FranKophone

An oppressed woman looks beautiful to the eyes of its predator. She has the most perfect face one can ever imagine. In her eyes, she wears fear. She masks it with kohl. Her nose is held high, lest someone suspects. Her mouth is gagged. She never wails or attracts attention. Her body is marked, ridiculed and trampled upon. In the most remote corner of her heart, she has buried all her dreams and desires. She has lost hope, faith and soul.

No longer do I look forward To wearing my new birthday dress. Impeccably wrapped gifts no longer excite me. I do not cut cakes with numeric candles glowing on it. I ignore most messages, pings and tweets, That remind me of my birthday. With each passing festival I see new trends in the market. Playing with colors or fire is not "my thing" now. I wish no one comes home with a box of sweets in hand. I wish not to be wished at all. I loathe parties thrown by friends, Their birthdays and their weddings. Their house-warming and their baby-showers and their successes. Sipping a drink in hand and Thinking. Reminiscing about chances I had but did not take. Wondering about how lost I am. Where did I lose it ? At fifteen - when I was blissfully unaware ? Or at seventeen ? When I did not know how to do it. Or at twenty one ? When I failed to realize what exactly to do. Sadly I stopped counting after that.

She was changing sides on the bed. Trying hard to fall asleep. Everything was fine, she knew everything would be fine. There was a nagging thought though. Something on which she could not lay her finger on. Like a question. What had she done to deserve a good night’s sleep ? Images of the morning swept across her eyes. A random kid under someone’s wheels. The mourning wails, the confusion, negotiation. Maybe she should have done something. Something meaningful instead of making money. Did her money mean anything to children who die everyday ? She knew the answer but pretended not to. Instead, she popped in a few pills and waited for sleep to come. 

I had promised myself that I would write here oftener. I broke it. Like I have been breaking promises since ages. I feel guilty about it. Maybe a little more this time. I do not know why. Is it because I realize I have run out of time ? Too old to run,breathe,think,feel,take risks. My mistakes have not ruined me. I am ruined on my own. I feel trapped in the open. Pictures do not speak to me anymore. But I am not in a mood to give up. Not anymore.

I once wished my room had a window. I could watch the world pass by. Like bougainvillea flowers merrily drifting in the winds. Fragrance of love wafting in the air. The street lamps glowing yellow. Hawkers selling their goods. The new mall flinging its neon lights unto the streets. The crazy young crowds. Random children chuckling as they walk. Bike competitions. The busy bees. The old, abandoned and helpless. The madman calling names. The rains. Gods visiting homes while playing with colours. The police patrols. The riots. Someone could shatter my window panes. So I loathe windows. Broken windows are painful. Pic Courtesy:Google

Promise me not to wither away, For you were once the object of my love. I was smitten at first sight, but you never knew, You were the one I yearned for secretly. With familiarity, the magic spell broke, I realized your vulnerability, your weaknesses.  I stepped back. Perhaps it was a sham. You ceased to charm me.  With time, I started to loathe you. Your presence annoyed me.  But when you said,"I wish I were dead", Something tugged my heart. I froze with fear. I don't exactly know what holds me unto you, Is it our affection or the thought of separation ? In love, maybe, you never loved back. In hatred, I fancy you are around, hating me back. Promise me not to wither away, For I want to be the object of your hatred. Pic Courtesy:Google

Why does it rain after midnight when the days are impossibly hot? Why does my pack of cigarettes disappear when I need it the most? Why does he torment me the most when I want to forget him? Why does it hurt so much when I am trying to heal? Why is it so unruly when things are under control? Why this craving when I have no unfulfilled wishes? Why is it so hard to be good again? Damn! Why is it so tough to live again?

Right before my very eyes, A storm gathers every day. Hell breaks loose, vultures feast, Little birds get trapped. I do nothing but walk away. Courage eludes me, fear numbs me. I try to save my skin, Yet the aftermath haunts me, Nags me, reminds me of The blatant display of cowardice. Nests break, hopes shatter. Before they pick themselves up, A new storm gathers.

On mornings like this, When gentle streaks of light Play hide and seek with darkness, I crave to hold you real tight. And never let you go. In a spur, I abandon my hesitation, Cross the space between us. You often take cue  and recoil, Just like my true lovesick man. Slowly our tale begins and then I hear you whisper a name With passion and trepidation. I pause , I listen. It isn’t mine, someone else’s. Fantasy shatters, heartache entails. On waking up, you forget all. I act like I know nothing at all.  Pic Courtesy : Google