As it is

Once there was a painter. He was famous, cryptic, crude but a master with brush. He would simply slide his brush, glance over the canvas, and when he moves aside to present us, the canvas with a glaring smile, we would look at the painting with a deep sense of understanding, not in awe, as it is just as passive as our life, we begin to understand those beautiful equations, we understand what Dirac could see.
Then we would walk away with eyes full of tears, we would begin to see the sea of probability around us, we would see the world as it is and as it should be or as we wish it to be.
We would look up to the artist and would see the man ,with a desperate tears, had cut his veins and would beg forgiveness for he says that we are all dead.


The story of pretty things – 1

It would contain the deepest thoughts of men and women,which would wreak havoc among the thoughless schemers of civilisation.The lads were often plunged into deep thoughts questioning the sheer meaninglessness of their living and would be feeed only when life knocks on their mind with matters of survival.

Shelly was wrong. The winter was indefinite, the snowy floors were infinite. The initial welcome had soared to an indifferent cry for spring. The flowers were white, yet the trees were blank, but several rooms at Pete and Duke Inn emitted the stepping sound of typewriters, making sure the minds of people were never empty. Every week, a group of young lads would climb the third floor of the gloriously tired inn to deliver loads of white paper. Their sweaty smiles were never reciprocated but rewarded with serious glances and silent exchange of money. They were no conflicts, there were no debates on the quality of paper, but lads felt their buyers had a magnetic or rather intoxicating urge to resume their handicraft on the typewriter, to make sure the white paper would never be white again. It would contain the deepest thoughts of men and women,which would wreak havoc among the thoughless schemers of civilisation.The lads were often plunged into deep thoughts questioning the sheer meaninglessness of their living and would be feeed only when life knocks on their mind with matters of survival.

Until then,the young lads on the door would straighten up their hips, pull up their body on their heels to see the miracle that has been an off putting joke among themselves – the working of a writer’s mind. The meek bodies of writers were not strong enough to stop these lads, but the dry eyes and twisted posture was enough to stop the lads from spinning their attention to the interiors of the enchanted room.
On any such day, a lad just delivered a stack of paper and curiously climbed down the ladder. As with every hour of every day, a maid was cleaning the 2nd floor. The lad asked the maid – ‘ Excuse me, Do they eat madame? Do they speak like us? Do they hate us?’
The maid replied with a coy smile dripping off her lips ‘They do all sort of things boy. They are creatures far above us, or the very least they seem to think so’ He was astonished, but the skeptic inside him asked her again ‘Madame, forgive the arrogance of mine. How are you so sure?’ The maid continued ‘I am a maid boy, I am the maid.’ She walked past the lad in calmness and hallway was silent again except for the sound of thoughts on typewriters.
The boy waited there, and then he began to listen to the sound of typewriters. He closed his eyes and stood their thinking about the spring of his life in rhythm with the typewriter. Once or twice, he had seen the magic machine, one that would emit sound and reflect words on paper. He began to jog his memory and began to trace sound with words. He stormed his intelligence to trace the symbol from its words. The solitary yet strong spirited lad stood there without any sense of time and space. The other lads pulled him out of the state he was meddling his mind with. While he moved away from the inn, he felt a anomalous pull from the deep corners of his mind to get absorbed into melancholy of the 3rd floor. Yet he knew he was in streets now.

The gamble

Look to this world or look to thyself,
mock the lamp of civilisation breeding the darkness around our soul,
while being lambed down,
soaken in blood and sweat ,bland words and blank eyes
smitten over the markets to fill our void self,
of tomorrow’s smile, while silent to break the sile of theirs,
none to be kept or given, everything to be lost in today’s gamble,
until the day something is left to cry about,
Oh baby, I am resigning, on a fate never found and confined,
Yet I resign, to fill myself with despair and pain,
For it is only the worth now.
To have immense and yet feel so heavy in oneself.

My body, mind and I

I am nobody because my body is a loan from earth
I don’t own my thoughts because they are imagination from my mind
I am not my mind because my mind is just made up by me
I am nothing because I am a tiny atom in the vast universe
There is no good or bad for me
All I do is ‘perceive’ and ‘perceive’
That’s all I am capable of..
I wish I could make everyone perceive…

– Bijunath Gopinathan.


Half in love and half in rage

Refusing to open my eyes,

Refusing to flourish on my lies,

Yet again I will die today and bid you good bye,

I wish i had filled in,

My love, lust and lies, in your heart and eyes,

And watch myself meld into your memories,

But yet again, we are all alone,

Watched you die to let myself live,

Lived enough to have felt death everyday there to,

Close your eyes, close your heart,

Relive the fear, have the pain and jump,

On the ground, lies our redemption.

Thy reflection.

A car was monotonously pacing through the country road. It was a rhythmic run with occasional glitches of sound whistling through.

A child and a man were the only passengers. The child glaring through the window, quite bored at world with a hollow look which he shared with the man.

“Dad, why do we dream?”

The child asked with stutter and inconceivable emptiness.
He looked at his kiddo with a smug.

He said without a second thought “I don’t know kiddo, I dream because I can”

The child asked with gullible innocence.

“Dad, how do I know that I am me”

He raised his chin, and in an instant saw his reflection treading the same path as himself.

“Kiddo, why do you ask these questions?”

“Why?..” The child looked with fear.

“Kiddo, I never thought I will say this, but quit the act boy. I see you.”

The child looked at his father with amusement. He was 13 years but in his own terms, he was quite at a different level. His demeanor changed, now straight on his back, without the child in him, he said:

“Because I can, Dad”

He was unperturbed, he knew about him, he knew that his child was somehow different. He knew because he was different and with apparently sumptuous arrogance, he plunged into the raw filth of the world. Only blood, guilt and then some remained in him.

“Son, can I ask you something?”

The whole demeanour of child changed, the child looked away and his said “Dad, don’t fear me now”

“Kiddo, do you think I should fear you?”

“Dad, if you see me, then you should”

The father felt the arrogance, confidence seeping through his character and at that instant he didn’t fear or loathe him, but feared for for him.

“Son, remeber last month,You accidentally dropped the knife on your mother’s leg, right?”

“Dad, you are unintentionally hilarious, you say you see me, then you should better know”

He gently parked the car onto the side.

“Son, do not ever harm her. She is my only thread to this world. If you ever..”

The child stopped him and continued without anger, but with a cold shrug and sleepy eyes,

“Do you think your opinions matter? , look at me, I might look civilised, I might even look like human being, but deep inside, there is a whirlpool of rage within me, I am hungry when I am angry, and I can and will destroy anything in my path. May I remind of the misfortune happened to your lovely little daughter.”

The father was shell shocked to hear those words

“You little brat, you..I always blamed myself, you?”

“As we speak, all I need is a little stretch, to slit open you gullet without a blink,without any second thoughts, without mercy. You might think you can overpower me, but you should know by now, don’t you. You can’t move an inch unless I allow. You can’t, you feel that don’t you, the eruption of fear in your mind, as I look onto you, it floods you, it clouds your senses, even before I break your soul, your body is been broken, surrendered to my will.”

“Son, why, what happened to you, why and how.”

“Mr.Dad, I might look and feel bracketed within the realm of humanity, but I am a feral child with an inhuman touch.I am not just you or her or anything earthly, I am more..”

Dad steeply looked at his child. With nothing but fear, he blurted

“Don’t hurt your mother, and why did you do that to your own sister”

” There are no promises my dear father, and of course there are no reasons, there is no meaning
but, I will definitely try . But.. there will be always a but between us. Remind yourself,behave yourself”

After a second or two, the father calmed down. With a deep breath swallowing his own fear, sympathising with his own father, he started the car.

“Son, let me tell you a story, my story, my father’s story, you are sadly a mere reflection of myself, a continuation of our kind”

“Amusing Mr.Dad, quite amusing”

The car continued its monotonous its journey. The country road seemed so quite and tired.