Let Me Live 

Faith faith go away

Let me respite, leave me misery,

Awaking seeds of sorrows  do sway

Heaps of lust which trample and scurry,

This Landscape of absurdity.

 

I’m just an artist. I’m just a witness.

 

I stand in the midst of this danger

Disheveled on random love and anger,

Vexed of life and insatiable hunger

As I fall in love and loathe a stranger.

 

Faith faith go away

Down the market and onto a quay,

Why don’t you take a ticket to ride

And I’ll just love and hate and yearn and chide,

For my life needs it all.

A Midnight Trail 

Sauntering among the midnight trails

Consumed in its tannine ales,

The vale of Kathmandu city

Its ancient lust and momentary giddy

Throws a fancy down the whim

To seduce the next goddess queen,

As she peeks through the moonlight wide

Her windows ajar for scorn and chide,

Upon the city she does curse

For the empty, callous merchants purse,

Are never enough for her wandering lust

Across the hills and over the mountains

Where her lovers dwell

Seduce her memory.

How her angers swell

Into a stranger, jovial as I

Passing through the dark and the sky.

She permits and I enter

Her garret smells of tobacco and charcoal

Where sorrow and pity dole,

But she’ll sting like a hornet

And dance like a housefly

As we summerset

In the trance of her flesh

Till the last bill is spent

And the soul shall repent,

The morrow and its seclusion.

I said, Goodbye to Romance

My love! Do you remember the time when you whispered to me, “I would love to give you a blowjob in this moshpit”. I was ecstatic over the idea. But it wasn’t the idea of an erotic setting that set flames to my heart but the chaos and disorder that you would see through to make me happy.

But in sooth, it’s been a while that I don’t feel nourished. It hasn’t been quite the surge of emotions that should have suspended me into oblivion and as I should have liked to dangle to and forth, but it hasn’t been quite so. I like despair and I loathe happiness. It’s all meaningless and if it’s meaningless then I might well be meaningless in my own existence, I have begun to ponder. But with the ugly reality clinging on to my mind, for some time now, I can’t be lost in oblivion. Yes, love has been beautiful to me, such brilliant billow of lifelessness can one be engulfed into. I wonder if I could ever feel despair again. But, I am in despair now. It`s ironic but it`s not complicated. This kind of despair is the despair of love. Continue reading I said, Goodbye to Romance

Mr. Floyd and A Year of Love

Mr. Floyd met her for the first time at Café Devkota.  They had an immediate affinity for each other. They didn’t converse with each other for another four months before she attempted her charm but he had merely produced a nod and a subtle faint smile as he walked away clumsily. Only their fleeting glances met and sometimes he stole a look here and she feigned her gaze there. It was typical of Floyd to take a liking to women during those days of solitude. It produced a gratifying effect on him even at their mere presence. He could notice everything about women from their light, brownish, beauty moles to the lustful tip of their fingers. Women meant beauty and beautiful women were always avoided by him. He liked the idea of being in a state of desire than the illusion of fulfilled desire. Hence, a bachelor. For him, beauty was better left uncharted. Any seduced beauty was aesthetically  marred and ethereally tarnished. It was psychologically purging for him to think like that. If it was up to him he would had without a second thought, have all the damsels locked on a museum only for the world to behold and admire, never to be corrupted nor be judged. She was such a beauty.

She had a square face, dark hair, bristle yet fashionable and a Greek nose, pointed, almost chiselled and symmetrical. She had a fair countenance, somewhat dim Floyd thought it was very poignant. From the outset she had given him a warm feeling, like the sons feel when they are touched by the love of their mothers. There was nothing motherly about her but every man, in his deepest of heart, desires such an affection from their women. Men are lonely species because they are unable to love the world like the women can do. He always felt that if there was to be a god then god would certainly be a woman. The love of god is exactly like that of a woman and so is their scorn. They love in order to merely love. But men, they are brute. They love to be loved more. Mr. Floyd could love like a woman.

Having resisted such a temptation for a long time, Mr. Floyd finally succumbed to the charm of damsel in distress. His hero Wilde had asserted, over a century ago that the necessary things in life are the most unnecessary ones. Such an unnecessary friendship began to unfold in a short period of time. And it takes a friendship to develop into a courtship in a lesser time between a man and a woman. He thought that the world was full of vanity and he started to be gratify in such vanities as he began to squander away his time and money at her and commenced to be stirred by trivial observations about her and needless ruminations. Dr. Faust appeared merely egotistical and Batman was ludicrous. The world was dichotomized between fathers and mothers, music was electronized and John Travolta moves were antiquated. Sadness meant tear drops on her radiant cheeks and happiness was a blush. Love meant being together, harsh was an accidentally discordant word and hate was forgotten.

So, after a couple of weeks of flawless romance, delightful promenades and seemingly interminable devotion they tied the knot. He always thought boredom was a sin. He had found the right person to commit this sin with for a lifetime.

Now, after a couple of months, their life became dull with and without each other and their conversations were full of what Floyd used to term, when he scorned at couples struck by cupid, masturbation without erection.

‘So, how was your day?’

‘Oh! It was okay. You?’

‘Me too! I almost died of boredom today’.

It was a farce. The whole thing. By the end of the year, the damsel’s love for him had dried out of boredom and Mr. Floyd committed suicide by pulling a trigger and the cold bullet went though his heart. He couldn’t believe that his love for the world could end at the end of a mere woman’s love. He was stupefied that he couldn’t love the world again like women do. He had turned into a brute.

On Freedom, Suicide and Other Things

3.

The clock stroke four and not long after, there commenced a minor hustle-bustle at the café. Gradually, other members of the society began to appear and then the café was engulfed with assertions, witticisms, complains, admirations and ridiculous reasoning’s. Though it was a daily routine, it appeared sprightlier than ever. The next day would always transcend the previous day when it came to the general clamour and mood of the members. It was always a majestic sight to those who knew who they were and what they were conversing about, the ludicrous jeering and sally tongues would amuse the bystanders and observers while the owner of the café would rather discreetly shy away from the company. He always thought that they were too intelligent and sharp tongued for him. Anyways, he was well entertained through the busy evening when the rush hour would cease as emaciated officials, nonchalant pedestrians, young folks, rebellious teenage girls and retired old bureaucrats would give the café a visit.

Though all this, Rita, who had conspired rather thoughtfully about her being acquainted with the society was more than amused. She was gleaming. She didn’t speak but listened to the raconteurs, rather attentively and admired their oddities with her shimmering teeth and juicy pink lips as it stretched beyond her rosy cheeks, evincing her adorable pointed nose and narrow nostrils. Throughout the evening, her countenance assumed a wide and taut smile. All she did was, ordered more coffee, smoothed her folds, spiffed her round shoulders and have a hearty laugh which would always turn out to be more voluble than she had planned. Time to time, she observed Mr. Floyd who turned out to be rather soft spoken today, almost a chivalrous knight of the former centuries, galvanised yet inhibited.

He had managed to acquire a seat at the nook, just adjacent to the back door. He didn’t speak much. She thought, maybe he was not in the mood or was also enjoying the conversations. It was true, the latter assumption that had passed her thought. He had suddenly decided to listen to his fellow brothers and clever ladies of the society.  For him, the society was a woman and to sway her away, he needed to keep his quiet sometimes yet at the same time make her feel that no love was lost. But suddenly, a paroxysm of silence had clutched him that he didn’t even hesitate a moment let it go. He wanted to be esteemed at the expense of Rita just some moments ago, but that was how he was, never dogged and patient. They sometimes chanced a fleeting glance at each other but it wasn’t awkward for him who it seemed was a veteran of this situation. He always seemed a way to loll with women though it wasn’t his basic intention. Women crave attention and they always seemed to procure his fleeting considerations which always made them uncomfortable and undecided.  For now, Rita was undergoing such undulations and she couldn’t decide if he wanted to have a tete-a-tete with her or he was just nonchalantly observing everything that met his eyes.

There was a sharp commotion among the members. They were talking about a rich man who had managed to squander all his property on a drunken revelry, his wife having committed suicide and his two children were working in a quarry, carving stones and dredging up the new found sorrows of life.  It was all over the newspaper and they seemed to get hung on the story.  There were two groups discussing on the topic at hand. One was talking about the matter pertaining to suicide of the wife, which consisted of the young members and women mostly while another group which had swerved from the topic were discussing about madness in general.

“……….she showed her character in the end. If she was a good wife then she would have had the courage to face the ensuing sorrows”, Sharma spoke ardently.

“But, goodness and courage are two different things, you are mistaken, my friend”, replied Thapa, promptly. It got the crowd going. “Yes! Yes! He is right”, they chimed in together. Thapa continued, “I don’t dare to talk about the character of that poor woman, but I tell you my friend, she was courageous and it was up to her to decide which bold path of courage to tread”. He looked at Sharma for any sign of rejoinder but seeing that there was not any yet, he said, “Don’t you think you have to yield an enormous amount of courage to commit suicide? Don’t you feel that the poor wife deserved to at least die in peace rather than live in shame for what she wasn’t guilty of ?”

“But at what cost? Her children are rotting in some suburban quarry, she should have thought about it. I understand the anger and grief that might have fallen at her but to give one’s precious life at the blunders of other is ….is….not just crime, it is much more severe than a crime. Mr. Sharma began to stammer. “It was a….a…… ….” But before he could complete his sentence Mr. Thapa got reinforcement in the form of Mrs. Chaudhary, “So, you think it’s a sin, to commit suicide”. She smirked and gave a long sigh. “I think it’s more than stupid for us people to judge such a woman without knowing her background. One should understand her personality before we jump into any derisive conclusion”. She threw a glance at Rita, the psychology student. But, Rita didn’t evince any expression. She continued, “But, that’s her. What I don’t understand is that why shouldn’t we be allowed to give up our life? I don’t understand it. Nowadays, we talk about freedom and equality and love and hate too easily, as if we are unaware of the weight of these words. And to be true, most of us are not. Why can’t we be free to just give up our life when we want? We are thought to be free on how we want to live our lives but then when it comes to death why aren’t we so liberated. Isn’t that the whole gist of freedom? To be free of societal volitions and prejudices”.

“Yes, you are truly right Mrs. Chaudhary, when it comes to these words; we have been using it indiscriminately. Nowadays, I am quintessentially confused on love and hate. Are these even different? We are all murderers in the end”, Thapa asserted, rather with some loftiness.

“Why do you say so?” replied Sharma, with his mouth full. He was voraciously gorging a pineapple pie as he scooped some sugar to his tea.

“The matter of fact is that…..well, lets say, when a lady aborts a child then she stands against humanity, everyone sees to it that she has indeed done a great sin, the greatest of them all, to derive a child the right to live but and it is us men who make her stand in the pulpit of shame and demand her life be fraught with guilt. Ha-ha but then, we are but men. Sometimes i am plainly ashamed. It isn’t the same case when we masturbate; we fancy it’s all too trivial to concede any sin. But if science is to be taken into consideration then at such mere fancy we end up murdering millions”.

Everyone was mortified. There was a stern silence. Nobody knew how to react to such a claim. Was he ridiculing or was he being truly deliberate. In any case it seemed like a valid argument. Yes, one could equate such claims with freedom and it could be considered ludicrous yet, they were all here for glory. “Yes, Mr. Floyd, care to share your insight?” said, Mrs. Chaudhary. Mr. Floyd who was sitting cross legged, leaning on his elbows and listening indolently to them gave a broad smile which depicted that he was content with leaving them up to themselves. He sat in this position for the next one hour or so till he left the place and he barely spoke.

 

(This chapter has been continued from The Masochist Men and Sycophantic Women)

To be continued….