Showing posts with label Sad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sad. Show all posts

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Fiction-55: Twinkle



“Twinkle, Twinkle.”
“Yes, Uncle?”

“Missing Papa?”
“Yes, uncle.”

“Don’t fear; now, I’m here”
“Thank you, uncle.”

“Want to go out?”
“Ok, Uncle.”

“You must be tired. Want to sleep?”
“Yes, uncle”

“Come closer; I will tell you a bedtime story.”
“Ok, uncle.”

“Now, let me kiss you a sweet goodnight”


“NO, uncle...

Please, uncle…

STOP!”

***


Posted under 'The Nine Flavors'
Flavor: Disgust (Bhibatsa) 

Your entries are welcomed:





-Ashish

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Poem: Box of Blues

To avenge the banal opus,
in fiasco, the controller is assaulted,
numerous times, it is clicked,
only to find exhilaration. 
Every face of the colored box is painted,
but, with a similar shade of poignancy,
boasting of some lachrymose issue. 
Despair makes the headlines look fancy
and every page turns into a tissue. 
Be it inside or outside the box,
to search happiness is not a cake-walk.
Liberation from an unendurable writhe 
or is it our world stuck inside the box?
A thin screen between material and myth,
or is it just a mirror that stares back, I wonder? 

-Ashish

Monday, February 4, 2013

Fiction-55: The Footpath


After begging all day, he could earn a little to feed his two deprived kids. He bought some steamed curd rice packed in a newspaper scrap.
That was a delightful supper. With satisfaction, the man slept with his children, under a torn rug, on the roadside.
Next morning, the headlines said, “Hit-and-run case: 3 dead”. 

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Poem: Diary Blues



Dear Diary,

Today, I’ll share with you
a story of a boy
because you are my only ally.
So, lend me your ears
and a few moments from your years.
Here it goes…

“There lived a lonely guy
he had no friends, no brothers
or nobody who would die.
Nobody to serve cold dishes,
no malicious foes,
or to make any ill-wishes.
He desired no miracles,
neither prayed for no gifts,
nor was he lucky for free-falling apples.
He was his only priory,
an introvert for a speaker,
and his only  listener, a dear diary.
One fine day, God showered a surprise,
and his life turned into a nightmare,
gifted him friends for reprise.
They became his oxygen,
someone for whom he would sacrifice,
would walk into a lion’s den.
The foolish fish jumped off its bowl,
in expectation to find more water,
into a world that offered no soul.
Unaware was he of the fire,
following the paradise,
which would light up his pyre.
Absent from the real surroundings,
lost in the music so divine,
he trusted in the imaginary bindings.
The god-gifts took him so high,
up above the world,
and dropped him down, to die.
“Why did you stick to the ones who lied?”,
with a lump in its throat,
on his death, only his diary cried.
Do not expect no amends,
the boy lived and died alone,
and that is how the story ends.”

Ashish

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