The Long Walk Back

The ragged steps down the long road.
That never seemed so long before.
The bitter cold in the air seems to bite,
and gnaw at your wounds.
The evening draws the blanket on cheer
and i slip back, from where i came,
With ragged steps down the long road,
This never seemed so long before.

• the savage does not make much sense
• the killer will try to kill mr. anticue

cranium felt happy with himself. at last another lead. the past few weeks had been frustrating, the scarlet assassin had gone into hiding but the country was awash with pseudo scarlet assassins. scarlet letters were a common occurrence in mailboxes as chain mails. it was also a rage within email servers carrying gruesome titles such as if u dont fwd this u die, i hate your guts, so does the scarlet assassin and you are dead in red.
cranium felt all this hype surrounding the scarlet assassin was making a mockery of his department and him. the media were also not sparing his inability and there had been calls for his head.this was his last chance for ing his worth and solving the case.
the assassin had this time chosen mr.anticue, the greatest collector the world has ever known. he lived in his ancestors mansion, a fine decadent estate.
the locals held him with fear for his estate of the bizzare was a taboo to them. locals refused to work there. it was rumoured among the three sons one had turned out be mad. the other two were useless louts. his wife had died and the grief had made him even more cranky leading to further bizzare expeditions. one such expedition had given him a strange/exotic illness that had making him more of a recluse.
cranium looked forward to reaching the estate, the country always made him feel better. at that moment neptuno was also packing his bags and heading towards anticue's house for his ears had farheared that the next murder would occur at the estate of anticue.

and this is where i come in.
i being the man friday of the famous collector mr anticue. i being discovered on sunday but still called friday owing to my famous predecessor. i having received the scarlet letter addressed to my master foretelling his death. i who contacted cranius and neptuno as instructed by my master. i who will protect my master from the scarlet assassin.

the other cranium or rather the ear that was straining itself was that of augustin neptuno . his bald plate glistened with sweat, was working overtime. his eyes were closed. a letter was placed near his right ear and a soft cooing sound was emerging from him at regular intervals.
he was using his gift,the gift of far hearing. there are people in the world who are far sighted some possess something called sixth sense there are a few odd ones who can start a fire but there was only one neptuno who could hear what others could not. it was all because of his ears. they resembled that of an over sized cauliflower. being endowed with such kind of satellites as ears neptuno had the unique gift of far hearing making him capable of tuning into frequencies of materials i.e. a piece of paper placed near his ear would tell him how it was made from pulp, the factory that it was made in, what was done to it, to whom it was sold, who had written on it et al thanks to his deconstructive and re constructive ear.
with every gift comes responsibility and a higher probability of being labelled as a freak.
in neptuno's case the former was given a lower weight resulting in the the latter being given a higher weight. his childhood had been miserable and being the weakest of the lot also did not help. it all cumulated in knowing the secrets of his tormentors and using it against them which resulted in being called freaky cabbage ears.
his snooping activities led him towards a career of a private detective. it had been a successful career till now, investigating secret liaisons and adulteries of the rich and famous and he already had a long list of satisfied clients.
it was when he was at the crest of his career that the scarlet killer became famous and the ears of neptuno pricked in attention upon hearing the methodology of the killer resulting in the soft cooing noise that was emerging from.
neptuno's present location was at his office situated in the middle of press and a carpenter.the carpenter used to go knock knock knock throughout the day while the press went clickety clack clack clack throughout the night. in the midst of such noise neptuno could fine tune his skills sothat no other object's frequency reached his ears except the one placed near his ear. sometimes the headlines of the next day reached him or the history of the wood being used in the new cupboard reached him but that could be kept out as he was doing now. his right ear had a scarlet letter(procured from illegal sources) near it and in the mind of neptuno flashed the images ofit being kept in a police file, the policeman handling it, the ill fated reader, the inside of a mailbox but this was where the trail came to end. it was all blank before that. his left ear had also given him the same information.this had never happened before. neptuno was puzzled leading to the cooing sound to relax him and remind him of happy times. all the time he was thinking
why could not neptuno's skill of far hearing help him?
who was this scarlet assasin? coo coo coo...

Ode to The City

The city where no one ever sleeps,
All of them awake in their own dreams
Everyone in their own little webs,
Scurrying like spiders away into the corners,
Spinning their paths away from each other
Without a pause or break.

Hear the trees talk as they sway,
Of sorrow and pain swept away,
Under the skin, out of sight.

Look at the streetlamps as they blink,
Mute witness to the grief
Lend an ear, and you will hear
The countless sighs of despair.

Take a walk down the asphalt roads,
The empty lanes and the dark alleys,
Scarred, pockmarked streets.
The creased, tired eyes have gone to sleep.

Breathe the cold, peaceful air
Gently carrying the inward screams,
Ones that never escape the walls
Muttered prayers, and unanswered calls
For a kindly word or a glance

Stop at the crossroads where,
Where the roads are chosen,
And the people are sorted
The weak from the strong
The rich from the poor
The dreamer from the dull
And each goes peacefully to the
Grave of his own choosing.

1. the killer likes red
2. he is very good

police detective howzard cranius stared at the two points he had noted down. being the foremost detective in his department and being delegated the responsibility of handing in the killer, he was at his wit's end. the scarlet assassin, as the press called him had killed till now ten and had spawned a plethora of admirers. the press loved his style of forecasting and satanic cults had hailed him as the next anti-christ. pretenders were also awash everywhere and in the midst of such confusion/fear/terror mr cranius was straining his cranium.

being the best in any field is always strenuous and howzard felt the same. he had been given the offer of a cushy promotion with no field work if he solved the case or demotion and obscurity if he failed. choices is what makes one's life howzard, he had been lucky till now and logic dictated him to take the plunge and so he did.

but he was clueless...

little did he know that at that moment another cranium was also straining itself to solve the case and was also facing the same helplessness.

...and there were more to follow

the rice family and their horses mourned for mr. rice the once upon a time famous horse breeder whose fortunes had taken a cruel turn after the injury of his favourite horse the sliver lice while racing at the national derby. a scarlet letter had reached the rice family a day before the death(of mr. rice) stating the time, location and the cause of death which was at the hands (or mouth) of his sliver lice. the bizzare death of a horse ripping off the head of his master made national news but the scarlet letter was still kept under wraps by a very puzzled police.

the noted chef al bizario owner of a fancy downtown restaurant and the host of a famous cookery show also became a victim of the scarlet letter. while filming his cookery show in the pacific islands and showcasing the culinary cuisines of the erstwhile cannibalistic tribe whoeats he became their main course. the filming crew discovered his remains near the traditional pitfire. his death made international news straining international relations with the whoeats who mantained the stand that they had not even touched bizario. the scarlet letter which had reached his mailbox but not had been opened, as usual predicted the death. a puzzled and embarassed police intensified their investigation.

the scarlet letter became famous after the death of newsman carl brosky. the famous sunday tonight show hosted by him had the largest trp's and the audience witnessed his horrific death first hand, after a spotlight from the set fell on him. he had recieved the scarlet letter just before the show and thinking of it as a joke, made a countdown to his death. a frozen look of terror was registered on his face when the spotlight was removed from him.

the police at last admitted the existence of scarlet letters and soon a reign of fear spread through the land. more bizzare deaths followed and this is where the past ends and the present begins for the past is the present.

the killings

started a few months back. an insignificant/innocent looking letter popped up at the mailbox of a certain mr. jones. the contents of the letter were a bit startling as scrawled on it in scarlet was the following

subject : mr. jones
death : day after tomorrow
place : lame duck pub
time : 7:32 p.m.
activity before death : drinking la morioso rum


mr. jones secretary nonchalantly disposed the letter in the dustbin and counted in her mind that this was the 31st death threat recieved after another false weather prediction. being a weather man was not a nice job and being the secretary of the head of a weather station was not a rewarding job either as she had realised.
she realised three days later that disposing letters containing death threats was also not a wise idea, during her testimony to the police.
the late mr. jones had passed away the previous day at 7:32 p.m. while visiting the lame duck pub. he had been poisoned, the poison was in the la morioso rum.
but who had killed him?
the killings had begun...

the scarlet letters

murder, mystery, intrigue all coming to you in a hotch potch of irregular posts.

coming soon but not very soon

Old man and dog.
Summer night silence yawns happily,
Unspoken words of friendship

first try at writing haiku and i am understandably jittery.

SlowPoison

Slow poison, here I come
To float tonight in your arms
To see the world,
Through fevered eyes,
Through different eyes,
Anyone’s but mine.

Slow poison, give me change
From this dull ache,
Creeping in,
Into my bones.
Make me numb tonight
To all, that I hate.

Slow poison, seep in slow.
Take me high &
Let me crash, again
And again.
Till I am broken,
Broken beyond care.

Slow poison, be my friend tonight?
Enough of all the sham,
Enough of the friends I never had.
Enough of this tired act.
Take me, slow poison
Make me yours,
For tonight, &
Every night to come.

The song Half-Whispered

My memories of you are slow lilting rhythms I hum, and I hum the tune in the comfort of loneliness, I hum softly to myself so that no one hears me, I hum the oft-repeated chant as the darkness blooms to blue outside, I hum half written love-songs to your name and give a passing thought to your new lover, who writes a new song as I hum this one.
And when I am over with humming this tune, I will weave a new song… and I shall have already forgotten you.

the man who died leaving 12 small chests behind(part 4)...a tall order I

12:57 p.m.

written again was a cryptic message

when the giant sleeps
then snippety snap you go
armpit hair you take

and before the clock struck 1, our protagonist whom we refer for now as r took his position inside the chest. after the lid had been secured, r waited patiently till the grandfather clock hanging over the chests i.e. cranky man's bed struck 1. the machineries inside the chest(wherever they were) started whirring and r experienced weightlessness and felt himself hurtling at a great speed to godknowswhere.
after approximately 10 seconds(trusting r's slow counting) of this rumbling tumbling, the chest came to a halt with a dramatic flinging open of tis lid. r hurried out for he knew about the hour deadline of completing each task. the task as r thought, was difficult. but challenges were something he enjoyed.

the strange land in which he had landed was indeed very strange...



...if liked may be continued

the great football match

at the time when copa america has come to enliven us, we can never forget this football match between the two giants i.e. germany vs greece, truly an unforgettable match.

Soulmates

She caught his eye as she boarded the bus and sat next to him. Their arms brushed, her perfume reminded him of happier times. He smiled at her

She found him attractive in a faintly familiar way…we’ll get married, have twins and live happily ever after, she thought… she smiled back.

They never met again.

the man who died leaving 12 small chests behind(part3)...the plot thickens

12:55 p.m.


so the first task was done, finding the boy. for the lawyer it was all following his twisted knotted plans. in 11 hours 5 minutes he would be the owner of the mansion and the various other estates that cranky old man had possessed. he knew the remaining tasks would not be so simple. the cranky old man with all his secrets, worshiping the occult and performing black magic was sure to complicate his plans. again he cursed the old fool, squandering his family estates doing his mumbo jumbo, it did not make good business sense. the lawyer felt it was his obligation and his duty to take upon himself the role of the custodian of the estates and the mansion. more importantly the mansion, a nice heritage hotel could come up, it all made good business sense.
and caught in the midst was our protagonist, promised money, food and bedding for a day he had been whisked away from being a beggar to being a heir. he was not complaining but looking wide eyed at the riches all around.
now for the next task the lawyer thought, it was almost time, the clock was striking one.
opening the lock of the second chest, he read the second cryptic message and yet again cursed the cranky old man.


...if liked may be continued

Not the same

Everything was exactly same…
Splashes of red on the wall, jagged glass shards,

Wrap your lips around it, inhale, pull hard,
and you wont feel nothing.. he told himself

Mum and Dad came easy, so did the school bully…
Now for the tough part, he sighed a deep sigh

Killing yourself isn’t something playstation teaches.

the man who died leaving 12 small chests behind(part2)...arrival

12:03 p.m.


except only a cryptic message was left behind

a boy not too tall
has to be thin lean and poor
can complete the job

and then in the doorstep stood our protagonist fitting the description for the same message had reached him along with a set of twelve keys. more questions no answers. the boy was unaware of what had happened, a distant relative he said. he showed the letter gave the keys and all 12 chests were opened. inside each was a note all filled with different gibberish messages. finding nothing there after upturning each chest, the whole house was searched. no one else lived there and the mansion had no other secrets to hide. the family lawyer who had also arrived with our protagonist was also questioned but even he called the old man cranky and showed them his will where our protagonist was mentioned. so they left, sending the body to the morgue and writing it officially as a suicide attempt for they suspected no foul play except the old man was cranky.

and so the boy was left behind with the lawyer. the boy was no distant relative of the cranky man, the cranky man had no relatives. he was just picked up from the street following the instructions given by cranky man.


...if liked may be continued

a direction required

what i feel from this blog is that what we are writing here is the same thing we are writing in our respective blogs. this blog should be a bit different. say some order or disorder or some topic or subject or some gossiping or some thing it should concentrate on. it should not be the same kind of posts as found in our blogs. i think i am repeating myself but i hope fellow blogggers we can achieve something new.

glass rose

And when it drizzles, these tiny comforting drops, and your friend is there to lend a ear, or shoulder, somehow it all seems ok. Talk of lives and dreams over home made screwdrivers, or stare up at the night sky -cigarette smoke instead of conversation...And all is well. For today, you don’t need 'em rose colored glasses.

Tomorrow I’ll find new ones

feeling yellow

a horrific week that has been a horrific month lies ahead. dehydrated in my hostel room, burning with fever, continuous vomiting, diagnosed with jaundice imprisoned in a multi specialty hospital becoming maniacal bout food. i have been there, seen it all.
with a mad statistician suggesting i act like a dead crow giving me utter bullshit bout karma, Geeta and rising above one self. my friend stealing charas from me, hallucinations about my next magnum opus(a novel idea bout a man dying of thirst) and about becoming a painter, my room mate mostly silently (at times violently) suffering it all, endless bottles of electrol. then admitted to a swanky hospital with a posse of keralite nurses taking care of my poor self.
but one sorrow remains... i have never craved for food as much as i do now, the maddening thought of biriyani recurs, i salivate at the thought of toasts i chart out imaginary feasts. all i have is boiled food and fruits. but i am home at last, away from the madding heat the furnace loo, tis nice to breathe again muggy air.
i retreat for its time to rest.

Bangalore Blues

Its raining hard in bangalore, as i write this, safely ensconced in my chair in the office. The chatter surrounding me about running sas codes to the french open final does nothing to put me at ease. The city it seems does nothing to put me at ease. Its almost that i miss my home town,or maybe my reign of exile in delhi. Somehow the city makes me feel alien, somehow it prompts me to search beneath the surface. Any city, i believe, is not remembered by its wide roads or the towering buildings nor the lack of it.. its the memories that they give you, the drama that is played in your imagination where the city becomes the stage,actor and the audience, the scenes that it evokes, canvasses in your mind that are so vivid you feel one with the city. All i see here are thousands of cabs and buses getting people from point A to point B (point B being the workplace).. and i see the same thousands of people frequenting the pubs and the restaurants on the weekends. Theres a single underlying theme of monotony and boredom..
either i am blind to all thats there to bangalore or maybe i am just paranoid about things which shouldnt bother me..
either ways i am scared shitless!