Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, so very long ago, there lived a beautiful princess, who wept her heart dry. Crystal tears of sorrow forever stained her lovely face, collecting in a glossy pool by her little, cringing toes. She had tried everything to make them stop, but they took no heed to her painstaking efforts, gushing forth to kiss her rosy cheeks again and again. Damp and glistening, she subdued to their torrential pour, blinking away blurry visions of something different, somewhere far, far away. 

She whimpered a mute sound into the ether, curling into ball of pain, her once luscious locks limply splayed on the dank dirt, merging with their dull, singed colours. Her once shining eyes were faded to a pale vision, and her pearly skin had withered a thousand years. Her every limb ached, as she unfurled gently, splaying her boney fingers, only to bring them back in clenched fists. The tenderness she had once lovingly nurtured grew no more. Stunted with shock, parched, and wilted, it had been weeded cruelly by its roots, not one trace left to remember it by.

 Is this the rightful end for a princess, who knew not the pleasures of seducing laughter, and pretty little things? Was it fair that she embraced a life of torture, rather than delightful songs? Where was her prince in shining armour, when she wept herself to decay? These queries stabbed her repeatedly, sharp and jagged, as she bled alive. She feebly begged to be released from this wicked game that she was caught up in, gasping for air through muffled pleas...but sweet escape coldly shunned her , yet again. 

Drowning only deeper by the second, she cried out in vain, her voice choked in woe, her heart blue with damage. But not a sound was heard beneath the layers of smothering distress that disguised her soul. She stopped trying soon after this; grating frustration had now turned old and grey. Hope had fizzled away like a scorned lover, too scared to ask for a second chance. 

She is now but a distant memory; her quaking suffering merely a sad story. People now just sigh in her memory as they walk away, shaking their heads with false pity, as they whisper to one another, “Once upon a time, so very long ago, there lived a beautiful princess...”.

Diet of Despair

I lie in a pool of my own sweat. It’s clammy dew plasters strands of brown hair on my pale cheek. I am striped, marked, and drowning in self-despair. 

I fought hard at first, my face painted for battle, as I bellowed with a newfound miraculous determination to defeat all ills; After all effort is needed for stunning results. I surged towards the enemy, my claws cutting, and my lips pursed, I was ready to take all by storm...and I did.

Glorious is the past.

Now I have retired here, as my desire doesn’t even put up a good fight before fading away as a sad, distant memory. I can’t move, I can’t think, I can’t breath...I am trapped within my own mind. It clings possessively to my brain, grabbing my heart with both hands, and squeezing me dry.Dehydrated of ambition, I long to feel it’s hungering metallic taste trickle through my heavy sighs, onto my lifeless tongue. I bite hard, but feel nothing. My ashen lips are now washed crimson, but my skin is yet lifeless in waste. Deprived of all sparks, I gleam in moist desperation... hoping, and praying that tomorrow I will be better ready for war.

Lonesome

I lie awake in an empty room

As traffic roars outside,

A need to vanquish this growing gloom,

In need to confide

I'm surrounded by familiar faces

But no one says a word

A million thoughts ,my mind races

To corners more absurd

The heavy silence drags a pause

As the wind heaves a sigh

My face is blank, I'm at a loss, 

I've lost the urge to try

Buried deep, beneath my core

I gasp for living air,

The strain of facing another day

Drowns me in despair

I blink twice and hold my breath,

my eyes beg to close,

Yet too alive to wish for death,

My misery only grows

A little voice whispers weak,

A secret in my ear,

The peace I  crave and deeply seek

Is shrouded by my fear

A lonesome tear fights the urge

To pour in dark defeat,

Fighting hard to embrace the surge

In hope of something sweet.

Castles and Waffles

 I winced and rubbed as the nippy air bit a raw chunk off my cheek. Three layers wrapped me tight in their warm embrace as I wobbled down the grey paths like a penguin in heat. I was literally standing in the smallest township on Earth, Durbuy. If excitement equaled warmth, I would be on fire right now!

Thick with trees and gaping travelers, this fairy-tale Walloon (distinctive community within Belgium) city sits smugly enchanting, 31 kilometers south of Liege, in the Belgian province of Luxembourg. My inundated senses struggle hard towards recovery, stunned by the virtual labyrinth of medieval fantasy that beckoned it forward.

Cobbled lanes shyly wound their ashen bodies through the majestic forest of towering cathedrals, belfries, and citadels, bashfully jumping over arches, canals, and stone bridges, leading me to their most private courts and secret gardens. Gladly seduced by every tiny gap discovered between these looming historic castles, I walked deeper into buttressed passages that silently promised hidden treasures (Disclaimer: multitasking starry-eyed daydreams whilst keeping a balance on steep, crooked European streets, proved harder than imagined). 

Every nook and cranny dangled colourful baskets of flowers that brightly popped through cavernous cracks in their vine-laced walls. Tucked within these spirited gullies lay a quaint scatter of cottage Pubs; their fires crackling loudly, as their walls rumbled deafeningly with contagious laughter that only bounced back to create further merry. I was hypnotized to invite myself in.


Blondes, ambers, pale lagers, fruity lambics and Flemish reds smiled down at me from their lofty shelves and frothy taps, sweetly beckoning me with their foamy tops. Justly famous for its brewing tradition, this cozy country has more than 100 breweries producing hundreds more in variety of brews. Needless to say, with so many choices, I was a tad worried on finding my favourite. The attraction was undeniably magnetic. I picked the vibrant kriek - its tart cherry flavour still alive in my fondest memories- it was, irrefutably, love at first sip.

Outside the sky was almost purple, streaked with a defiant orange beam peeking through the silver-lined clouds. Its warm red glow caressed my arm, painting me flushed with the shadow of its light. As I stepped out, a delicious waft tickled my resolve. I quickened my idle steps towards the gushing canals that flowed past the monumental square backed with perfect gingerbread houses. Rows of noisy stalls suddenly appeared, and along with them hoards of hungry people.

Refusing to feel left out I greedily ordered. One mountain of crispy frites (the original “french-fries”) generously topped with a customary peak of creamy mayonnaise; a delicious grid of fluffy waffles cooked to perfection, oozing smooth nutella (chocolate-hazelnut pâté) onto my drooling palate; and an assortment of chocolate armoured pralines with silky fondant hearts made up an extravagant feast.
I hid between the rows of tempting chocolateries, next to the chiming clock tower, stabbing my pink plastic fork into the ambrosia spread in front of me. A few dainty bites later, and then I gave in. With a shifty look here, and a mortified blush there, I viciously dug into the caramel gooeyness, decorum long snatched by a passing breeze.

Darkness crept in, as a dim congregation of lights winked cheerily into its gloom. A striped canvas flag whipped soundlessly to the drifting strums of a random guitar. Floating paper lanterns flickered to life, fighting for space with the leftover tinsel decorations. The wind whistled its shrill tune into my frosty ears, as I hummed in harmonious unison, perfectly content midst these intimate nooks filled with people toasting Durbuys’ beauty.

Stuck in Traffic

The salty air kissed her clammy skin as she inched past the winding line of colorful cars. She was riding a rented black scooter with frontal mirrors that sorely stuck out like large ugly ears. Cheap silver 3D stickers covered the vehicle, reflecting the impatient flashing of headlights from the fuming traffic jam she was trying to pass. She dragged her cherry-red sandals on the dirt road raising a cloud of dust, as she desperately tried balancing her weight along with that of the chunky bike, and its limp passenger. 

 The passenger’s upper body curled into her back, as if a prop support. 

“Sit up Kim!” she spoke urgently to her back “I told you not to drink so much!” 

The figure gradually unfurled, wobbling like jelly with the occasional snorts and sporadic giggles. It was a girl, not more than five foot five. Her long sooty locks were that kind of effortless wavy that happens when the beach meets hair. Her skin glowed mocha under the crooked tungsten street lamp.   

Calling the device a “street lamp” was a definite generosity. The cracked beige bamboo pole bent precariously, dangling what was a small yellow bulb under the layers of buzzing bugs that swarmed towards its deathly rays. “Zap” was the fatal sound that predicted a shower of lifeless insects on whoever was waiting below.  

The scooter now spluttered and coughed as its breathless rider manually attempted to push it in between two jaundice yellow ambassador taxis.

  

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?(What are you doing?)”, annoyed voices yelled at her, through the thick blare of what sounded like horn wars.  

The air was getting thicker, spiced up by the irritation that spread thick through the traffic. A sudden shrill shriek of a police whistle made her jerk her head up. Drops of perspiration jeweled her brow as she licked her lips nervously, poking a drooping Kim into erection. 

“Whaaaaat?” Kim said, irritated to be interrupted by the sharp jabbing of bony ringed fingers.  

“Sit up!” she said, trying to wave away the sour stench of body odour that was rising in concentration by every minute.  

But the driver of the monster orange lorry ahead of her had succumbed to the situation. He generously contributed to the ambiance by raising his damp patched khaki armpits, airing them out while humming along to a deafening radio tune.  

An aggressive Maruti 800 that was working towards escape blazed its neon headlights on full beam, blinding her momentarily. She instinctively pressed the back break clutch, jolting the pudgy tires into submission. 

“Tu paagal hai?! (Are you crazy?) ” she said waving and punching her one fist violently at the navy car that had almost knocked her over.  

“Arrreee Madam…Kya karte ho?”  it’s driver said, turning off  his roaring engine, and beckoning  to the portable tea stall that had magically appeared to profit from the chaos. It was as if the scheming chai-wallah (tea maker) could psychically sense the mere thought of someone needing a fresh cup of tea- he was always near. She exhaled loudly squeezing her glassy eyes shut, opening them only to be hypnotized by the stylish preparation and presentation of the tan coloured beverage that sustained and nurtured the very masses that kept India running.  

The  pot bellied, russet skinned  chai-wallah let the creamy liquid boil up until that very urgent  instant, before it was going to spill over and stain the dull metal sides. Then with skilful agility, he started swirling the aluminum pot an inch over the hungry flames, suspending it in an almost-boiling-over state before removing it from the heat, only to repeat the trick again.  He then blended the chai by pouring it back and forth between two pots at two arm-lengths apart.   

“ Chai? (Tea?),” asked a face that had more lines than a road map. 

 A terracotta cup was deftly shoved under her nose while its cardamom flavoured steam immediately hit her face, breaking her from her trance. 

 “No!” she said shaking her brown head so ferociously that she spattered sweat blobs on her bar-end mirrors.  

Ignoring everything else she tried hard to re-focus on getting out of the mess she was stuck in. She pressed the clutch (which is like a bicycle brake), turning the left throttle and putting her machine in gear, ready for action, while still pressing her tired foot on the bottom brakes. But nothing happened. Nothing moved. The traffic stood still midst the enterprising activities that were now contagiously erupting.  

The latest addition was a cobalt blue trampoline cover which was being propped up over several scattered, foldable, rusted chairs. The chai-wallah’s grinning competition-a snack vendor-was doing a great job at enticing frustrated drivers into his lair of delicious greasy promises. 

Her taut muscles screamed in pain while blissful mosquitoes freely feasted on her numb feet. With smells and sounds which were now stronger than scores of the most potent Epsom salts, she was now fighting the urge to drop her heavy burden, Kim and all.   She drummed her fingers on her stationary speedometer trying to listen to the news from the neighboring car’s radio.  

The car had been white once but, like its driver’s teeth, had gone prematurely yellow with neglect. The rare patches of original color only served as a reminder of better days.  

“Police have stopped all traffic over the Bardoman bypass,” his radio companion said. “We have received several eye witness reports of the cow that is blocking the road.” 

The driver accusingly glared at his good-luck charm of chilies and lemons dangling inches away from his nose. Snarling at the driver reading a newspaper to his left, he groaned at his fake Rolex wristwatch. He was probably going to be late again. 

The disembodied voice of the RJ continued. “If you haven’t left home yet, get back in bed! There’s no telling how long this will take to clear up.” 

“Fantastic advice you moron,” her back spoke through gritted teeth. Kim was finally functional, or trying hard to be through what seemed like the worst hangover. 

“Coming up next we’ve got Priya with Long line of cars to ease -” the RJ was cut off by the driver slamming his fist into the on/off button on the stereo. He flinched in reflex. His knuckles ached but he was too proud to let it show, even to his empty car. 

She felt his pain. Needing to do something, anything, she turned off the bike’s rattling engine, ordered a dazed Kim to get off, and finally stood up - this time accepting the clammy embrace of the soggy summer air and, as life would have it, her inevitable fate of being stuck with no quick-fix way out.