The Craven


’twas the night before Diwali.


I was in the middle of the pages of a book that bore the stately figure of Edgar Allen Poe, coupled with the ominous presence of a Raven, oh shoot, I’ll say it; it was a crow. Absorbed by the horror betwixt his words, I had grown a particular vulgar proclivity to the paranormal; and oddly enough, I felt a tapping somewhat louder than before.


It’s not what you think.


I needed to pee.


Laying down my book under the lamp light that gloated o’er within an otherwise nocturnally defined room, I stepped into the darkness, feeling about for the knob that was to be the gateway for my nature’s call, so desperately pure.


Long I stood there; wondering, fearing, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dare dream before, whereupon behind the translucent widow that sealed away the foul smell of my washroom from the outside world, I heard a noise, akin to a person heavily breathing.


Disregarding my affiliation to the painfully obvious, I consummated my aforementioned proclivity along with a disdaineous sense of horror and open’d wide the window-lattice (no clue – I had to  google what ‘lattice’ is too).


Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into my chamber turning, all my dashed hopes of horror within me burning, soon again, I heard a breathing – somewhat louder than before.


Surely there is something at my window lattice, I pretend to know the words I use to talk to darkness, as I u-turn and attempt to investigate yet again the Rubicon that is my window lattice, protecting me from the horror it so barriers.


Adrenaline pumping fast, I, yet again, second-guessing, yet no syllable expressing, “Come now, you are a man of logical disposition. Surely, there is an animal stuck, perhaps in the pipes therein,” I exclaimed into total darkness – I was alone.


The thirst of curiosity began to sense the sweet water in the form of unnecessary information presenting itself, and therefore, with a deep breath and a good deal of convincing myself that no-one-will-see-me-even-if-was-wrong, I threw open the window lattice to find a house abutting mine, also having a window facing mine.


Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening me. Within the background of the night’s plutonian shore, I gazed at the house adjoining mine, where the heavy sound pounded and pounded upon the window, which did not function effectively as a sound proof.


The window bore a pristine transparency, both in form and my mind’s clarity, which consequented itself to my head being softly nurtured by the auspices of my pillow with more than a giggle or two. Whereupon, when I drove myself to open up the window, there was a little scream, followed by a crashing noise.


The two school children in the door opposite mine, had stumbled upon, lets’ say, a collection of videos, of men and women in the ‘act’. I suppose their own curiosity had borne them a fancy, and their act truly did beguile my fear into smiling.


Love conquers fear, I guess.


Taste the thunder

Scene: Ancient Rome in a period we now know as 50BC. It tells us the story of the Gladiator, Marcell.

Marcell was the younger of two.

As a child, Marcus, the elder of the two, had always given into his intellectual prowess. He quickly picked up Mathematics and Logic and learned to write from I to IX. Eventually he ventured into various other alphabets such as the ‘L’, the occasional ‘C’, as well the as dreaded ‘M’.

Marcell, however, sternly believed in the Olympian manner of life. Every waking moment he would spend exercising the muscle, and ironically, omitting the most important chunk of muscle of all – the Medullus. He stoutly opined that at every turn of the dial should be a prayer to the Temple of Mars, the god of war – at least that’s how much his brain allowed for him to think.
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Upon questioning a true man of logic, he would state that the ends justify the means — that the ends act as a prophet for the means — and that the means by itself would hold no water. I was once such a man — a man so riveted to logic that all forms of movement outside it’s ambit would be met with criticism. All it finally took was a 48-hour encounter with a free spirit that shattered this foundation of my logic — with the sledgehammer of character and the wrecking ball of a pretty smile. That was the ‘ado’. Here comes the ‘without further’. I shall now recount my story.

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5 o’ Clock

Hickory; and the subsequent penultimate dickory and the concluding dock. The rhythmic rodomontade of the alerting siren of the cog-wheel contraption of the dial estimating the every static moment had a rather hypnotic – a rather derisory effect on a quad-ped rodent otherwise scurrying finally about. Contrary to the fight/flight axiom, the rodent rather chose to approach rather than reproach the indiscriminate ticking sound of the precise reminder of the man-made reference point of period.

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Rock-a-die baby??

‘A mother sings a lullaby to her child…’ – Porcupine Tree’s Blackest eyes starts off with this line…And this got me thinking — What is it, that makes a series of well-placed low tempo notes that puts an infant to sleep? Why the sudden decent to nocturnal opacity? Furthermore, judging by the cranial capacity of a baby, I couldn’t help but ponder — Do these lullabies contain a deeper meaning in it’s lyrics? I found myself dwelling into this. I also found myself doing something a lot cooler, but completely unnecessary — Interpret a lullaby. After this, I could safely conclude, that they are quite brutish! Yes. I said brutish! Before further ado:

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The note that could not be heard.

A little, diminutive note in his teens aspired to be a drop in the ocean of a great melody one day. He practiced long and hard to be a resonance of tintinnabulation into the pinna betwixt aural muscles. He quickly learned the steps to dance with his 3rd cousins and his 5th cousins and the occasional inbred far off relative minor cousins while he bore his sweat from sun rise to sun rise in his opaque isolation. He learned to draw melodies between the lines of the clef. He learned slowly to hashtag the time, which sometimes came naturally to him.

He pretended not to notice. Not to notice that notes quite similar to him were never picked. They were not the sharpest tool in the shed. They were the left over white noises of a well-placed rest.

He pretended not to notice.

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The Wrong Note

Ah… Thus begins yet another downward spiral of a crumpled piece of paper into the overcrowded waste-bin of undervalued opinion labelled: ‘We, the bloggers of the world’.

Let our mundane lives create room for thought bereft of necessity;

Let our monotonous schedules finally throw light upon the cobweb-ridden grey matter of creativity;

Let the technology of the future provide the stage for the drivel of the past;

Let the leaders of Vox Populi be replaced by the prosaic ramblings of the common-man.

….Lost between the subways of the intricate Internet, I pray…Let my Blog awake!