Love Cacophony

She burned fully and freely

Giving all, taking all

She burned freely and fully

It was easy. She simply could.

She swayed and crackled

Unmindful of the gathering storm

She whipped, turned, burst, drew

The storm grew in spite of her.

He rained down, fully and freely

Drenching all, sparing none

He rained down, freely and fully

It was easy. He simply could.

He watched the flame

Who swayed and crackled

He watched the flame dance and whirl

He wanted the flame. He simply did.

They met with a lusty collision

That shook a god's throne and made him roar

Light zigged and the sky boomed

It was cacophony. Love cacophony.

The flame grew into an inferno

That couldn't be quenched

The flame grew with the storm

Which couldn't be vapour at all.

And the world groaned and the children cried

As they met and destroyed the crust,  mantle

And the world cried and the children groaned

They were so very close to the core.

But the flame flickered, softened.

And suddenly shrank

And shrivelled weakly, palely

And shrank and shrank and shrank.

He howled with pain

The horizon screamed with noise and light

He bellowed with grief

And the sky spilt, again and again and again.

But the flame shrank, the dance done

And the flame shrank and the flame sighed

It burned sweetly, today once more

And the flame shrank and the flame died.

They cowered beneath the shelter

The children, the mother, the family

They waited for hell and heaven and the gods and him

They waited to die.

Nothing burned and nothing soaked

She was gone and he went with her

He never rained, never again

He left, with her last sigh.

Now the world groaned and the children cried

They raged for a different reason.

They lived because of noise and light

And force and colour and her and him.

But now, cracks along wounded crust

Stinking carcass and rotten breath

Now, just vast brown and vast blank empty

Empty, empty, empty, empty...

Tubby Troubles

The clock ticks and I'm still not done

I press and pinch and prod and poke

The clock ticks and the mirror still reflects

I am late for school.

The mother shouts and I'm still not done

I pull and tuck and twist and push

The mother shouts and the shirt still clings

I am late for dinner.

Night falls and I'm still not done

I clench and unclench and breathe and hold

Night falls and the paunch still remains

I am late for bed.

I roll and punch and groan and cry

I fill my stomach and empty it with acid

I reject its demands and then stuff it with plastic

My tummy is red and stretched all over.

I cannot think anymore, I burn greenly

Tight bellies peer with baby buttons

Tiny bums are flatly smug in tiny shorts

Thigh bolsters laugh at my thigh sacks of rice.

And I cannot think anymore, I flicker sadly

When someone says hi, I look down

Only I can't see my toes and all I reply is

I'mfatI'mfatI'mfatI'mfatI'mfatI'mfatI'mfatI'mfat...

First Date

'Here,' he said, handing her the mug. She sniffed its contents and raised an eyebrow. 'Green tea? Really?' He scowled and shrugged. 'It was the only thing I could find. What the hell are you complaining for? You said you were thirsty.'

'For water,' she said, torn between exasperation and laughter at his rapidly reddening face in realizing his stupidity. He retaliated by growling and hunkering down, slurping at his drink moodily. She took a sip from hers before knocking her shoulder against his. 'Come on. I actually find it very sweet that you made an effort.' 'Shut up,' he muttered, making her chuckle. They lapsed into comfortable silence.

Crickets began singing softly in the background and the wind whistled in appreciation - they were singing in tune to the breeze's symphony for once. She closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Peace. She liked this, could get used to this.

'What are you sighing for?' he asked, and her eyes flew open. She frowned. 'Don't be such a goddamn bumpkin. How many times do I have to tell you to relax?' 'Yeah, well, ain't nothing to be relaxed about,' he mumbled, tossing his empty mug aside and staring into the distance. She grinned. 'Is that how you treat your girlfriends as well? I bet you're a real bummer when it comes to foot massages.' 'I-h-hey! Shut up!' he spluttered, pointing a finger at her. 'You don't know anything about me!'

Her eyes softened. 'Then tell me. It's not like we have all the time in the world.' His momentary anger subsided and he suddenly looked helpless, shy and hesitant. He shifted his feet, gazing fixedly at the mud beneath his boots. The sky grew darker and fireflies began descending now.  She looked up at them. 'Christmas lights.'

He was startled. 'What?' She pointed up at the glowing dots as they swirled and twirled above their heads, an elaborate ballet of dancers who shone and glimmered with every jeté. 'Christmas lights. They used to look just like fireflies when I was a kid. Dad made them by himself and stuck them all over the house, so when you switched them on, it was like a thousand eyes glaring at you from every corner.' She laughed. 'What a creep.'

He looked down again. 'We went camping during Christmas,' he whispered. Her eyes widened. 'In the snow?' 'Yeah, well, Mum was always a bit cuckoo after Dad passed,' he snorted. 'She shopped all morning for the thickest sweaters and the heaviest boots, and then in the night, she'd make us trudge to the nearest field and lay on sleeping bags in the snow. ''Try to find Santa's outline against the moon, and you'll get an extra cup of cocoa.''' He shoved a stick into the sticky mud. 'I never got that extra cup, it was always my b-tch of a sister.'

He expected her to gasp, shush him for being abusive, or maybe put on an understanding face - mask and ask him gently about what caused him to swear. But she simply grabbed his stick and broke it into two before tossing it away. 'You hate her,' she stated, like it was a fact that the world had established. 'Of course I do,' he bit back, a little surprised at himself for confiding in her. 'She had everything in her life going good for her, and then she had to go and kill herself because some c-ksucker she loved got her best friend pregnant. My mother can't speak anymore.' His eyes began burning and he found himself hating her beside him, loathing her for bringing this side out. 'That's why I left. I couldn't stand the silence.'

Noisy gulping brought him back to earth, and he turned his head in wonder. She smiled at him. 'This tea's pretty good. Thanks.' 'What the hell?' he exclaimed, standing up. 'I'm telling my life story and all you have is ''Good tea''?! ' 'Yes,' she said simply, watching him, completely unperturbed. Suddenly, he felt weary. He flopped down next to her, and couldn't help but notice that they were...just a little closer than before.

'I can't stand sad stories,' she said after a pause. 'I really can't.' He sneered. 'Then you can't exist in this world.' She shook her head. 'Yes, I can. I can stop telling them, I can stop listening to them. I can shoot all those f-king storytellers in the head and get them to shut up. Then they wouldn't be around to just tell me those tales and not to do anything about them. I'd keep them alive long enough to find out where they'd gotten the story from and kill them and go out there and prevent the story from happening. That's what I'd do. ' She breathed out slowly after this outburst. 'I learn from my mistakes. After what Dad did to my big sister, I should have taken his gun and put a bullet in his head, instead of helping him continue another sad story with the neighbor's little girl. That's why I left,' she said, looking straight at him. He stared back, the fire in her eyes was a little hard to ignore. 'I never wanted to find how that story ended. '

'So..?' he began awkwardly, and she shook her head. 'Never,' she repeated dully. 'There was nothing I needed to know. The last thing I saw was my sister in bed one morning. She never woke up, I never looked back when I packed my stuff.'

Their mugs lay side by side now. The fireflies were gone.

He reached across to take her hand, but the sirens began blaring, and they quickly stood up, grabbing their weapons and shrugging their heavy jackets on. As they raced back to the barracks, he realized that he'd forgotten to ask. 'What's your name?' he yelled over the noise. She ran past him, throwing him a last grin over her shoulder. The sound of firing Kalashnikovs grew louder in the distance. 'Does it matter?' she shouted back. 'We'll be dead anyway!' 

CRAZY, STUPID LOVE

My dad married my mum because he was scared of dogs. My mum married my dad because he seemed like a nice enough guy the second time she met him. I mean, at least he'd ditched the awful pink shirt he'd worn during their first meeting.

None of this will make sense to you, so let me start over. My parents met on the 20th of January 1994, my dad in the aforementioned shirt that caused my mum so much grief, and my mum in a lovely sari. Mum later told me that the first meeting was like being bowled over by the sea that crashed into the Egyptian army after parting for Moses - Dad brought his parents, siblings and had even tossed in an uncle or two. Mum shivered in her sari.

The suitor's family was quite impressed with Mum, particularly my paternal grandad - Mum could sing, and sing beautifully. Besides this, she was frank, smart and had a degree in Fine Arts from Stella Maris University. Grandad was happy. The pater was not.

Why so? It was because of the first time they had to talk 'alone, face to face.' They were taken to a bedroom at the end of the corridor, where, after making herself comfortable, Mum asked Dad the usual questions. Usual for her, not for Dad. As the session went on and on, with references to books, art and cultural references that had Dad trembling in his shoes, Mum's opinion of him sailed through rock bottom and went further to the ends of the earth. Verdict (according to Dad) : Mum was a snob. Dad was a nerd (that was Mum).

Dad was feeling rather open minded now, having been thoroughly flummoxed by Mum's repeated questioning, so he went along with the family to meet two other eligible women. The second lady did not seem compatible with him, so he moved on to the third. Unfortunately, Dad's aforementioned fear of canines - particularly large friendly ones that decided to greet him by placing two well-meaning paws on his shoulders - came into play here, and he was out of there before he could barely register the name, face or presence of the lady. To this day, he can only remember that she pulled the leash till a large set of glistening white teeth were finally done grinning at him.

Anyway, Dad decided to give Mum another chance. This time, he planned ahead. He got rid of the (awful) pink shirt, dressed in conservative but coordinated attire and went to meet her with the tiniest unit of his family - his parents. When they were finally left alone, he began before Mum could open her mouth. 'This time,' he said. 'I will talk, and you must listen.'

And when Dad finally got to put his two cents in, Mum was impressed by him. He was honest, hard working  and only wanted a partner who respected his parents as much as he did. Mum wanted the same, and the two, to put it plainly, got hitched. Both sets of in-laws were pleased with the match.

However, the love aspect of this wonderful marriage (why wonderful? It resulted in my brother and me, that's why) would come much, much later. In due course however, my parents learned a lot about and from each other, until I came along. My father was introduced to a whole world of pop culture, books and movies, besides improving his linguistic skills and sharpening his will to conquer the world. Today, he attributes his achievement in becoming a leading member of the Saud Bahwan Toastmaster Group Club to his wife, who wouldn't rest before pushing him to do what she thought was best for him. My mother was inducted into a large, loving family on the other side, besides being married to someone who believed that she had to pursue her career and always, always encouraged her. Today, she is a respected artist, a highly sought after graphic designer, and a beloved teacher.

My parents' marriage is a true story of respect and friendship that gave way to a deep love that they keep alive and interesting with occasional squabbles, teasing and two highly idiotic children who adore them. They have progressed greatly from two strangers who despised each other on first sight, to a couple whose belief in the principles of truth, honour and familial love has kept them going strong for twenty years today.

I should know. I've been present for nineteen of them.

A Tribute to Robin Williams (1951-2014)

On the 11th of August, actor Robin Williams passed away. Aged 63 at time of death (he was pronounced dead by emergency personnel at around 12.02 pm, after he was found unconscious by his assistant fifteen minutes before), he was said to have been battling severe depression. He appeared to have finally succumbed to his inner war, taking his own life.

I am not writing this to horrify  you with technical details of toxicology reports, or even relate to you the same history of his filmography and personal life as every publication must have already done. In the past two hours alone, I have read at least seven articles repeating the same thing, one after the other, interspersed with celebrity condolence tweets to retain your interest. No, I am here to talk about why Robin Williams, as an actor, a comedian and a famous personality, was important to me.

I grew up with him. That's the best way I can put it - at the age of two, I began watching Aladdin (the first part - the sequels never quite made up for its magic), and every year, as a ritual till now (I am 18 years old), have watched it consistently along with Mulan. It was a reminder of simpler, more beautiful times, and the Genie was a wisecracking, problem-solving maniac I never grew tired of watching. I even have this ridiculous memory of my father encouraging me to put my head underwater, to be able to swim, just so I could 'see Genie and Aladdin like in the movie.' As I grew older, I began appreciating the man behind the character, his extraordinary talent in modulating voices, singing, and bringing alive a two-dimensional drawing in more ways than one.

My pre-teens saw me explore his filmography a little more - Philip Brainard had me in stitches in Flubber, Alan Parrish had me feverishly biting my nails, hoping he'd come out alive in Jumanji. I desperately wished that my dad would dress up like Mrs. Doubtfire too (in retrospect, a lot of awkward questions would have followed) and Peter Pan made me root for him loudly in Hook.

My teens saw me stare in disbelief as he became Man of the Year, giggle at him in License to Wed, and stand, tears running down my cheeks, yelling out 'O' Captain, my Captain' along with Ethan Hawke. Perhaps the most serious side, as an actor, that I saw of him was in Good Will Hunting. This was just two months ago.

I may not have watched all his films, but I'll tell you this -  he became a grandfather of sorts onscreen to me. A ridiculous sentiment, bordering on childishness, but true. Somehow, out of all the actors I admired, he seemed to tell the best stories, make me laugh out loud, losing interest in the plot entirely and just focusing on him. He was an effervescent fountain full of tricks and jokes that you'd never foresee. He offered the best advice too; to an adolescent kid, the quote "You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it" is gold. He existed quietly, in the background now as other favourite actors and movies took his place. But I thought...he'd be around for much, much longer.

Shows how much we take for granted. Appreciation for an artist's talent is something I never bothered to cultivate properly, and now that he's gone, I can only watch what I've already seen to death, and feel a pang, akin to that while listening to 'Beat It.' Moreover, his passing has prodded me viciously in the back to realize - no one is invulnerable to the sadness of life.

Who was he, I now wonder. Who was he really? It's my job now, as a media student, to ponder upon these questions. That brilliant jovial facade, the same that made Christopher Reeve laugh for the first time since recovering from his accident - what did it hide? People wear the most exquisitely crafted masks in society, some so effective that they do a wonderful job of hiding the person within. What was that darkness that rankled inside him, that prompted him to take a decision without slowing down first, without calling his wife, anyone, just to hear a word of love, of appreciation. Did he feel the blocks of uncertainty weighing him down till he could bear them no more? In Russell Brand's tribute to him, the lines "When someone gets to 63 I imagined, hoped, I suppose, that maturity would grant an immunity to adolescent notions of suicide but today I read that suicide isn’t exclusively a young man’s game'' are more poignant as ever.

As a budding journalist, I may have had the chance to meet him. I may have even become one of the vultures hounding him, but I would have met him. Talked to him, conversed, discussed. And perhaps, just perhaps, I may have been able to see what Robin Williams was really like, and dose myself with a bitter spoonful of reality, idealistic child that I still am.

The world will move on; people already have, telling me to stop being so silly, to quit depressing myself by continuously thinking of his death. But I am allowed, I will be sad for one more day. One more day to mourn one of the greatest actors of the late 20th and the 21st century. One more day to curl up with some ice cream and sing along with Genie to 'You'll Never Have a Friend Like Me'. One more day to remember and continue remembering that there are others out there like him. If there's one thing his portrayals of my favourite characters have taught me, it's that being a good friend can save another.

I'll remember that as long as I can. For now, rest in peace, Robin Williams. You've touched us all in unimaginable ways. Thank you.

Resurgam

The water bead slides gently

The rim of the cool glass its kingdom

Its lover, its anchor -

God, I don't know where THAT came from

I have been somnolent for too long

It feels like hours, months, years

I have been carefully setting my thoughts

Labeling my feelings, bottling my fears

The morning is pale, the morning is drawn

Broken but unbroken, no longer a virgin

Grey shot with scarlet, marked

But bright enough, unbent with cloudy burden

I stare down at him

He lies face down, he might be  asleep

Like an overgrown baby, oozing

And dribbling and spilling and -

I raise the shard of glass

Spit-yellow and vein-y black red

He tore me, I tear him, tear him

Tear him, tear, man, blood, bed -

A beam of light splits the sky

And I stagger, naked, outside

Grey breaks apart, pink dissolves

The sky opens its mouth wide

I see myself everywhere

In the white blossoms tinged with scarlet

In the mud-blue veins over the ice

In the layer of grease in my hair, dry yet wet

And thus, I leave  as the sky swallows itself

The light pulls the greyness of dawn after night

Like a cloak from my shoulders - I have survived

And I walk on and on and on. Not guilty, white, right...

The Saga of the Selfie

(Image credits : Google and other amazing people. Plz dnt sue me.)

I'm an old, old person. Being born in the 1990's is positively ancient now, and I've substantial evidence to prove this fact. Why, it seemed like it was just yesterday that we were clicking pictures the wrong way around! How silly! Of trees, birds, people, animals - and the sky - the list is endless. It's amusing to remember how primitive we used to be - kind of like discovering how to start fires all over again.

The saga of the selfie began way back in 2009, when people discovered that the I Phone camera had a front-facing lens. It was treated like a Van Gogh painting - rejected, and harshly, by the users themselves, for their galleries were filled with enlarged zits, crater-sized eyes, and a view of their nostrils that was enough to make a Sunny Leone movie look like an episode of Dora the Explorer. Selfies at the time were restricted to swivelling the phone around and smiling at the tiny lens, although the user had four tries before they got it right - the first three were engaging snaps of everything but themselves (N.B - these prehistoric samples are now used as internet memes).

 Things progressed quickly, though. The revolution began with the duck-face, easier to determine the size and angle of the pout thereof - which, if conducted the other way around, merely made the user look like they were madly in love with their phones (which they probably were). The duck-face was followed by the sparrow-face (eyes lowered, mouth barely opened - like a supermodel in a Mango ad. Or what your face looks like when you finally reach the toilet after too much pizza). Downward angles and Dutch-tilts highlighted the most interesting bits of their subjects, and suddenly, testosterone took a break from playing Assassin's Creed, and developed Snapchat.

The rest is history. The internet is awash with derp faces, elongated arms, and meme upon meme of increasing ridiculousness. Come 2014, and we look back at the selfie, which is now touted as the most used means of communication. Barack Obama joined in the trend, as did several celebrities such as Angelina Jolie, Gwyneth Paltrow, checkered lips, several misplaced tattoos and a very famous tongue (read: Kim, Jussy and a giant foam finger that used to be Hannah Montana). Ellen DeGeneres took it to an awesome level, when she posed with Liza Minnelli, and later, with several actors including Bradley Cooper, J-Law, Channing Tatum, Brangelina, a very swag Kevin Spacey and Jared Leto's eye (they pushed Homer Simpson out of the way, who later  posted on Snapchat with a 'D'oh!')

That being said, it's a fun trend to join - making it easier and faster to click pictures. Here's to another year of  *poses with pout and victory hand sign* Happy Selfieing, everyone!