brother. I knew I had to find everyone, else I would lose. I found everyone apart from my brother. He was still hiding. He was faster than me, so I could not outrun him to the dip. Then I saw it, a glimpse of his heel. He was running upstairs towards the terrace. The terrace was locked. I thought I would find him at the top of the stairs. So I ran up the stairs just a little, but enough to see anyone on top of them. I glanced but he wasn’t there. In the split second that I realised he wasn’t there, he raced behind me and reached the dip. I could not understand how he had done it.

Then it struck me, as kids we all had agreed that he had ninja powers, he could teleport. He was the oldest of the lot. He used to tell us stories of how he'd battled aliens and fought against Shreder without the help of turtles. We believed him, he was my hero. I told everyone what I’d seen and we all agreed that it was not fair for him to teleport. None of us had learnt how to do it yet (he told us he'd teach us someday). He gave me a smile that day and took the dip upon himself. I won and I was so proud!

When I think back to that day, I know he could not have teleported. Yet, he did not argue. Be it for making us believe, but I think that day, he did it for me. Today, when I think about it, I realise how important it was that we believed him. How important it was that we could live in a world of fantasy; how important it is to live in a world of fantasy.

I still live in that world and go to the places that I haven’t been to, in a long time. Sometimes, just sometimes, I still go back to my kingdom, where people miss me, where I can fly, where love and fun are the only two laws and slaying dragons and dark wizards are still a daily routine for me; for me, The King!


- Tapas Chitre
tapas.chitre@gmail.com

A Moment of Magic

Trance.
There lay a moment,
fallen from the skies.
The moment looked embellished with joys
and polished with a heavenly delight.
It was a moment that exuded ebullience,
a moment that went beyond the darkness of the past,
and a moment that outplayed the uncertainties of the future.
My eyes - eager to capture it ingenuously;
My heart - beating with an increasing flamboyance;
And my psyche - emanating a noble feeling of gratification.
I wished, the moment to last; perhaps, forever.
Impracticable, as my wish turned out to be,
at least in my memories, I wanted it to be preserved;
this time again, forever.

Now,
Trance again, yet another.
But the moment lies in my brains,
with quaint reminiscences of its existence,
Making themselves heard loud and clear,
Making themselves exude the timeless ebullience,
and making themselves worth being treasured,
Yes, forever. Indeed, forever!


- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Population

This thought has been in my mind from quite some time over population as personally I'm a person hating crowded places and places with chaos. India is a land which is gifted with a lot many natural resources, but still India's GDP is one of the lowest in the world, thanks to our ever increasing population. The GDP index is increasing somehow in the last few years but we won't achieve a radical progress because of the mighty population we possess. In fact going one step ahead, I believe that population is the worst problem faced presently by India. Forget GDP, but there are innumerable problems arising out due to this which can't be listed in words. Like, I was frustrated on not getting railway reservation few days ago for Bombay, and the wait in the queue (for an hour) had only added in the mess. If we consider the cases of few developed nations, it’s clear that they have advanced because of their less population and good governance. Logically, good governance is achieved if population is less! Just look at examples like Luxembourg, Norway, Australia, NZ, UK and maybe Antarctica after few years? People don't tend to care much for each other, as we got multiple human options. Not only this, but too many children brought up at a home, which does not have a strong financial support, yield few uncivilized citizens for the nation. At any place, the pressure of competition experienced is high if a large crowd exists. Simply to put, it becomes 'Quantity More, Quality Less'. Just look at the rush in medical, engineering, CAT and other courses. Many hard-working and deserving students miss what they want by a few ranks. Other side effects can be more traffic, longer queues, no reservation availability, and may be no oxygen, or even an earthquake?

As I said, there are many problems that can't be listed; I just got a few in words.
But, yes some plus points of it as mentioned by our respected President Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam is the number of educated youngsters, which we will get (considering good education is provided) if they are shaped in a proper way. It can work wonders and that’s the real challenge that lies in front of the young generation.


- Ameya Waghmare
ameyawaghmare@gmail.com

The Loser

“Give up!” Raj screamed. “Bravery is better supported by prudence,” he added in an attenuated volume, vacillating around Nikhil.

“Isn’t prudence subjective?” retorted Nikhil.

“It might well be, but this pseudo optimism shall lead you nowhere but to hell. Start accepting the unacceptable aspects of life, my friend. Don’t play games that you are almost certain to lose,” said Raj resting a hand on Nikhil’s shoulder.

“Do I always mold myself at life’s will? Every other day, that bitch comes at you, demanding you to be what it wants, hungry for your peace of mind like a starved dog, and stabbing your happiness gruesomely” said Nikhil intensely. “If I give myself up to every new misery that dawns on me and behave as the situation demands, I would rather be faking personalities. It would be an unbearable identity crisis,” Nikhil articulated.

“If you don’t adapt, be sure of getting terminated,” Raj.

Nikhil smiled, rather sarcastically and said, “The ‘real you’ was terminated right when you changed yourself and adapted to life for the first time, friend. This is probably the zillionth version of Raj that I’m talking to.”

“Perhaps, you are right! But this perennially transiting Raj has always been happier, wealthier and more popular than the constant you, hasn’t he?” countered Raj.

“Well,” said Nikhil with a cryptic grin.

“My friend,” Raj broke the silence. “My dear friend, please revisit your thoughts and refrain from what you plan to do tomorrow. I don’t want to lose you. Please, for my sake.” Raj pleaded, completely changing his tone.

“I know I shall die. Even a miracle is unlikely to act as my savior tomorrow. But as you know, I hardly care. I want to fight for what, I have always believed, is right,” Nikhil said in the same tone and got off his chair. “Nonetheless, my bloody optimism silently hopes for a more capable miracle,” smilingly said Nikhil, stepping towards Raj. And for the first time his voice dampened.

“I shall miss you in heaven’s delight; I shall miss you in hell’s torment. I shall miss the 25 years of the most sacred bond called friendship that we have shared. Where ever they take me, I shall miss you, my friend!” he said. “I wish we could stay as we are for eternity, but it’s just that the destiny is not on my side. Perhaps, I can’t prevent this change from taking place. Perhaps, I’m the loser between the two of us,” Nikhil added as he winced back, shed a couple of dry tears, and then tightly hugged Raj.

“Hallowed be thy name!” Raj stated, without much of an emotion, and left the room, without gathering the courage to look into his best friend’s eyes, probably, for the last time.


- Mihir Chitre
- mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

In-dependence

The water splashed on me. The horizon was never deeper. I stared into the sea; and then into myself. I was sporting torpor in the most fanciful way by standing right in front of the sea, facing it straight! The water splashed again; perhaps, to rejuvenate me. I wasn’t satiated with life then. I wanted to break free from the limiting boundaries. The quest of being self sufficient, independent in all possible ways was the topic of the hour. It was the uncertainty of the future that was riding on me with anxiety and fear as its byproducts. The process was endless.

The waves – they never stopped. They had a timeless charm within that was getting reflected from without. I was still standing. I failed to obviate my stolidity; it just had to surface. It was free now. Yes, quite ironically, my stolidity was free; not any other emotion. It was freer than what freedom is. But was it independent, too? Or was it merely free? The sea is free; but not independent. The sea is not bound by any limits – it’s free. But it certainly depends on the rain cycle to persist – it’s not independent.

Was I the sea? Or was the sea me? Was I really free? Can I ever be completely independent? The sea was biting me in thoughts, just as a cat does to a mouse before swallowing it up. Even the cat is dependent on the mouse. Then, who is self sufficient? Me, you, the cat, the sea; who? Or nothing is? Are all the claims of independence and freedom as superficial as they sound after scrutinizing them? Perhaps, the universe is independent; it envelopes all the dependence in a darkish space to celebrate its own independence. But am I, the minutest fraction of the immensity of the universe, independent? Or as lethal as it sounds – ‘in-dependence’, just as all its other parts?

The water splashed on me. The horizon was never deeper. This time, I splashed my way through the sea; to celebrate a similarity – the state of helplessly being in-dependence!



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Light

A pond lay at the bottom of my garden,
Frozen, surrounded by moss
With colossal creepers clawing for space.
Unreal yet full of character.

I would stare at it, struck by its force.
Ghosts lie at the bottom, they whispered.
I pretended not to be scared,
But the summers never dried it up.

Then one day, this labyrinth disappeared.
The sunlight in my garden, hit dust.
Not the frozen pond, with creepers.
Probably it ate itself up, tired of growing.

I did not know, I refused to know.
My mind has stopped racing.



- Janvi Gandhi
Janvi.87@gmail.com

Independence Dom!

"Dom!", I spat the word like a cough lozenge out of my window, but it bounced off the grill and plastered itself on my dust-crowded window-sill; the aww ricocheted off the walls of the next building and washed over me like a glass of water thrown into the wind: Dawwm, it said.

"Damn!", I tell you. Damn the consonance. Damn the way these vowels play a Parnassian in my brain, a sound cage I cannot break out of. Who is to blame?

"Dom!"

Yes, Dom is to blame. Can I take the liberty of calling you by your first name? I will do it, too. I cannot free myself of you like the Muse did, shutting you out for twenty years. Would I do it, if I could? No, I am the monkey on the back of your virtuosity. I am the conscientious thief of your artistry, a thief that takes in small portions, never in gluttonous wholes; I pluck the eye of your Christmas Turkey, the n from Altermann, the glister from your key. I will lick the blood off the unicorn you killed, the blood Shylock didn't dare spill. I will clip the nail of your typing finger while you sleep. Your poems will be held together by this variety of absences! Why should I be free of you? I choose to be fiercely dependent on your words.

And still I blame you, Dom. Tough love. You had many women, Dom, but this man would outwoman them all. Even faithful Sarayu shall pall before the fierceness of my devotion, the submission in my crawl before your disdainful, out-of-focus stare. Free of homes and homeliness, wanderer, dreamer, you shall never be free of me. I shall outwit the cancer you did not treat and become your prime disease.

I shall deride Sidharth Dhanvant Sanghvi in your voice as a weak dose of LSD.

My flashwords shall not let you sleep, I shall be a one-man-paparazzi army. Having wet my fingers-proboscises, I shall drink from your ink. I shall be the leech that will bleed you into health, that will rouse you out of death –

I warn you, Dom, you are not the only one doing the haunting; I haunt you as only the living can haunt the dead. Tie me close, Icarus, I am your waxen wings. I shall exalt you till your glory melts and till you fall to the sea. I shall prize you from your poetry.

At last you will borrow no voice, depend on no posthumous jamboree.

At last you will be free.


PS: The words are half mine, and half Dom Moraes's, lines or titles of poems, but that is expected; we are both Cancerians, and I feel this great affinity; and I will never forgive him for dying on me.


- Partho Chakrabartty
dropdeadman@gmail.com

The Choice

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude” – Shakespeare

(Yup, I'm selling out, like we did in the tenth standard. No essay of ours ever began without a quote for those extra marks, did it?)

I'd heard it in humour often. How a man's (as in male's) life can be so hard and more often than not, it's because of a woman. Or even more often because of more than one. I don't really know if the theme brought out this article in me or if I would've written it anyway, but man! It's so hard to be truly independent.

Independence to me right now is the freedom to make a choice without having to regret it and without having to feel guilty. That's never going to happen, is it? I mean let's face it, independence sucks. I can see two sides of it already. I was told by my good friend that he's a 'true man' and he'll never give in to a woman, never do something to please a girl if he doesn't want to do it. Dude, you're never going to get laid! Sometimes you've got to suck up to feel happy. What! Did he just say that? I can't believe he wrote that shit! Ok, maybe there aren't enough people reading this to actually make that statement and maybe it's just my guilty conscience thinking it up. But I swear to God, I derive immense pleasure out of sucking up sometimes. Mom, here let me help you with the cleaning. Dad, let me take care of this for you. Here, I'll help you with the dishes. It helps. When you've attached yourself to someone so much that you love them a lot, it really feels nice to, well, suck up to them. I'm sure you know that. You just covered it with lesser demeaning words such as ‘adapting’, ‘adjusting’, ‘doing a favour’, etc.

But at what cost? Oh my son, he's so good, he listens to all we say. He's going to marry the girl of our choice. “Oh my god! What did you say?” “Did you say ‘no’?” “Is this what we raised you for?” “Now I don't even matter to you, do I?” What did you raise me up for mom, dad? I know you're working 12 hours a day plus 2 hours of travel plus 2 hours of house work just to make a good future for me. So that I don't have to see the problems that you faced while growing up. But at what cost? When you decided you're not going to let the bad things that happened to you happen to me again, did you also made up your mind to make sure that you will let the good things that didn't happen to you happen to me as well? At what cost? Mom, are you happy with dad? Don't you think you could've done better? Don't you think if you would've hung around with him for a year, you would have got to know he wasn't right after all? Oh you did know that, didn't you? What was it mom? A loss of hope or a sudden surge of the same?

Why is it that I must be what you want me to be? Isn't that a waste of the person I am? Or indeed the person I can be? Believe me, I respect your wisdom, I know you're probably better equipped with that thing called experience to tell me what's right for me and what's not. But those were things that happened to you and to think you think they shouldn't happen to me is to be completely ignorant of the person I am. Maybe what shouldn't have happened to you will change my life if it happens to me. But with that umbrella of yours that you protect me with, I'll never feel the rain.

We kids will never appreciate the love you put into raising us. We're bastards who secretly wish you weren't around. We're so damn ignorant, we think we could so very well manage without you. We're people who want life to make us what we become when we're 30, rather than let you make us the same. We'd love you to guide us, not control us. Let us choose the path and tell us HOW to walk on it, not WHERE to walk. 'There's always time to change the road you're on'. Don't say, “See we told you that wasn't right.” I know. I heard. I remember. I wanted to check what happens when I'm not right. Are you pissed because I wasted a decent part of my life? Or only because you think that you have a right over me and that I challenged your authority? How often has it happened that you told us off for doing something you didn't like and that only strengthened our resolve to do it again? There's always a better way. Let go. It'd be an immense burden off us.

Everything we do in life is based on fear, especially love -Mel Brooks
The first thing I made up in my 'not to repeat the mistakes my parents made when they raised me' book is: Not to be so in control of my children when I raise them. Never let them feel they're indebted to us, because my kids might grow up to be just as weak minded as me. They might not want to speak out, thinking it may hurt me. I'll be open. Of course, I don’t know where you hid that book of yours. I'd read it and probably be surprised to find the same entry. Maybe when I'm a father I'll realise the troubles of parenting and hate myself for writing this now. But till then, please, let go. I'm shit, the fault is my own. I could never say this to them.

“So I just go on like this
Feeding till in peace I rest
Not knowing where the goodness is
Smothered at my mother's breast.”

- Nikhil Kini
- nikhil.skinny@gmail.com

Irony

She would run to her workplace, outrunning hunger.
She fought her way out through her children’s unwary eyes.
She would sell her sweat for a few pieces of rectangular paper,
And her sporadic smiles for her family’s succor.

A drunken husband and the bottles of destruction,
She struggled bare-minded to achieve a pseudo destination.
The days would enclose children’s demands within
And nights engulfed her needful and desperate screams.

Words were overrun and tears were restrained;
decrepit bones and muscles that had sprained.
She abstained from frolic and refrained from jubilance,
Ironically, she was never free but always independent!



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

The Wall Clock

There was a deafening silence in the huge hall of that archaic bungalow at that late hour. It was a secluded place and the vast empty fields, outside, were giving an ominous touch to the surroundings. The rusted antique pieces and the deteriorated walls were adding their bit to the mysterious tranquility. There were four huge windows in the hall with heavy iron rods fixed on them, seemingly for protection from the queer, for protection from the unwanted. Accompanying them, were the two doors that looked to have come straight from the medieval age having skillfully made designs on them. I looked around rather cautiously, only to freeze my eyes on something that was standing out clearly in that atmosphere full of peculiarity. It was a wall clock. It looked terrifying at the very first site. The clock had many tales related to it. It was said to be dropping a litre of human blood after each complete cycle of the minute hand. Nobody, who had ever spent a night in that place, was believed to have survived the jinx of the wall clock. People were said to be swallowed up by the haunted clock. The clock would use the human bodies to regenerate the blood used in its unique periodic process. Its rusted hands and brown coloured body looked cruelly eager to get changed to crimson.

I was slightly shattered to see that; but soon got a hold on myself. I was there to prove the common beliefs wrong. I was there to ridicule the tales that talked about the supernaturally evil character of the wall clock. The place was said to be haunted. No one had ever survived the dark nights and the terrifying voices that could occasionally be heard in that place, according to the beliefs that existed in its vicinity. The nights were said to be endless and the mystery of the wall clock was irresistibly challenging for the adventurous person in me. Though, certainly there were moments in that dreadful night when I cursed myself for taking up that challenge as some of them turned out to be rather spooky.

Still, I was determined to know the truth in the supposedly jinxed wall clock that was taking a toll on my composed mind, and strongly believed that houses and things of such an occult character can be found only in stories. I was trying to stay normal, trying to have some faith in myself and my life-long beliefs. I put both of my hands in the pockets and tried to relax myself. And now, I was finally heading towards the clock. One step closer, two steps closer, now three.

“aaaaaaannnnnnn”, I heard an unidentifiable howl . It was louder than what I had ever heard. It scared me off completely. I skipped a heart beat. With a frightened mind, I looked back and around. I scrutinized the surroundings. But nothing had moved, nothing had even fallen down. Everything was in its proper place, just as it was before. I wondered where the voice came from. I moved forward. There was some red fluid spilled over the floor. It was blood. Human blood, I presumed. I reached the spot by taking tiny and careful steps; bent down on my knees to touch the floor. Quite courageously, I looked up. The clock seemed eager to take me in, it seemed desperate for my blood. It wanted to kill me to get crimson.

“Noooooooooo”, I shouted. “Save me,” I screamed eagerly and ran for my life. There, I reached the main door; the central exit of the bungalow with an increased pulse rate. Time passed, I calmed myself down. And with all the courage I had, took the decision of my life. I decided to go back to that mystical hall; and I did.

I crept inside. And gathering all the guts I ever had, glared at the floor. Much to my surprise, there was nothing on it. It was clean as it looked when I entered the hall. Now, with some confidence, I looked at the wall clock, and this time it was even a more mollifying surprise. The wall clock, too, looked simple; just as it should have looked to me, as per my beliefs. The room was no ominous either. It was simple nonetheless tranquil, dark. It still had that queer character. There, I was; knowing the mystery of the wall clock.

“Fear is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder,” I told myself.



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Venom

There she sat opposite me,
Demure-faced
Eyes that scream murder…
So she spoke
And I galloped!

He used to care for her,
Now he can’t stand her
She has always persisted,
Indeed she can’t lose this, can she?

The three of us,
On that table,
Desire dancing in our eyes,
She talks, we smile.

We share a secret,
She doesn’t want to know it,
Her hands move swiftly,
As if trying to vanquish the spark!

We meet again, without her
Drink the moment thirstily,
Then I imagine her,
Vengeance in her eyes,
Can I freeze this look?
It’s V for victory.
And V for venom.



- Janvi Gandhi
janvi.87@gmail.com

Let's NOT (??) vote..

Hello young readers of FRW Mag. We're freaks. We're rebels. We're weirdos. But we are not Voters. We just don’t have the time for it. Damn the government. They take taxes from Dad. Now they want to ruin this one holiday that I deserved and I got.

Unarguably, the youth is that section of the society which is the most intellectual. I seriously feel the need of the youth turning into a vote-bank. Poor people are a vote bank. People from the so-called "backward classes" are the vote bank. Non-Maharashtrians in Maharashtra are a vote-bank. Maharashtrians in Maharashtra are a vote-bank. Then why is the youth not counted in the vote bank? Is it that the youth has no demands? Is the youth self-sufficient? If the youth thinks that the government instead of a catalyst, acts as a road block for welfare and development, can the youth just go ahead with its lavish life?

I’d like to state here that if you want to retain your right to equality, right to freedom, right against exploitation, you will have to vote. Else, you won’t even know when the following happens.

BREAKING NEWS: You can’t study anymore. We’re breaking down your school to
make a mall. We’re the government. We even control the media.
In your face. Ha!

Sab parties waste hain. All politicians are corrupt. Everything is rigged. It's of no use. Samir is wasting his and our time…And many more excuses will always be there to evade our responsibility. But unless we take up this responsibility, we’ll stay freaks and weirdos (no offence to the FRW organization.). But definitely not rebels, if we just resist whatever is presently going on in the world, in our own country, in our own city, in our own backyard.

One more interesting (rather hilarious) issue. I’ve often heard people say. Kisko vote deneka re? Sabbich saale chor hain. Celebrities*? “Oh No! We voted for Govinda. He won. He defeated a veteran. He was so proud that no one in the Parliament ever heard from him thereafter!” Has anything been done about this except the party still vouching for its candidate. Does he need a “Partner” who’ll get the job done? If that’s what will justify the still-persistent “Bhaagam Bhag” of Mumbaiites. Arre baba thodi akal lagao. Does anyone read the portfolios/promises during the elections? Start. Distinguish between right and wrong.

There was this case where a guy contested elections with the promise that he’ll fight for free electricity and free water for everybody. WHAT?! Is this Wonderland?! Be aware. Be realistic. Know the candidate. Try to find out. Ask your parents. Ask the candidate’s neighbours. View his history. Take a decision, and make sure it’s a well-thought over one.

I’m not the one who likes preaching. Kindly do not worry. I’m not planning to contest the forthcoming elections either. But I’m someone who cares about my present and my future. And I know I’m responsible for it.

*I have nothing against Govinda or other celebrities or the political parties they represent. But I request them not to accept the responsibility if it’s gonna take the back-seat.

CREDITS:
Inspiration for this topic: Rajendra K. Misra, LEAD INDIA Contestant, Bangalore
Reference: wikipedia.org


- Samir Bellare
sambell111@gmail.com

The Release

Tonight will be a long night –
So long, I’ll lose myself.

Tonight, I’ll lean out, tethered,
Into a world of silken touches.
I’ll lift drooping leaves
And blow dust off their backs.
I’ll make myself a smile
And float it on rivers that go far.
I’ll paint lolling tulips on faces
And compose lilting melodies.
I’ll soar to embrace a boundless sky
And brush my fingers against falling flakes of air.

Tonight, I’ll withdraw, tethered,
From a world of silken touches.
I’ll walk a long way backwards
To a cocooned bed of water.
I’ll close my eyes and open my mouth
Into a wordless scream.
From the last lingering reserves
Then release the sound
That’ll ricochet off my curled up limbs
And I’ll swallow it up again.

Tonight will be a long night –
So long, I can’t lose myself.


- Siddhesh Inamdar.
siddhesh.inamdar@gmail.com