"Ink me, ink me to every inch of my skin"; she said.S. N. Hussain
This city was once a paradise. With all its miracles lost. Dust, delusion and despair surround this place we once called “home” and now all it feeds on dog carcasses and drug addicts, strangled in sewers. Desperate beggers and clapping trannies asking for money on every street. This city; it dreams of growing up & living a charming life and that very same night it tastes defeat; torn into pieces. Death once lingered on its streets and now life barely breathes. Human life’s long lost value has been torn into shreds. Paramilitary troops cover every entry & exit. Every common man has the word fugitive written over his forehead. But this city it amazes me; it breaths out with its throat choked and its mouth closed. It lives to tell people it’s story of being threatened, harassed, mugged, robbed and raped.
Do you remember this bench? Remember how we gathered around it. The countless memories we made and the silly games we played. Do you remember how that time felt? How this place felt? The warmth of the sun, pushing us closer to one another in the grey shade. Do you remember the songs we played and the drawings we made? Standing here today; It’s all the same. The roman Tuscan pillars, The whitewashed walls, the narrow marble stairs, the patchy grass lawn. It’s all present; as it was. What’s missing are the voices that filled up the halls. The scents that lingered all day long. I recall the laughs and rants and seek you in the brightness of it all. … The White Bench
Like many people, I have never been comfortable writing or sharing my life experiences with a larger crowd. The concept of keeping a journal (Yes! I am old fashioned) or having a blog has a daunting effect on me. Hence I never keep them. So I have never written what I feel directly, I may have talked about it with some people as discreetly as possible. These people are those who I am absolutely comfortable with, few friends who have supported me in every phase of my scary little adventures and have been there to see it or listen to it. And as I like to keep my real life as separate as I can from my social media presence (I hardly post anything btw); I may never broadcast or share the events that are shaping my real life to a much larger audience. It’s not really a thing I believe in anymore. Perhaps someday when I will be someone important for what I do or who I become; I may write a fancy book or do a talk telling how things played out for me. Until then I will be as offline as I can be, but something happened last November (Year 2016).
Sunkissed! When golden rays of the morning sun strike your face; the yellow-orange aura almost blinds you but at the very moment the happiness that fills your heart ignites a lifelong spark. The warmth, the subtle singe of the sun rays lift the floating emotions of the night to a new high. Sunshine! That’s what he used to call her. Her smile had the same effect on him. The wide curve of her face used to irradiate the darkest corners of his persona. There was an unusually positive vibe about her. Some called it her frisky nature but there was more to it that he
could feel. … Sunkissed
Isn’t it odd that in your life you experience thousands of memories, they pass by and you remember nothing of them, not a single detail about them and yet there are those events that happen on the spur of moment yet you remember them as vividly as they just took place in front of your eyes? They say Ignorance is bliss. For such moments frozen in time; the mind renders every detail intensely and descriptively as it paints the passing aura of emotions & words spoken onto the blank canvas that sits on an easel in the corner of your mind. Until you realize, deep inside, that such a portrait of pain and landscape of pleasure exist somewhere in your head; you come to know not only of their existence but of their exhilarating exhibition and daunting applause they receive every time you see them & recall them. These expressions eventually haunt your mind as the diptych of pain & pleasure hangs side by side somewhere on a bright wall inside your head, waiting for you to appreciate them.
And she combed her gold-streaked hair with her long sleek fingers, having sharp nails brilliantly painted in red. A cool breeze blew from the East diffusing the fragrance of her cologne over my face. I gasped & closed my eyes to feel the aromatized wind! I quivered back to life when the driver of the bus we were traveling in applied the breaks and we stopped on the red light. I immediately looked for my pencil case & sketchpad. I wanted to draw this artistic gesture of her hand. As soon as I was ready to scratch a line on paper; the traffic signal turned green and instantly we both were moving again, in the same yet very different directions. … Will she be my muse?
These meds are not for the physical pain but for the emotional one. The one that comes from the names they call me with, statements they tore me with, questions they cut me with & smiles they hurt me with. The pills are for the trauma that goes on every day, trauma that takes a new form every hour; sometimes an isolation, sometimes an ache. Mostly tears and occasionally blood.
S.N.Hussain (2nd, August, 2014, 4 am in the morning, first rain of the season)