10 things that can make me cry.

I have no idea why I am making such a morbid list. This blog post will probably have oodles of depression reeking in every letter, but i guess every one of the 10 things mentioned in the list is close to me for some personal or other reason.

Here are the 10 things that can make me cry. Not necessarily in any order, though. It's not that #1 makes me howl while #10 just makes me sniff! :)

1. A good movie. Example - Kramer vs. Kramer, Grave of the Fireflies. I have cried during odd movies because of my own emotional state during those times. I cried during The Holiday (more so because of Kate Winslet's dazzling performance matched by Jude Law's one too). I howled during a home viewing of Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna (don't ask me why). And most recently (read - last night), i cried while watching 500 Days of Summer.

2. A good song. Read - Bryan Adams' Heaven. Or Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven.

3. A fight with mom.

4. A sudden jolt of sadness that hits me when the lights are off and the blanket's covering me at night. Just before sleeping, a wave of sadness sweeps over me. And i start thinking about a lot of sad stuff.

5. Pain.

6. Failure. I've cried when I've failed. When I failed chemistry in class 8, or when I failed to win the Talent Contest in class 11. When I got low marks on a project, when I lost a debate competition, when I forgot my lines on stage. I cried.

7. The ending chapter of the Harry Potter series. I have an immense nostalgic connection with that chapter. It was such a phenomena that came to an end. I couldn't take it. I cried like a boy who lost his mother minutes after finishing the last chapter of the last book. It was an overwhelming feeling. I felt that the characters with whom I'd grown finally grew up themselves. The magic died.

8. Onions.

9. The thought of change. The thought that my grandmother will die one day. The thought that one day, i'll have to move from my lovely home in Lake Gardens. The thought that one day, my parents will die. The thought that i will have to work hard to earn money. The thought that change is constant.

10. Memories.


Do mention what 10 things can make you cry. I'll want to know.

At 1:23:30 p.m.

Mrs.Mehta’s 14 year old daughter was being raped in front of her very eyes. The aged widow cried out in desperation and in helplessness. Jyoti Mehta’s screams of pain shredded the cold Kashmir air with a cold brutality as her untouched virgin body was being massacred. Mrs.Mehta, poor, old and tied down – was shaking feverishly as her ‘little, pure Jyoti’ was being lustily devoured by this pack of dirty Muslim soldiers.

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12:45 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta was running after another pack of dirty Muslim soldiers, his hatred of the Muslims increasing with every step. Shekhar was one of those low, narrow-minded Hindus who felt an eternal hatred towards the entire Muslim fraternity. A dozen armed Indians along with him crossed the dreaded Line Of Control. His mind rushed back wildly to his humble home in Kashmir, his mother’s doctor’s appointment scheduled for later that week, his sister ‘little, pure Jyoti’ just arrived from Delhi…he wished he was back home. Cold snow flew at him from ten different directions. He ran on, after those turban clad enemies, with a greater effort, wiping the snow from his frost bitten face.

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12:49 p.m.

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Afzal Hussain wiped his sweaty face. He pushed back the ravaged body of young Jyoti Mehta, eased his shirt and was in the act of fastening his belt buckle on his grey trousers. Underneath the layers of shirts, cloaks and overcoats, Afzal’s pulse was steadily thumping in rhythm with the brass wall clock on a wall behind him. Mrs.Mehta was convulsing on the wooden floor, her oddly white furious hair trawling, as her tears dried reluctantly with the dust particles on the floor. Jyoti was unconscious.

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12:54 p.m.

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Unconscious of the distorted and deformed surroundings, almost knee-deep in snow, Shekhar Mehta moved rapidly whichever way the greenish brown coats turned. Beeps on his wireless walkie-talkie stopped him for a second. Two armed men flew past him into the icy depths, pursuing the Pakistani terrorists. He pulled out his little device, a voice floated to him –

“Major Mehta, come in. Come in Major…”

“Major Mehta…here sir…reporti…ng…for….uty sir.”

“Major, do not cross LOC. I repeat do NOT cross LOC. They have 2 fortified bases. Return to base, Major. I repeat, return to base.”

“Sir…cannot…..zero connection….peat order….sir…lease repeat…..der..”

The line went off. Shoving the walkie-talkie in his inner pocket, Shekhar rubbed his eyes with his heavily gloved hands. Shaking off the accumulated dust-like snow from his shoulders, he moved forward.

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1:00 p.m.

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Afzal moved forward. “Sprinkle a little water on her face. Don’t be soft. Remember, they are bloody Indians.”

The Muslim soldier moved ahead. Afzal had a three day stubble on his face. He felt no remorse, no pang of guilt that he had just raped a 14 year old girl.

“You MONSTER!”, suddenly screamed Mrs.Mehta, up on her knees, her black and white hair strewn across her wrinkled visage, red with rage. “You…you raped my…my...daughter…”, she pointed her shaky finger at the convict, now glaring at her with an angry gleam in his eyes.

He hastily took the water tumbler from the hands of another fellow soldier and with exemplary force, hurled the liquid onto the captive woman’s face. 

“You bitch. You dirty HINDU.” Saying these, he spat on her face bitterly.

One of the gathered Muslims winced at the sight of this torture. Afzal noticed.

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1:03 p.m.

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 “Sir, have you noticed this? Those Pakistanis have taken refuge behind that barrage of tanks, in an old warehouse due north 4 o’clock.”

Shekhar Mehta’s mind was working furiously, screaming – “NO MERCY.”

The calculation was simple. Around 18 Pakistani soldiers, 12 armed Indians. It was a tough risk. Victory was probable.

His mind went back once again to his little home, his happy home and the thought of his lovely sister Jyoti, waiting for him to come home and spend time with her. He thought of homemade parathas and hot jalebis. He thought of his mother. His subordinates had gathered around him. Few of them were wiping their faces; others were wiping their hands vigorously, attempting to warm them. They had their AK-56s clutched roughly, waiting for further orders.

Shekhar Mehta was still thinking of home, as he said – “We move in. Aim to kill. No survivors. No mercy.”

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1:08 p.m.

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 “Don’t show any mercy to these Indian Hindus”, spoke Afzal Hussain. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Jyoti Mehta was moving. Her clothes were ripped obscenely. The young adolescent’s once radiant face was now dark and seemed 20 years older. There were ugly nail marks and cuts on her arms and neck, where she had been deviously clawed at by the Muslim soldiers.

“Pick her up”, ordered Afzal, “and bring her in front of her mother.”

Two men roughly held Jyoti, dragged her from one end of the room to the other, and lay her by her mother’s side.

“There you go,”, spoke Afzal. “She’s fit to be a prostitute now.”

Saying this, he broke into a cackle. The other Muslims in the room howled with Afzal, re-incarnating his laugh by a manifold, drowning out the frantic sobs of a mother.

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1:11 p.m.

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A flurry of boots made their way into the murky depths of the warehouse. Shekhar Mehta could hear the Pakistanis breathing. He ordered his men to hide behind a huge tank right in the centre of the warehouse.

In a loud voice, he heard a voice speak out – “Stop, Indian soldiers. Go back where you came from. We do not want to hurt you. We are peace-loving people.”

Shekhar screamed – “Right as hell you are. We’ve had this peace nonsense for 50 years. Surrender now, by the order of the Republic of India.”

The same voice answered – “I repeat my words Indian. Retreat immediately. We do not want to hurt you. We will fight you on the war ground like men.”

Like a spark on a tank of oil, Shekhar bellowed – “Where was this peace, when you rascals bombed the Taj, the Parliament, when you attacked Gujarat and Rajasthan? You bloody hypocrites!”

There was silence for a few seconds.

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1:15 p.m.

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“SILENCE!”, screamed Afzal. “You’ve cost us pain, humiliation, torture. The death of our mothers, the rape of OUR sisters, the loss of brothers and fathers. My…my..brother too. That does not matter now. He’s escaped from the Indian camp on the LOC. Hah!”

He clutched Mrs.Mehta’s hair and pulled it, making her writhe and scream in agony. He brought his lips to her ear and spoke, “If its of any comfort to you, I’ll  be killing your daughter now.”

With an almighty wrench, Mrs.Mehta clasped Afzal’s feet and mumbling and muttering painfully – “Please….just a child…spare…her.”

Afzal smiled. “But first, we’ll set fire to your home, and to your dreams.”

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1:18 p.m.

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 “FIRE!”

At once the tank covering them exploded with stupendous force, throwing a bevy of soldiers some feet away. The sound of bullets, shells and mortar echoed incessantly. The Pakistanis were at the vantage points. A bullet pierced through Shekhar’s left hand.

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1:19 p.m.

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His left hand held the matchbox. Afzal’s men set the home ablaze. Picture frames melted into nothingness, the flames leapt about the house. The smell of burning cloth overpowered them as Afzal Hussain dragged the mother and daughter to the centre of the room.

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1:20 p.m.

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The centre of Shekhar’s heart seared with pain. He didn’t want to die. He heard screaming. Maybe of his men. Maybe of the enemies. Shekhar slinked out of sight into a sheltered arena.

People were being delivered to God’s own trial room. He heard heavy breathing him. Shekhar turned.

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1:21 p.m.

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Jyoti was awake now, but looked around the room vaguely – her body shivering inspite of the heat emanating from the wooden walls. Her eyes were wide open, but had a tinge of impending death in them.

Afzal pointed a gun at her.

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1:22 p.m.

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Shekhar pointed his gun. It was a Pakistani, bleeding. His leg was shot. He was unarmed as well.

Shekhar asked, “So, how does it feel? Huh? Speak up!”

“Don’t kill me, brother.”, he whispered.

“DO NOT CALL ME YOUR BROTHER.”, screamed Shekhar. After a second, he asked – “What’s your name?”

“Az…. Azmal Hussain.”

“Be ready to meet your maker, dirty Muslim.”

Azmal started laughing. “Muslim soldiers are raiding western Kashmir today. I…I hope that your mother and sisters are being raped today…ha…ha”

Shekhar Mehta felt dizzy.

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1:23 p.m.

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 “Goodbye missie. Wish my brother were here to taste your fine skin too.”, Afzal Hussain said.

Mrs.Mehta, holding onto Jyoti, screamed.

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1:23:05 p.m.

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What?, asked Shekhar. Confused.

“I hope my brother Afzal does justice to all the Hindus out there”, spoke Azmal in uncontrollable rage.

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1:23:17 p.m.

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BANG.

The lifeless body of Jyoti Mehta, sister of Army Major Shekhar Mehta, collapsed onto her mother’s blood-filled arms. Afzal laughed.

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1:23:22 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta delivered a blow to Azmal’s face.

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1:23:26 p.m.

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Afzal Hussain pointed the gun at Mrs.Mehta.

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1:23:27 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta pointed the gun at Azmal Hussain.

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1:23:28 p.m.

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Afzal pulled the trigger. Shekhar’s mother, Mrs.Mehta, fell with a thud. Dead.

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1:23:29 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta pulled the trigger. Afzal’s brother, Azmal Hussain, fell with a thud. Dead.

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1:23:30 p.m.

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Shekhar Mehta took a deep breath.

Afzal Hussain took a deep breath.

At 1:23:30 p.m., these two survivors, with fire in their eyes and hatred in their hearts ; with an angry lump in their throats, did not realize even for a second that their families had perished at each others hand. A cold wind blew through the air. And silence.

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Mwuhahaha!

I love the new look of my blog.
Comment plis.

And to those bored souls out there, create your own music -------------------------------------------------->

And to those souls who are musically handicapped, try to show your frustration by eating some Pac-allicious food a bit below.

Ah. Now I can rest.

PS - Someone once told me - "Go easy on the number of times you call yourself ordinary".
It's odd, but that's the first thought that entered this head when i woke up.
:D

Aditya.

I almost cried.

It's odd. And pretty fucking amazing, how you manage to open up your heart to a person with whom you were on intimate terms in class 4. That's like 10 years ago.

And yet, last evening, talking with this girl (her name is Sushmita), i felt so nostalgic. So sad, and yet - i felt this weird sense of relief.

We talked for about an hour, on various topics, mostly about our respective lives. I felt really happy for her. And i wished for her well being to God, something which I rarely do, after going offline.

Sometimes I just love Facebook. And other social networking sites.
I almost cried.
Aditya.

Accidental exam. Psych.

Well, 4 more days to go. Let me face it - i am unprepared. And i am fucked too. Like royally, majorly, completely fucked.

All hope lies in facebook, blogging and my near finished edited project.

And yes, I hate those typical bangali roadside people in front of whom, if you wield even a still camera, they start saying - "Ei, sooting hocche, dekh - sooting hocche, cilema'r sooting hocche".

And i had to fall on a cycle in front of such people.
Oh! The agony.

The one on the ground is me.
Peace.

The Girl I Hated So Much

 

I

She was right there,

Sitting beside me.

Our fingers entwined in a close embrace.

Nothing else mattered.

To me, to her...

It was a wonderland romance,

A wonderful romance.

We said a few words.

Just a few,

Nothing beyond "Hi" and "How are you?"

Yet, we were the Romeo-Juliet of the 21st century.

A love, not even Shakespeare could have felt.

Our love.

Yes, with her by my side.

The girl of my dreams.

The girl I loved so much.

Our love was silent,

Our love was slow.

Like a dried up waterfall - so slow.

Ours was a fairytale love.

Stronger than anything I've ever felt.

And I guess that was when it happened.

Somebody blew out my love villa of cards.

Pairs of invisible hands strangled me.

Debris of destruction crashed upon my tormented limbs.

I was there.

Alone.

Afraid.

I glanced at my side, at my hands.

My fingers seemed barren.

Every tear that fell from my eyes

Spoke of my horrendous past.

Of how she said she loved me.

Of how she held me close.

Of how she pushed me away.

Of how she tore me apart.

Of how she killed the soul in me.

Of how she left me unborn.

Of how she forgot to wipe my tears.

Of how she failed to erase my fears.

Of how she deserted me when I was weakest.

Blind.

Tortured.

Deaf.

Mute.

Almost dead.

Eyes open.

Nothing mattered.

Just the scar in my heart.

II

She was there in her home that day.

I was waiting outside the door.

Watching.

I knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

I called out her name.

She opened the door.

I could sense her feelings.

Alone...Afraid.

But before she could scream,

I caught her neck.

I tore her apart, limb from limb.

I laughed as I peeled off her skin.

Enjoying every scream of her pain.

I bit her hair, tearing it off,

Her scalp turned ragged, red.

I crushed her bones, breaking them all.

Each soft crunch filled up a part of my soul.

I chewed off her fingers.

Reveling in that bloody glory.

I dug out her hands with my bare hands.

I smashed her head open.

Pulling out her brain – it didn’t seem too cruel.

I slit her fair little throat.

I gouged out her heart, lifted it with my blood-spattered hands.

I squeezed it dry, till no drop emerged.

I ate up that heart.

Bit by bit.

The heart that had no place for me.

That night, I drank her blood.

I let her blood flow through mine.

The blood of the girl I hated so much.

The Sad Story of the Sad Patient.

                                       A story by Aditya sengupta

He was sitting in one corner of the waiting room, looking outside the window. It was 4 p.m. according to the dusty clock hanging on the grey wall. It was raining heavily outside. He let out a sigh, took a glance at his watch, and returned his gaze back outside the window. Sitting with him in the same room was a woman with a little child. The playful lad was running up and down the rectangular room. A huge LCD television hung on one side of the wall, showing the American news. Two chairs lay beside the television, empty. 

The receptionist was throwing dirty glances at him. The woman reproachfully called back her son. He kept on staring at the raindrops steadily flowing down the glass pane, as the bustling city life continued outside.

A radio in one corner played ‘Diamonds and Rust’ amidst frequency changes and static. The television was kept at silent. 

The Doctor’s room opened. An elderly female walked out briskly. A sharp voice called from inside – “Next”.

The woman walked in, holding her son’s hand tightly.

He let out another sigh. He was wearing a loose black corduroy trouser, with a simple grey shirt on. An ash coloured overcoat, and a red muffler were also on him. He had oval dark glasses, and a dark blue hat. On his feet, was a plain shoe, with white socks. He had a three day stubble on his face.

The clock read 4:20 p.m. The receptionist had flicked open her cell-phone and was busy chatting with her boyfriend. He had ceased to be an entity the room, and the receptionist continued to chat animatedly with her lover without any inhibition.

He was sitting still, unmoving, his eyes still reading the story outside the window.

The door opened once again. The child ran out, the mother following behind. The receptionist swiftly ended her conversation, and sat still once again. From behind, the Doctor called out – “Next”.

He did not move. The receptionist called out – “Hey mister. HEY!”

He stirred. Rising quickly to his feet, he walked towards the door. He gave a fleeting glimpse to the receptionist before entering the Doctor's chamber.

The Doctor was sitting on a revolving chair, with a Rubik's cube in his hand. Twirling it around, he twisted and turned some of the cubes, only to make matters worse.

“Ah, come in, come in. Take a seat.”

He entered silently. The hard wooden chair seemed discomforting, especially for someone who had been leaning on a cushion in the waiting room for an hour.

The Doctor spoke fast – “I hope you don't mind. It's already 5. I have a play to attend this evening. I have to go home, get dressed, pick up my wife and son, you know…”

He spoke for the first time that evening, “I understand Doctor. I just need help.”

The Doctor stood up, removing his coat. “Continue, continue.”

He took a deep breath. “I am not myself anymore. I'm depressed. I cant concentrate on work. I…I am losing control Doctor.”

The Doctor was at the basin, washing his hands with expensive hand wash. He splashed a handful on his face, then bringing his hands bag into his hair, and tousled it. “Hmm. I understand. Please go on.”

“I don’t know…don’t know what to do…what to say…how to keep myself occupied. I'm frankly contemplating…contemplating suicide, Doctor. Help me.”

The Doctor walked across the room. He lifted his little briefcase from a corner and kept it on the table. “It’s hard. Most of my patients complain that they suffer from depression. Don’t worry. I’ll prescribe some pills.”

“PILLS WON'T WORK!” A strangled cry arose from His throat. His eyes swelled with tears. “I need…I need real help, Doctor.”

The Doctor stood silently for a second. He then started putting files and papers from his table into the briefcase. “Tell you what, I’m already late. Why don’t you come with me? I’m attending a theatre show as it is. It’ll take your mind off things. The great performer J.D.Kumar has arrived in the city. A great actor. One of India’s finest. Why don’t you come with me to see his performance? You'll love seeing him perform. Makes you want to live a life like his. ”

He fell silent. The doctor looked at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He wiped the tears of his eyes. He managed a smile – “That...that'd be nice, Doctor.”

“Great news.” The doctor gave a booming laugh, strode over and opened the door for Him. They walked out. The receptionist was curtly ordered to close for the day. 

As she was inside the doctor’s room, locking away and switching off the lights, He returned briefly and opened the patient log-book kept on the reception desk. He took out a pen and speedily crossed out the name J.D.Kumar from the end of the log-book, as his eyes swelled with tears once again.

The End.