Friday, 28 December 2012

Shaitan (based on a true story)

  Earlier this year, the murder of the Hindi teacher, Mrs.Uma Maheshwari  in a Chennai  school  had caught the attention of millions and shook the entire state of Tamil Nadu. On reading the articles in the newspaper, the boy's abnormal behaviour interested me and I started reading all articles published in regard to this event. On reading further, I noticed a peculiar coincidence that I'd like to share in the form of a story based on the event - my personal take of the incident.

    He was an ordinary adolescent of 15. Came from a reasonably well off family too. The boy was quite introverted. He never socialised much with the outside world and never spoke much. He restricted himself to the insides of his residence. He seldom came out to play a bit of football or cricket and confined his world to his iPhone and a few other technological assets. The boy never managed to study well and always recieved fallacious comments on his performance from his teachers. The boy had an unusual habit though. He loved to tatoo his name on everything and anything possible. On the bark of trees, on the window panels in school, on his palms and feet ; sometimes on his clothes too.

    Ordinary. Introverted. Aloof.


    All this changed completely after a particular happening. His teacher made 13 entries in his school agenda. Things were'nt the same eversince. He morphed into a vengeful beast. A morbid killer with a motive. It's very perplexing to believe a simple gesture of a teacher had the potential to transform a child entirely. Well, I believe it all lies behind the 13 entries, and that they are the culprits behind the change in conduct of the boy. The boy lurked around the school premises for 3 whole days with a dagger in his bag, wrapped in newspaper. After 58 ( 5 + 8 = 13 ) hours of failed attempts, in the 59th hour - Checkmate. He had his victim cornered and alone on the 3rd floor. He stealthily approached her like a machiavellian predator and with 3 slashes, finished her off. He inhumanly stood there with sinister countenance, while she wailed in agony. Gripping his dagger, he made no attempts to escape.


    13 entries. 3 days. 58 hours. 3rd floor. 3 slashes.


   Eventually the boy was arrested. The whole state was in shock and the boy's family was traumatized. The parents, the students, the faculty; everyone were in a state of panic. The news channels were rushing into the premises and in a few minutes, pictures of the teacher in a blue sari were on almost all the television sets all over Tamil Nadu. The boy was held at the Government Juvenile Home, Chennai. Sitting in his quiet cell, isolated from all the din and confusion outside, he found a small piece of marble in the corner. Out of habit, he scrawled his name on the cemented floor.


    And he wrote S  A  T  A  N.



*  3 is also a demonic number because Jesus Christ died at 3a.m.
*  The statistics used are entirely true, although the story is a work of my imagination.


Ciao for now :)

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Ashtami

   Believe it or not, I spent all of yesterday in front of my computer, gaping at my blogger dashboard. I had least expected anyone to view my blog. But then, (forgive me for flaunting) I got 185 views in less than 18 hours. Gaaaaasp. Wait is that good or bad? I don't really know, since I'm blogosphere's newbie (some of the views were even from South Korea). Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for taking time to drop in to my blog, and please do keep visiting!

  Today, I decided upon posting a short story. My favourite among the ones I've written. This was the last piece I wrote, before I took a break from writing on account of my 10th grade board exams earlier this year. 


The short green blades prickled my back as I lay down on the grass of my favourite park - Quail Ridge Park. I lay right beside a pretty indigo flower. It looked a beautiful indigo in the moonlight. It was 9:00 p.m and I lay there looking at the dark sky, poker-faced. My eyes were fixed on the full, luminiscent moon. There were millions of stars in the night sky. To me, they seemed to be spelling one word. Her name. Ashtami.


  I beheld on the face of the moon, the most gorgeous woman ever. The face of Ashtami Shankar. I remember her with me last year ; same place, same time, wearing a saree, of the same shade of indigo as the flower beside me. She was lying by my side that day, just like the flower. She stargazed, while I Ashtamigazed; at her big, expressive eyes, at her funny but pretty nose,at that smile to die for and her wavy hair that was swaying gently in the breeze. Ashtami was my divine Goddess. A simple yet stunning girl.


  I sat up on the sprawling grass, hugging my knees and resting my head on my thighs. I picked the purple flower from the soil and fondled it's purple petals. The yellow pollen inside of it reminded me of turmeric. It took me back to her baby shower. It had my mind reminiscing the gaiety of that day. I remembered her smiling from ear to ear as I rubbed turmeric on her cheeks. The leaves on the flower reminded me of the green glass bangles I slipped on her hand that day. She looked oh so fine that day in a traditional Kanjeevaram. 



  Somewhere near the park, somebody was conflagrating their garbage. The process warded off a foul smell that I hated. I hated it as much as what it reminded me of. It reminded me of the putrid smell the hospital ward emanated. The ward where my Ashtami slept. She was in a white hospital robe and the IV was strapped to her arm. I remember leaning over her, hearing her breathe ever so gently. I remember warming her cold hand with mine.


  I stood up and started heading home. It was 10:30 p.m. I walked down the hill of Quail Ridge Park, past the mulberry bush, when a little girls headband caught my attention. It was stuck between the twigs of the bush and had a pink ribbon attached to it. I reached for the band and pulled the ribbon off. I made it into a cross. It reminded me of the reason why I could'nt see Astami again. My wife died of breast cancer last week.


 
Ciao for now :)

Onus

  I wrote this poem sometime in July, this year. I wanted it to be all deep and emo, so yeah. And I thought that would fit well as the first piece of my writing that I post in 'The Rohzabal Line'. So I present thee, with 'Onus'.Disclaimer : (Almost) All of my writing is of a dark shade. The genre varies from macabre to tragedy to everything else sad and depressing. I am not responsible for any adverse reactions from the reader. Nervous wrecks, heartbreaks, people too soft at heart etc. brace yourselves.

Despite the light through the vent,

That floods around my pupils,
I'm stranded in the black
As the eyelids on my soul are shut.
Lacerated and hurt,
Refusing to come out into the bright
Awaiting a smile on my face,
To open up once again.
In my cell, I lay facing it's lid
Motionless, expressionless,
My scars, they itch with pain
And my body, too traumatized to let go of a tear.
You crucified my heart, through night and day,
Yet I endured your torture,
As the love I laid on you
Overwhelmed the hatred you had for me.
My torso bears every scar you bestowed upon me,
From leather belts to heated rods.
Through all the malady, I'm grateful for those marks
As they are the only memory of you I have left.
For the sole reason that I was feminine
And I did'nt have the license to fight back,
You choked me with your sadism
For which I detest you, I won't deny.
On that apocalyptic day, 21st June,
My rage got the better of me.
A pitchfork extinguished your existence,
And put me in the place I am today.
The living dead am I, right now.
Writing your name in the used air around me
And closing my eyes to behold your face
Keeps me blinking, keeps me breathing.
I want to perish, to catch a glimpse of your countenance, 
But fate knows it will only slaughter me further
And disallows me to die,
Or rather disallows me to live.
I embrace the meager bits of you
Left on my slashed self,
And wish to relinquish life,
A proud masochist of your 'love'.

(Inspired by Jag Mundhra's 'Provoked')


I hope you liked it. There's more in store.

Ciao for now :)

Simply Moi.

   Starting this blog wasn't something that struck me all of a sudden today while I got out of bed, or while I was sitting on the toilet, or while I was doodling in math class. It's been on my mind for a very very long time. Only one thing has been preventing me from getting down to the job. My writing isn't very bloggish. I can write fiction (to an extent). But the ink in my pen doesn't flow too smoothly when it comes to day to day issues or non-fiction for that matter. I thought my pieces of writing wouldn't suit best for a blog.

  What I realised today was that I was just being lazy. 'twas nothing else. So, yes. On this day, 26/12/12, Boxing Day 2012, I officially start my blog. I had asked a couple of friends for suggestions to name my blog. A friend of mine came up with weird titles like 'Ponderosa' and 'Wonderosa' and what not. So I decided to do it myself. (He also came up with 'Holy water of hell' dafaq?). But I ended up choosing a cheesy title myself. 'The Rozabal Line' is the book I'm currently reading (Ashwin Sanghi, you are a sheer genius) and moi name's Rohana. I put both names together and tadaa.
  Ok, back to business. Here are a few (very few, I promise) things about moi.
- I'm weird. 'nuff said.
- My most valuable possession is my dog. Doogie. But you know, I think he's on self-destruct mode right now, or he finds it cool. Every morning, there's a fraction of his ear that's missing. Probably he's trying to pierce.
- I'M A MUFC FAN. GGMU GGMU GGMU GGMU. And whoever said that 'Behind every MUFC female fan, there is a guy she's trying to impress', must be spanked. I don't know who you are, but I will find you, and give you a wedgie.
- I hate pink. The colour. I love the artist.
- I'm 16. Eccentric. I get confused between my gender sometimes. And yes, high school has taught me so much more than education has. Also, the internet has taught me so much more than education. (It's the Indian education system. Whadya expect?)
- People think I'm ribaldrous. But I honestly think otherwise. The dream is to be Bohemian. In fact, I wanted to name this blog 'Bohemian Dreams'. But someone else had named their blog with the same name, sadly. (Oh, by the way, the 'Bohemian Dreams' blog gave me the creeps. Google it if you wanna know what I'm talking about). Okay. So that's that. In this blog, I will be posting various pieces of my writing (Hope you like it!). They're mostly in the form of short stories or poetry. Forgive me for flaws, I'm still an amateur. Hopefully, fingers, toes, nose hair and small intestine crossed, this blog will go places.
P.S : The link given under the 'About Me' column will direct you to my Google+ account. And truthfully you will know nothing 'About Me' from that account. I'm not active on Google+ at all. But I'm an active facebook user. The link to my facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/rohana.jeyaraj. 
Ciao for now :)