Odd Normal

Sweet smells of tyranny cannot comfort the tyrannical-submissive – that is power that obstructs cannot truly build. It’s rocks shatter – it’s weeds wither and it’s flowers burned to blossoming suicides. The world does not expect the ordinary rather the novel is birthed in its inescapable womb expressing the world absolute.
He did not know that. Rather he would not. He had smelled like flowers but rubbed dirt to avert the stain. He cannot know less but knows more on nothingness. That nothingness devours him. He looks at clocks as his mistresses are too clock-like to be truly comforting. He likes these puppets better for they were all pretending.
When he was younger his mother cried on his shoulder. She now cried on his lap. Laps are easy. Shoulders are but more intoxicating close. They may mean romance or worse filial. She had rubbed out that stain. Men need to be immortal.
I was captured in a kiss
You said no
I agreed
but afraid to say so
His wife had told him that he must quit drinking. He had slapped her. She cried. Then they made love. Formulas handed by the gender mathematician.  But he had done so as he was taught. No less of the nothingness. He cried later. But those were not to be discussed.
He had slept with one of his mistresses. She keeps telling him to pay his rent. He keeps yelling and shouting. This is academic. She then apologizes. He does too. Then do business. The work hours were long and streneous. To his wife the assignments are a bit limited. He curses the air – the invisible – this bottle bed. Glass clouds his breathing. He sees an ant. He wonders if he is a favourite of the queen.
His other mistress calls him a lying bastard. He does not hit her. He hits her only with his tongue. You are only meant to beat up wives. You can’t beat up mistresses. They aren’t completely yours. Neither do you want them to be. He is not liking this. He feels like puking. He rushes past her. To her surprise. He pukes in her bathroom. She slowly approaches him. Asking him what is wrong.
The saliva of the girl in a blue dress stops him. She had licked a scar. Something he wished to do. Automatically his tongue licks his palm. He has no scar. She giggles – is he bathing himself like a pretty cat – pretty cat – no – bitch – it opens and closes like a hole of dirt. She is shocked. She is angry. She slaps him. He slaps her. Breathless. She goes to slap him again. He apologizes. She looks. He looks down. She looks down. She says he is odd. For a moment. He smiles.
His wife asks him if he will be home late. He doesn’t really respond. He mumbled. He does not need to be coherent. He knows the formula. Screw it. He tells her he is unfaithful. She starts crying. She calls him a bastard. She knows all of this. She tells him that she loves women. She tells him that she hates men. She tells him that he is bastard. He tells her he knows.
The girl drops a piece of ornamental jewellery. He picks it up for her. He comments his wife has a similar one. She tells him he is a whore. He says he knows that. She says she might be a whore too. He tells her that is not true. She then tells him he is not a whore. He starts to cry. She nestles him. He says he is too artificial. She agrees. He tells he writes poetry. She smiles.
His wife had left with one of his mistresses. He does not care. His other mistress is now leaving him and telling him that he can’t support her. He tells her that they were not in love so need to support is cancelled by corrupted fornication. She scowls and says his dick is stupid and leaves. He wonders at the intelligence of genitals and laughs. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.
The girl is scribbling. She is a columnist. She writes on the obsolete modes of expression – mainly flowers. She thinks flowers as courtship is silly. She says people are flowers. Thus added flowers are telling people things that they should already know. She speaks of Roland Barthes and how he adorns the normal with the hidden. He looks. She looks. He asks her what normal was. She laughed and said the flowerless courtships.
His wife had called and asked if he was alright. He asked if she was alright. She said she expected him to scream and shout at her. He said that was stupid. He asks if he would want to listen to his poem. She wonders of his poetry.
To be in love
not only a kiss
to love in paradoxes
is love of self
She comments that she likes it. She says that it is more true than anything he had ever done before. He is delighted.
The girl tells him to open eyes like wings. Lashes are feathers. The orbs fly. They are flower-seeds. Nectar are colours. She laughs. He laughs. He’s nervous. He knows he is odd. But would she – would she marry him?
She says of course only if he stops the dirt that covers his flowers.
He should be proud he smells like flowers.

Gig Draft

I am an artist. Who would believe this? I don’t think anyone would. That is because I can’t paint. I can’t sketch. I can’t draw period. I can dream. I can write a bit. I can talk. Now you will definitely be justified to question: “How are these aspects pertaining to an artist?

I guess I have no argument. No defences. Maybe: just a desire? And all I can repeat and say that I think I am an artist or – I am an artist.

I know we are back to square one. I know this is an endless cycle and doesn’t have any value in repetition as it does not sort out the paradigm I had injected. It doesn’t leave room for any thought flux – any exploration – but I still felt like saying it.

This might be entitled as a foolish process. An individual’s methodology to escape the considered common or the considered canon by comprising with reality and living in the delirious state of hypersensitivity and hyperreality: only to exceed in the process of doing such superseding tasks. I know this not make sense. Hell – it might only make sense to the puppet.

The puppet, in case you didn’t notice, would be the speaker – in this case “I” as in infinity in the nutshell of a universe that has “I”’s in the mortal fluxes of immortality-pseudo-realities. If that didn’t make much sense don’t blame me. You are not thinking hard enough. Also, we have somewhat digressed but put it plainly you were doubting my ability to be coherent but now you are listening to me. Insanity does have some literacy be it political or psychological or otherwiseical. No I’m not making fun of you but rather illustrating the fact of today’s public and privates. We are stimulated by the ardent orchestration of the bizarre. It might be a postmodern thing, modernist thing, feminist, masculinist thing, humanist thing, psycheist thing or the ist of ist thing but don’t worry this digression has some roots to the philosophy of me being mad thus it is rooted to the main topic – yes, it resemble plant like roots and everything has interconnectivity – so, yes, where were we – yes you are fascinating by my ingenious idiotism but don’t worry it’s only natural to admire and laugh at fools – they even come up in the Taro deck!

Now you might think I am acting like an ass which is usually regarded higher in standard than the fool but then again I must say that is an accomplishment in itself so thanks for such an opportunity. No – wait – don’t give me a tiresome speech of madness because we had gone through that and you and I both agreed that I had insanity coursing through my veins and brains (though in actually like double monitors and keyboards I think this means two hemispheres than the 2x because that would be too simplistic and bizarre, though we revel in bizarreness I mean there are limitations to the dosages of what drug is your fix, now let’s take care to remember the 2x rule – no, no, no no imposition here I just want to get matters straight to a reasoning that would benefit us both so yes no commands here though the I think I would love to assume being an ideologue for the dominatrix/dominator but let’s forget that for now – ok do not worry safe sex is the best option when considering excess kinkiness and let’s not digress but then again I was the one saying we are not digressing so I think I am being foolish right now speaking otherwiseist like but that’s ok ‘cause I am human too and can be seduced by all things others can be seduced by and such and…ok this is not total digression nor else I wouldn’t be speaking it but then again who knows?) But that is the apprehension. I know this so – am I doing a known evil. I cannot say. I cannot say though I know it annoys you. But truthfully maybe I haven’t thought about it much – ok ok I know you are pissed now but seriously I know I know I am contradicting myself so yes I know I’m pissing you off but then again why wouldn’t I be pissing you off? Ok no, those were not my initial intentions but I haven’t got to piss off people much so it is actually fun pissing you off but then again this pissing off is a digression-dead-root not healthy nutritional so I’ll let it snap off like some dead root (plants may do this) but then again this is no nihilist interest it is just there. Ok now let us go back to where we started. Yes Yes I remember where we left off so it’s no biggie that I digressed. Because Digressions are the gig-lamps of life.

Theoretically anyway. Many might argue this approach I have but then again 0.5% or 0.2% would not. No, no this is not nihilistic as in in the process of the gig-lamps of life is surely not my own coined term, let’s think of Woolf and then continue – if she was nihilistic then her words are not my own and of the 0.5% and 0.2% some may actually ingrain this though as a nihilistic paradigm I say “Not my fault – that’s their drug to devour and not my own”: I thought I should clarify some of these things so don’t look so crossed at me. You can’t deny if I didn’t have these clarifications could not been done then we wouldn’t have had any proper understanding.

Now. As I said only 0.5% and 0.2% would actually think of the gig-lamps-is-digression theory. Distractions compose like. How? Well you might even think of this conversation as one – no I’m not saying you are not a focused individual because this is a wrong philosophy to think that distractions and digressions sans focus because if we look closer a mechanic’s tea-time may need focus too a> The mechanic may still be thinking about work or home or love or any other issues at hand and b> The mechanic savouring the tea is indirect compliment to God and the human who was the medium that help to make leave, water and sugar and maybe milk into this good old beverage that we love. You see I spoke of God – and you can think of Her as a Unity or Him as a Trinity or whatever you may like those are the personals which I don’t feel like preaching. But you see, going to a topic we started, distractions do make much of life a> You must educate yourself b> You must have sex c> You must be promiscuous d> You must stay monogamous e> You must have a life philosophy f> You must get a good job that makes loads of cash: well I am not saying those are not important but the 0.5% and 0.2% know that they might eventually become distractions. Why you may ask? It’s simple in the sense that we might lack the astronaut’s mind later on in life. I mean – let’s give it another dashing name – I mean curionaut – do you ever explore things that the threshold of popularity never beckoned? I’m not telling to go cannibal like Tooms or Lectar but have you done the daring? This does not equate always to sky-diving and monster trucks but in the sense of learning for the love of curiosities and knowledge.

This may come as self-perspectives and self-analysis and usually this process is autodidactical. I mean I’m not saying you will have a mentor but you might not be resistant to the fact that pilgrimages of such proportions also require your self’s cooperation nor else those beans won’t make a beanstalk. But that’s the thing. The mirror is not only narcissism or mutilation or ego formation (as Lacan might suggest) but it is a nexus of too many articles and such is the womb for much contemplation. You can devour your image and create the infamous/famous alter ego or even delve the finger and stone closer to the goblet of a wisdom that sought you since birth. Gradually the art may reveal itself to you and maybe yourself is under those reflective silky draperies of cut and flats.

Now look you are looking at me. Disappointed? Don’t be. I might have introduced to you something interesting after all haven’t I – so, will you doubt it now – can you not say I am an artist?

Reasonable Unreason

Talking logic
bypassing logic
into webs

Caught in perplex
complex xylem
shooted inverse
your sense of dictatorship

right in wrong
definitions powered by absolute foool

why art so humbly-vain?

simplicity was not cut
complexity not nurtured
all became
paramount prejudice

you talk logically

In a madness  sans method
an altar of idiotims

My own sorrow

To say that human emotion is so cosmic is sometimes, all times and very much a lie. Why? You expect me to answer something I know but I cannot explain – it’s important to learn what you can even learn from those indescriable things; even though if lectures cannot be given on it and that you can only dissect it temporarily only to see it come together again.

Like the reality of another dream my sorrows wasted itself on a grand thing that was me and I soon started hating it so much that I thought it was best to cut out the sorrow.

But the sorrow was everywhere – starting from the tips of the fingernails, the soles of my feet, the inside of my belly-button and the inside my ear, etcetera. It wasn’t going be easy to cut out and I suppose it was always trying to hide itself. Why do others find it easy to cut? They cut and cut and cut

But – they don’t seem to mind anything and the blood washes away their rainy days. But, I find it so awful to cut one specific place so maybe if I lie on a a bed of needles then stab my body incessantly I can get ride of that melancholic surprise that awaits in my body/

Then that person comes and asks me what I’m doing. I glare at him:

” Can’t you see that I’m cutting and cutting and cutting and cutting!”

And the skin runs crying like children on a playground of blood-sanboxes and blood-swings and so many little bloody-things…

Then wires stick to me and I hear voices – yes the pain must nap, the pain must nap, the pain must nap –

” The pain must nap! Nap!”

” Hold it there – yes, this person here is losing her mind!” Whose that loser?

I am fine
I am fine
I am fine
I am fine
I am fine 

Can’t you see

I am fine…

The Mourning Calendar

The short haired girl in front of me was the first one; the rest followed her furiously: they decided the best thing was to decorate – a chemist’s fancy, an engineer’s minor alteration and an architect gathering of shade.

Tumio jodeo kone kichu koro na tumi fashba, her voice pounded, Karon juboner kotha Manush lekhe ar tara shundorjo shogo kore na – shundorjo mane paap oh ache ar eta ak bora paap.

In Bangla, my cousin-sister Deepika, who was known to run away with the Catholic, had taught me this. She was not older than me it was vice versa (I sprung forth a few months earlier in the summer and she the winter-child). Winter must have prepossessed breadth and volume for it is the deepest white – she possessed more wisdom. I had not thought about it until they had cornered me.

It was they with their cunning fangs and out of baggage p[ride that insulted me that I in my prepossessed naivety had insulted them:

“ You stupid little bitch! How dare you complain!”

Well, it was a human right – they had decided to lock up some other girls in the room of electric wires –  that could have led to an accident. And it was my duty to protest.

As they stripped me I felt no shame; rather, I felt liberated – at that moment I realized their were greater devils than myself. When they pushed me into the lake and I felt the cold lungs of the water collide with mine, for four lungs in one ribcage meant the clashing of vessels and air, the suffocation began and I felt horribly mutilated.

“ That bitch could show all her pride now!”
“ Let’s go! Let’s leave right now!”
“ Do you see anyone coming?!”

And this was January…



“ Are you thinking of sex?”
“ Yes, every modern person does so – Freud has blessed us with his vulgarity; his own perverse walk-out has made us realize that we have perversions too.”
“ I wouldn’t give Freud all the credit though – he had just reincarnated what medieval people idolized – a sexual sphere. He has refined the invention and to that I salute him – it is true as it says in the book The Modern Companion To Modernism that sex walked out of the closet with Freud.”
“ Are you a virgin?”
“ Yes, does that excite you, does it give you something.”
“ Well, yes, I am equally virginal.”
“ But, you are –“
“ Interested in the sexes – yes, you are the first person I confessed.”
“ And naturally.”
“ Would you do it with me and another boy – our own personal threesome?” 
“ I do not know but maybe…”
“ I really like you Anita.”
“ Likewise Hassan.”
“ Listen, it’s not only Lust. It’s –“
“ Borderline, between Lust and Love, close to touch..”
“ Somewhat. Oh by the way how is the pack?”
“ I don’t know and I really have no intention to care.”
“ Why does she bother you?”
“ Because I embody things she hates. Such as naivety…”
“ Well…then there is innocence as well…”
“ Do you think she likes you…?”
“ Could be…she wanted to date me before…don’t you remember…?”
“ Yes…but then we were still in High School…”
“ So what…I believe she just wanted consolation…”
“ Why…?”
“ Her father was caught remember…?”
“ Oh, yes, that is WHY?”
“ Yes, the mother was horribly angry…”
“ But don’t you think it was better out -:”
“ …In the open? Anita it is embarrassing isn’t it?”
“ True, True.”
“ And I think she hated me as well.”
“ Why would she hate you Hassan…she adored you?”
“ Yes, but, maybe I’m right. I am like her father.”
“ Hassan you are the only friend I have…”
“ I know…”
“ Does it bother you…?”
“ No, because you are also my only friend…the other guys are just a façade. But, I’m not deceiving them they know it.”
“ I think Deepika was aware of it.”
“ Your cousin is very insightful – did she say anything?”
“ Only that you had the makings of my potential lover.”

And I think I deflowered him as he peeled my bud.


The Callous schoolteacher had said that she and I could become friends but that in actuality her misinterpretation could not weighed more. Friendship was a sphere of universality of an understanding – as comets crash to earth in a misalignment of direction the bruises she tried to inflict on me found their own craters. I wonder why I didn’t fight back? Possibly, because I knew bruises were wrong but it was also her negativity because its roots were thick but buried like an ancient tree’s: it frightened me many a times but got my fancy as well.

“ And what can you do?”

Many things but the sorceress need not wave to the peasant – I know this factum to be egotistical but how can I repair the human model? How can I repair the hidden anger? But also because she was not filly a peasant – her sorcery was white, A Snow-White type whose pureness was mandatory – mine was dark and flawed in a black that was practical to my identity.

Also, what can be done to a soul who neither wishes to perceive or calm down?

“ I can do many things Kaiya, but I’m afraid you will not understand…”

This time she actually managed not to slap me and I felt awfully irritated. Because I was so used to seeing her as a tempestuous calamity that the human helplessness in her (her lack of knowing of what to do) was quite unannounced.

So was the next move she picked up some scissors and sprang on my hair – “ Why do scum like you have hair?!”

She actually managed to cut her locks – after which she dyed her hair brownish-blonde – my hair was only cut an inch and normal trimming saved any questioning.

Kaiya tried to make my life worse as she always does but it helped nothing on her part. It was May…I had other things to do like writing a few lyrics so Hassan could be interested in playing his guitar. He hadn’t touched it for a while as his ex-older boyfriend probably may tried to do something unruly and disturbing to him with it


Hassan is crying again and I know why – his mother must have cried and so he cried.

His mother had recently become aware of his bisexuality and as all Bangladeshi mothers panicked at the first sight of it: the kissing of the ex-older boyfriend in a sensuous tongue-serenade that lasted approximately fifty minutes with the ex-older man rubbing furiously his front against Hassan: the erectile tendency of the excited man as they say.

She screamed and screamed and fainted.

She, immediately, arranged a young girl but that girl liked Hassan and encouraged his affairs with his beau. Hassan’s mother now felt ruined.

Hassan’s father lived with his second-wife her two former boys and their four new children. The boys were older than the new children by many years but younger than me and Hassan. The previous sons of the widowed, new wife were named Joi and Nasib and they were friendly with us. The four new children, consisting of three girls and a boy, were not. One of the girls admired Kaiya and found ample pleasure in attacking me:

“ You are not as pretty as her – you’re so ugly no wonder she hates you so much!” This was Anika and then the two other two were Phul and Kanta.

Phul thought it wrong for Hassan to visit because, “ He is a child so separated from our father – he’s so different, he doesn’t obey Abba so what’s the point in him coming?”

Kanta’s deduction, “ Women are teased for their second marriages. Our father was nice enough to keep our step-brothers from my mother’s side – you are obviously your mother’s burden now, so, that is why he didn’t take you; it should stay that way.”

“ Please I rather turn a prostitute then stay with my father twenty-four seventh.” Hassan snorted.

Hassan’s father used to be a gambler; he drank, lost money, beat his wife and had wanted Hassan to be a girl. Because girls were born to be servants and not masters (in his beliefs) and so he hated the idea that Hassan would one day manage him. When Hassan was younger he had taken him to a drive and put him on a park, on an isolated outskirt of the city, Dhaka. He was abandoned without knowing it until his bloody and bruised mother came to his rescue. Nowadays remember that incident makes him slap his father, anytime, anywhere: so, it was his father’s best interest to keep his son satisfied.

Anika’s reaction to Hassan was admiration, “ I want to see you bully Daddy – teach me how to bully men so I may extort them from all their needs and make them my slaves.”

Hassan disliked her because she had become just like his father’s new wife: she beat his father and was one of the reasons of his docility. Though before the divorce his father had given up philandering, gambling and petty crimes; he was afraid of his new wife because she had strong connections and her male playthings were also quite possessive of her. Hassan said once he found his father naked, with his penis bleeding and his back bruised – his “special” area had had a certain amount of blood.

Hassan chuckled, “ Divine retribution for what he did to Amma…”

Anika had laughed, “ And it takes a lot to satisfy a widow.” Unfortunately, I thought Anika had become more crude and unbearable than Kaiya, and it disturbed me to see this at a girl of fourteen when I was eighteen.

Now I am older and Anika may be pregnant. She says she will run away from school this April…


The first time I met Hassan’s older boyfriend he had made the innuendo of a threesome; ever since then my efforts were best spent in keeping away from him.

I had complained to Hassan and he had laughed, “ You expect such behaviour from a frustrated, depressed married man.”

But truthfully, it seemed his sexual behaviour was very much unsafe. Possibly this is what Hassan had discovered. Yet, he hasn’t told me at all what had happened to make him finally leave this boyfriend. I didn’t think he ever would tell me.

“ I have something to tell you…” Hassan started, “ It isn’t something anyone would want to hear.”

“ What is it…?” there was a mixture of urgency and indifference in my voice: urgency for care and indifference to muffle panic.

“ My ex, he, had wanted to break in a woman’s house and rape her, with me.” Hassan slowly started crying, “ He also started hurting me while…while he had sex…the guitar…he found it kinky…when I told  ‘no’ to both of his requests he got angry. He almost hurt Mamma, he almost hurt…umm…I can’t say anymore…”

I embraced him… It was a cool day in August…


Anika had decided to stay close to Kaiya: at first Kaiya felt like a ruler to have such a devout follower. Now, Anika’s own bitchi-tential was coming out and it could have engulfed Kaiya’a.

There was a constant war between the two in their bond of power-play-friendship.

Anika compained to me one day, “ I don’t see how she held on for so long. If I were on her place I would easily manipulated to my side or blackmail you to be my servant by now.”

“ And which would you prefer Miss Anika?” I said with incitement.

“ The former because you have more worth than that maggi Kaiya gives you…” her result bewildered me.

Hassan’s anger was immense, “ Why are you so disturbingly bitchy Anika, Phul and Kanta aren’t like you?”

“ That’s why Kanta got dumped by her rich boyfriend.” Anika laughed, “ Fucked her to the bone too.”

Hassan raised his hand and Anika screamed. I rushed forth but Hassan controlled himself. He looked sad and angry, and – and looked as though a meteorite hit him.

“ Don’t…don’t speak that way about Kanta…” he panted in disbelief, “ She’s yours sister dammit!”

“ How…How dare you try to hit me?!” Anika screamed, “ I’m the only one who cares about you and you wanna hit me?! You care about those sluts when they don’t give a shit about you!”

“ That’s because they have a personality unlike you!”

Anika fell quiet and she started crying, “ But Kanta did get fucked by an richer fuck! She aborted his kid!”

The sound of falling things…

We turned around and see Anika’s mother…she looks shocked beyond anything…

The next day I saw Kanta and she had bruises. She confessed to Hassan and me, “ Yes, I did get an abortion and unfortunately I took Anika along with me…” she started crying, “ Now Phul won’t even talk to me – she thinks I’m a whore but it is she who has had a horde of boyfriends! And Anika, that little slut! She thinks she’s an angel!”

“ Calm down.” Hassan advised, “ You don’t want our brothers to know.”

“ Joi knew – he was supportive during the abortion.” Kanta explained, “ But Nasib was upset – he wanted to keep the child. He said we could love him but you see what my mother did Hassan? And your father also called me a whore!” then she with angry howled, “ They want me to get married to some associate of my stepdad’s but I will kill myself before that happens!”

“  Don’t do anything irrational.” I advised.

“ What am I to do when I have such irrational blood relations?” she looked at me fiercely.

Kanta did marry the associate but he then with prison for assaulting Kanta. Kanta got property-ship of his assets. But…then she almost went to jail…for trying to kill her mother with a kitchen knife and after that Kanta left for the States and married an Arabian man. She finally found peace…

I heard of her last in December…She was expecting the first child she would keep…


When I remember the last night I saw Phul, before she eloped with the homeless boy turned drug-dealer, I found her as an impractical portrait – exuding maturity and strength: her latter actions kind of broke that for me.

Joi was angry enough to bring his sister back but she had to be put in Rehab. Later it was found out that she had left the drug-dealer and had become school teacher. She was married later to a successful business but found him boring enough to divorce him. She now works as a teacher though she has many sexual partners. She wants to get married to one of them soon.

Joi is humble enough to chase after a girl of personality though he was disappointed. He then took to drinking and dating prostitutes until he got a STD. He now looks for a woman who would understand him. He has become more gentle now because he has seen the death of his step-father before his eyes: killed by one of his mother’s obsessed lovers.

His mother, after all these strains, had left the children to themselves. The Youngest boy, the sole boy born out of her second marriage, Eisaan, has had grown a tendency to treat Joi and Nasib as his parents. However, when he got older he was sent to live with Kanta and from them got to think of her as his mother. Of all the siblings of that household, Nasib and Eisaan were the most stable: Eisaan now studies hard, learns art and is engaged (in his deepest feelings) to a Persian woman older than him. Their relationship is actually beautiful.

Nasib is still an enigma. We hardly talk as he is mostly out and he does not talk much anyway. He has a good sense of innocence in him and he looked as the virgin he was. He was very hurt that their mother had decided to walk out on them but consoled himself with:

“ She is a complex woman with a complex life; I think she needed a breather.”

Their mother got married a third time but did not stay long there. She came back hoping to see her children but only found Anika and Nasib. All the others were gone.

She had a mental breakdown but is recovering. She is trying her best to fix her life.

I think most of my life had passed seeing the lives of family members not my own. It seems odd.

I last heard of Anika in July but it seems their mother is now alone…


The moon looked glorious underwater; I forgot about everything and just stared at her. I then got out with a gasp and shivered: it was a gloomy night.

I was about to swim back when I saw someone, standing, waiting for me – It was Kaiya.

I didn’t want to pay any attention to her because it was worthless to but she looked intensely at me, but she didn’t look angry but…sad…

“ I’m sorry.” She looked as though she was about to cry, “ It went way overboard this time.”

“ I’m glad you noticed.” I was really going to speak to her. This was the last straw – I couldn’t walk back naked, so I screamed, “ Where are my clothes?!”

But my answer was received by a horrible sight of seeing my clothes were ripped and covered in mud. I sighed; the pain, the anger and the exhaustion made me stay silent.

I was about to go when Kaiya confessed something:

“ I love you Anita.”

I spun around, half-naked now as I had worn some of my altered clothes, and there was a shock then furiously commented, “ What the fuck does that supposed to mean? Are you fucking out of it?”

I was readying myself, knowing how aggressive she was, for a fight but she laughed merrily, “ I mean it. I love you – I always have…”

But this did not quell my anger, in fact the opposite emerged as victor, “ Well if all this shit was your love I don’t wanna see the fucked up side of your hate!”

“ Anita…Anita…please…” she was all over me and trying to embrace me, “Please…please listen to me…”

“ Would you fuck off!” I pushed her off and then I did…

…I beat her

…I kicked her everywhere while she screamed


Then, with tears in my eyes I was about to leave, when she got up and grabbed me:



I was scared. What was she talking about? How can she be serious?

“ I have always loved you…” she was crying, “ But I was angry that you didn’t want to be like the other girls because then I thought we could be friends. But, I realized it was your difference that made me love you. I was so upset that you thought me a bitch and that Hassan was always your own confidante. You –“

“ Just let me go Kaiya. I can’t love you back I’m sorry.”

“ No, you gotta listen, if you do, you’ll forgive me and then I’ll –“

“ This is not about forgiveness Kaiya…” I calmly freed myself from her, “ I just can’t love you that way. You had become my enemy: someone I kinda hate. Now I hate you for not being true to yourself.”

She suddenly slapped then grabbed me, “ But I wanted to be! Can’t you believe me?!”

“ Have you done anything for me that I should believe?”

“ Please…please…Anita…let…me…let me…love you…” Kaiya was sobbing horribly.

“ I can’t love you back but I will definitely stop hating you. Please Kaiya don’t get upset, please, you have to understand. This is the way I feel.”

“ Is it that prick Hassan?”

This is when I slapped her, “ You got no right to curse Hassan! He’s been my friend through thick and thin!”

“ But, he dated me! Though I made fun of you he –“

“ Did it ‘cause I said it was alright…”

“ Anita…”

“ I’m sorry if I said I hate you…” I apologized, “ I was just overwhelmed with anger. Listen, just be yourself more.”

I didn’t understand why Kaiya had loved me and I didn’t understand why she committed suicide either.

That was in September…


Looking at the pictures of Joi and his new wife made Nasib happy.

“ Too bad Mom couldn’t see it…” their mother had passed away recently.

“ Well, she did even her presence wasn’t known to us…” I said and looked at Hassan, he looked peaceful as he slept in the sofa.

“ You know Big Mom comes around now. When Mom got ill she used to come. I think she never came before because my stepfather was around. If only she knew that he wasn’t violent anymore.”

“ Nasib, you know she knew that; it’s just odd to visit if you understand what I mean.” I explained.

“ Well, I never thought it out like that…” he giggled, “ I guess I have much to learn.”

“ No, it isn’t like that at all – you understand more than all the others in your family. I think you were just not focusing on this matter.”

“ Hmm…he looks peaceful doesn’t he, Hassan.” Nasib looked intently at Hassan.

“ Yes.” I smiled, “ He does.”

“ He deserves this peace – he had it rough when his father was around and even his ex-boyfriend.”

“ So.” I said amused, “ You know?”

“ Yes, and I was happy…” Nasib closed his eyes, “ I want him to be happy.”

“ Well, you are very open about it.” I giggled but stopped when I saw Nasib looking quiet.

“ I may have to hurt him and the others very soon.” Tears were falling, “ I wonder if I’ll be forgiven.”

“ Nasib what are you talking about?” I looked urgently at him.

“ When I think about it now I know it’ll have to be this way.”

I thought about Kaiya and her hasty marriage, “ Don’t do anything foolish.”

“ No, I won’t. I won’t do anything that will hurt anyone like suicide but I may try to run away.”  Nasib closed his eyes.

“ Don’t talk like Anika now…” I chuckled and hugged him, “ You can talk to me about it.”

“ I can’t talk of it now Anita…” he looked peacefully at me, “ But it will appear very soon.”

I know understand how hard it was for him: they are happy now

I think they ran away in October…after Kaiya’s suicide…they were both strong…


Anika’s disappearance did not shock Hassan’s mother but it didn’t make her calm:

“ Why are all these children disappearing out of the blue?”

“ She probably had to go somewhere…” I looked sadly at her distress.

“ Is she pregnant?”

“ I think.”

“ Is…Is the father…?”

“ I don’t know…”

After two more days a sickly and pale Anika came home to be slapped by her Big Mom, “ You stupid girl where have you been?! We were –“

“ I am pregnant…” Anika cried, “ I am pregnant!”

“ Oh my God.” I quietly said.

“ I wanted him to come home…I wanted him to take care of me…he doesn’t, he did not…why doesn’t he…It should have been your child…” she now was talking to herself, “ It should have been your child…why didn’t you want me…It should have been your child…”

“ Anita, what is she talking about?” Hassan’s mother was strangely horrified.

“ I don’t know.” I was worried as well.

Then she answered us with one Horrendous scream that shattered our senses:


We looked, petrified, it was so…so unbelievable,…

“ Why are you looking at me?” Anita looked at us angrily, “ What are you looking at?!”

Hassan’s mother got enraged, “ What are you saying?! Do you understand what you’re saying?!”

“ Yes I do! I have loved Hassan for a long time!”

To that her Big Mom slapped her, “ This is sinful! He’s your brother!”

“ Stepbrother…” she almost spat it out, “ He didn’t think twice about it when he ran away with Nasib!”

Hassan’s mother stopped…she froze…then she looked at me, “ Anita, is…is this true?”

“ Yes.” I looked solemnly at her then looked at Anika, “ But Nasib isn’t biologically related to Hassan – you are.”


Then she fainted…the heat of July must have gotten to  her…


“ Anita…”
“ I came.”
“ I’m glad.”

This was the first kiss and we embraced as though we were lovers.]

“ Nasib is out and he’ll come back soon.”
“ Where did he go?”
“ He went to do some shopping.”
“ Are you going on cheat on him by using me?”

He looked at me and smiled:

“No. I am merely going to let out my real feelings.”

It was a nice August night…


The child that rests in my hands now is so beautiful. She has her father’s eyes and I have named her Samiya. Her mother was gone now – running away as soon as she could.

I sighed as I remember how Nasib said he would look for her.

“ Is that my little nephew?”

Kanta looked so radiant and looked quietly at me, “ This child, can I take him.”

“ Only if Nasib and Hassan allow – they have right to him too.” I said the facts.

“ Anika shouldn’t have run away.”

“ It was difficult for her.”

“ If we don’t find her it’ll make me sad though.”

“ How is Eisaan?”

“ Excited for his new nephew, though I have children now as well.”

“ I think also it’s best if you take care of Samiya.”

“ Listen, about Nasib and Hassan – are you going to, I mean, are you going to do anything?”

“ Nasib found us but he seemed less angry as he said he expected it.” I laugh, “ He said Hassan has really loved me. He also told me that if Hassan  wants to be with me it’s fine.”

“ And you…what do you think?”

“ I’ll give Hassan to think about it. I don’t mind if he doesn’t choose me. I won’t let that stop me from moving forward.”

I remember Kaiya.

After I told her of my feelings concerning hers she was sent to an asylum. She couldn’t handle the fact I didn’t love her. After she got well she married…

…but, she ran away with her husband’s sister.

She called me and said that she won’t hide her homosexuality ever again. I told her that was the right thing to do.

But one day she came back home to find her partner kissing another woman. Angered by this betraral she killed that woman and then she killed herself as a punishment to her lover. After much time that woman was able to forgive herself…

I was not gonna be like Kaiya and neither was Nasib nor Hassan. We would move forward.

The December breeze made me shiver with an eagerness for life…


When Hassan came home I asked him about Nasib…he laughed and said Nasib’s new boyfriend was younger than him and was the lead singer in a rock band.

I smiled as he embraced – he asked if we should go for a walk – I said yes.

The Lake we approached was filled with memories of Kaiya and me and that moon underneath the water. He smiled at me and I knew.

We both embraced and jumped into the water…we were giggling…

The Moon underneath the water was beautiful

It was a breezy August day…

And it seemed so nice…

The Moon mating with the wind…


Author’s Note: I was inspired by my experiences, friends, family and a special crime show I saw on Sony Television once and some other TV shows; this story comes from them.


The Dance Of Discordance

“The memoirs are fleeting
hushed are the wings of wind
her feathers plucked and eaten by sun
scorched to be made pickle-thick.

The mirrors are more liquid
clashed against them are ice-rocks
faded are the oxygenated melodies}
Of one ripe life between the next

The deserts all became wet sand
muddles became jostled skin
pondered the cactus as it suffocated in water
The last thin glimpse of a bright-less sun

The Apocalypses all mounted white
No night in the sky, no stars in anger
All the bedfellows read lullabies
And toying with puppet-Earth as she dies…”

The Narrative Of The Lotus

“The Lotus sprang beneath the mouth;
its tail forgotten in the air
The Lotus screamed in tyranny
its beauty, its face smouldered by mud.
The Lotus attempts to break the hymen of repression
controlled by the frigidity of delay
The Lotus emerges in bathed-blood-birth:
Until its tears shine to create the day.

The Lotus
went walking
in silence
Moon allowed no one
to see
The Lotus
came forward
To talk of
The Lotus was rubbed
Into a sense of decay

And I the Lotus in the gallant night
Leaf upon the glorious twilight
Dawn and Dusk ever made
forged into one serenade
The Eve and Morn gossip with midday and Midnight
Conversed in tongues and tongues
forgotten in the ruptures –
waves of something in the brew

Lotus, Lotus
where are thou?
Upon the grass…
Why, what hath –
Oh! The Bruised
The Lotus cries
Then shouts
The Lotus
Oblivion of belief.”


The little thing

” The Little thing was a rarity
a complex simplicity
a morbid freedom
in hushed symphonies

This little thing is quietly noisy
for her silence vehemently shouts
her noise quells the rain
storm and sun, all in all, wholeness

But Little thing are you not made of man
A baby of ruse and whisper
Of make-up and real-up
taught to be so gargantuan

Little, Little thing are you really valuable?
And craned necks croon
the bottles hiss in disembodied melodies
the meadows dry and lakes of sand revive
Little, little thing why are you – dead?”