ASCENT

I’m climbing the face of a dune.
The sand is reddish-tan, pretty cold and almost powder-dry under my feet, my hands. The sun is almost level at my back. I know the other side of the dune will be dark.
I follow my shadow up the dune.

“I don’t know. It’s just a dream I’ve been having.”

Juno shrugs. She’s not particularly interested in dreams. “You think it means anything?”
I sip my coffee. It’s damn hot and tastes too bitter. Most of my co-workers like it much stronger than I do.

“I guess maybe it means some transition, some big change in my life...”

She sneers. “There could be more layoffs coming.” I glare at her. “Sorry, I know that’s not funny. You could talk to Cindy.”

I stifle a groan. Our receptionist is what they call a New Ager. Besides interpreting people’s dreams at staff meetings, she’s been known to palm-read customers. Sometimes without their consent.

Bitter dust coats my lips and flirts with my skin. My eyes itch, but I stifle somehow the urge to rub them. Small rivulets of sand trickle down around me. Each time I set my foot down, it sinks back almost to where it was before I lifted it.
I look up. A faint, very faint, veil of dust is lifting from the dune-crest; there must be wind up there, but I can’t feel it down here.

“So you’re all alone on this sand dune, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“So it’s about being isolated...” Cindy peeks at me from the corner of her eye; she, like some others in the office, was a spectator to my recent spat and ensuing break-up with my fiancee. I can’t really blame her—I wasn't entirely responsible, but I did make the spectacle. “And about feeling stuck, or trapped? You said you keep sinking back, like you’ll never get to the top.”

“No,” I say. I can’t tell why that feels wrong, but it does.

“But you have this dream over and over, and it never changes?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. I don’t remember noticing any changes, but there have to be some. There have to be.

Back in my cube, I flip my calendar over and stare, stunned. November was yellow flowers on some prickly-looking desert bush. December is a huge, towering dune of reddish sand, exactly the color of the dune in my dream. The caption says "The dreaming self is the shadow of the waking self. The waking self is the shadow of the dreaming self. In life, the dreaming self is tethered to the purposes of the waking self".

The slope is so steep, I’m on all fours. My hands burn with the dryness. How long have I been climbing? There’s a rustling, and suddenly the sand all round me is moving, sliding. I cry out in protest, but it’s no use; the whole face is in motion, and I’m scrambling not to get sucked under.
At last the sand comes to rest. The slip zone shows as a crescent of very slightly paler sand, above and to both sides. I know it’ll be unstable for a while. I need to move sideways, get to an unslipped area, start climbing again.

“... so I must have flipped through the calendar when I first bought it, and for some reason remembered that picture. And now I’m dreaming about it.”

“Huh.” Jean fiddles with her napkin, folding the corners into tiny pleats. The quilted paper rustles with a sound like sand. Sand sliding, slipping...

“Hello! Are you there?”

“Uh?” I focus. Jean looks a little worried. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I said, you bought this calendar a year ago, right? I mean, this is December, right? And you haven’t looked at it since then?”

“I don’t like to look ahead at the pictures,” I say, defensive for no reason. “It’s like looking at the end of a book. It spoils the fun.”

“But you must at least have looked at the back, when you bought it, to see if you’d like it?”
I try to remember. “I don’t think so. It said ‘Desert Blooms’—I thought that sounded good.”
“So there’s flowers in this dune picture?”

“Uh—No.” Suddenly uneasy, I push back my chair and stand up. “Listen, Jean, I’ve got to get back to work. My lunch break’s over.”

Jean looks upset; I know I’m being rude, but I have to get back to my office and look at that calendar.

December’s picture. A round, striped cactus with vivid pink flowers around the top, like a kitschy beer barrel ornament. The caption says something about Arizona.
Am I going crazy?

I’m climbing again. My hands feel scraped and sore. My leg muscles ache. But the crest seems closer. I can feel a touch of breeze on the back of my sweaty neck. Even the sand feels firmer underfoot; real. (Why do I think that?) The sky looks bigger and bigger, above; an endless, serene blue streaked with a tinge of red, where dust is blowing from the dune-crest.
I’ll be there soon.

The numbers on the elevator tick down steadily. I’m afraid to look too closely at them, in case they turn into falling grains of sand. I’ve been hallucinating on and off since lunch with Jean. No, before, counting the calendar.

I need to see a doctor. Obviously. Work-related stress. Unresolved issues with julia,my fiancee. Easy answers, and they ring as false as the tinny Christmas music the elevator’s played since forever. The music which threatens to dissolve into the sound of wind over sand.
Maybe a brain tumor? I’ve heard they can cause hallucinations. But I can’t believe any of these things. I can’t reduce the taste of dust, the smell of sand dampened with my own sweat, to anything so prosaic. Maybe I’m just not prepared to admit my life is that boring. Maybe I’m tempted by the magic of an exotic place, even if it’s an imaginary place—no, a delusional place.

I push out of the elevator on the ground floor, out to the street, stumbling briefly as the industrial carpet in the lobby gives way to powdery sand. I can’t give in to this. I’ve got to get help before they come and take me away in a straitjacket.
I’ve got to get home. I’m at the crest.


Before me, the sand falls away into a fathomless darkness. To left and right, the crest stretches away, undulating gently, sharp as the edge of a knife. The breeze is strong up here, cooling the sweat sticking my shirt to my back, soothing the raw patches on my hands. My shadow falls down into the gloom and disappears. Strange, I thought it was attached to my feet, but it just slipped loose.
I could step forwards and follow it, down and down into the dark.
Or I could turn around and slide down the lighted face, back the way I came. Without my shadow.
Or I could walk along the crest for a while. I might lose my balance, or get caught in another slip, of course.
Or I could sit here and listen to the wind...

image courtesy:deviantart.com

PARADISE LOST

Through the tattered sunshine and patched warmth;
Numb fingers working at the cold fire;
Preserving the wet coal and caked oil;
The dry eyes looking through,
The broken glasses;
And across the scattered images
a resigned shrivelled up flower looks up;
The fragrance that lies trapped in words,
carefully merged into blank endless smiles;
The barter between body and soul,
on the red carpet of dreams,
dilligently,patiently sifting through the grains of time,
to reach out for crumbs,
That might fill the empty stomach;
and life shimmers;
on the lost tears,and the empty wait;
Where the moments turn into eternity,
and eternity withdraws into,
An Acceptance; an empty Fate...

WORDS

Well past midnight I close my eyes,
and old terrors come to call,
An angel whispers in my ear
as it flies past on ancient wings,
A melody echoes in my heart,
or drops of dew descend from
the dense, enveloping air
splashing me with inspiration:
a single word, a turn of phrase,
some piece of spirit that
calls out to be heard.

The words fit nicely
into notches of my imagination
where meaning lays itself bare.
I search with a musician’s ear
for the one and only word
that fits there,
The feng shui of the written word.

A few months back,
poems were spilled out
full of hormones and angst,
suffering and loss...

but now they move slowly,

they kick and yawn their way out.
They laze in the back of my mind
in an imaginary hammock
among tall pines in blue shaded mountains
and enjoy themselves,
each poem contented, well-honed;
like warm chocolate covered cherries
just waiting to be savored..


Statutory Warning: (It's now exactly a year since I discobhered..) NEVER laugh out aloud if somebody (jokingly)accuses your "best friend" of being a paedophile!!!
trusht me-he might cease to be then...F I means :( :D n you'll feel strange,sometimes :|

image courtesy: deviantart.com
put it just cuz I liked it verry much.hihi

AND DEATH BECOMES HIS.

"What, according to you Mr. Pandev, is the worst way to end life...physical death or the fear of it?"

Goran Pandev furrowed his brows. The aftertaste of the last sip of Bloody Mary was still lingering in his mouth. The party around him was in full swing. The usual boring gentlemen, high-ranking officials and pompous dastards flanked on every side. When asked aside by this certain toothbrush-moustached someone, Pandev expected a political debate of some sort, an unequivocal monologue really, where he was expected to nod and agree every view pressed upon him, owing to his young age. But this question was unusual, in fact, particularly interesting.

"Oh I don't know, Mr. Voronin. The notion of Death has seldom entered my mind or conversation. It's nonsensical to discuss it as a concept although I do respect the sobriety of.."

Andriy smiled lopsidedly.

"That exactly is the flaw in this generation. They live as though they would never die and die as though they had never lived..." he proclaimed in impressive, ringing tones at the same time smoothing the front of his frock-coat, which crinkled crisply. "You people claim to live life on the edge don't you?But just imagine Mr. Pandev- you are traveling in a trekker at breakneck speed at the height of a cliff; a sudden rush of blood and you loose control..your vehicle takes a tumble and off you go down the cliff...well,just for the sake of assumption; the point is then- when would you die? The instant the jeep is in the air...or a few seconds later, when it crashes into the ocean? Think about it."

"I definitely will. But I think it all comes down to the...err... situation. It's almost impossible to know for sure , not in the least while sipping wine in a gathering." The latter replied, his eyes distracted by something Andriy's act had momentarily revealed from the folds of his coat.

"I-I must be leaving." Andriy said eventually, his eyes following Pandev's, whose pair, for a moment seemed to flicker with something he dreaded.





Goran Pandev was racing against time. In swift strokes of his square-toed boots, his lanky,jittery figure bowled across the garage, across the heavy elevator and the many cars, fearing his quarry might be out of reach. His victim had left the party too early to not be a suspect. A few meters away from him, Andriy Voronin was almost getting into his car, when in a blur of steel and muscle, his car door was yanked shut and the old man's neck struggled in a half-nelson. His engorging pupils gave him away.

"I knew it." Pandev muttered through gritted teeth.

But Andriy wasn't to give up so soon. State security was in his hands. He either had to save the documents or die trying. With a well-practised kick, he nearly freed himself from the latter's grip. But this was momentary triumph. A scuffle ensued and Pandev's brawn got the better of him. He unearthed from the depths of his trousers, a length of heavy manacle like chains and knocked his victim straight in the head. Andriy felt himself falling down an endless dark tunnel which unfortunately didn't have light at it's end..




He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. A gangling man's frame loomed into view, every line on his face malignant. With plunging horror he realized that he had been tied in a standing spread-eagled position by his wrists and ankles, his feet levitating a feet from the ground, in a small place which resembled a cupboard. In a swift, fluid movement, Pandev plunged into his frock coat and dug out the documents. The papers, that were more important than his job or family, that had taken entire sleepless nights to construct and then safeguard, that had needed months of planning to sneak across three continents..were now in the possession of a person he was sure would do no good to them.

"Thank you, Mr. Voronin." Was his glib retort, the smirk hanging shamelessly on the face which had so often being inexplicably passive. "You see it was entirely unnecessary to degrade you to such a demeaning position...tut tut..." he tilted his head slightly, "but you see, I really couldn't consummate something so unceremoniously...with a knockout."

Andriy was at loss of words, perspiring heavily.

"Now you decide," Pandev said, his eyes flickering upwards for a moment, "what way you would want to die..."

He then punched his fist hard at the wall next to him, at a part which Andriy couldn't see. The ceiling shuddered to life. Trembling in anticipation, Andriy tried to fathom what he was being subjected to...moments later, realization finally dawned on him- he had actually been tied to the cave-in beneath the elevator. The monster in question was three stories above, descending slowly, immaculately, almost in a bored,routine,insignificant manner; not aware of the act it would be committing in seconds.

"Release me...please!!" Malcolm shrieked,frightened nearly to death; spitting vomit out of the way.

With a sadistic leer, Pandev pocketed the papers safely into his breast pocket and stalked into the shadows.




back to my favored arena,this be my modest tribute to one Mr.AC :) this is a damacha on the face of one of my friends who claimed that basu ain't be able to go beyond romantic bullshit.hihi
n yes,bullshit is not correct too :D have a real long holiday up ahead..looking forward to some wonderful time with friends n...n yeah, if you people are absolutely flabbergasted in this heat, I'll recommend you to go see Shaurya or Khuda ke liye...excellent movies,both of them-would surely be a refreshing break.